#something something [student's name] liked that! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xjulixred45x · 2 days ago

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OMG!!! THAT WAS SO GOOD!

It was so fun to read and it give me so many ideas that i would like to share if you don't mind.

Kid! Yuu insists in carrying Grimm around. Imagine being an NRC student and you see this kid with their 1.19/1.30 carrying this 90cm cat,is just comic.Grimm is not complaining.

Kid! Yuu randomly drops a lore info; they are with the boys, and out of nowhere they go, "One time I didn't see my mom and dad for 2 days." "Mama was acting funny a couple days before I appeared here. She looked at me oce and said that I was a burden. I don't know what it means, but it doesn't sound good." And the boys are just (⊙_⊙)? You can go nuts with this one.

I think that Jack would be one of the most careful with Kid! Yuu, they reminded him of his siblings. So if you go to Savanaclaw, you're going to see this big as hell wolfman, and his little ray of sunshine, full of trauma, but a ray of sunshine.

The staff is pressuring Crowley to find a way back, but not for Kid! Yuu go back to that empty house with no love, caring, or joy. Actually, they justwant to beat this kid's parents so much that they not gonna remember they on names.

Kid! Yuu still go to class, but the teachers give them activities that kids of their age would learn. Vargas basically plays with them while the boys are dying doing the real P.E. class.

I can see Trein being one of the most worried with Kid! Yuu situation, a little more if kid! Yuu is a girl,reminds him of his own daughters.

The boys and staff need to teach them some things for this kid's sake, like, "If you have a problem, you can and should talk with a grown-up." "If you want something, you can ask us."Stuff of the type.

I would really like to hear your thoughts about those too. Remember to eat and keep hydrated. Bye~

-🐦‍⬛✨

This is so good! Lmao

Grim lets his little henchman carry him around for NRC (he won't admit it, but he likes that Yuu helps him feel important and grown-up), even if it makes things a little difficult. Besides, if anyone tries to mess with them, Grim can easily breathe fire back at them—it's a win-win.

The first-years, being the ones who interact with Yuu the most, are definitely the first to realize something's wrong with this kid. It's not something direct at first, but rather certain habits Yuu has that reveal him as someone who grew up too fast (being too independent or mature for their age, knowing how to cook, clean, and so on on their own, not trusting adults, etc.).

Ace probably once caught Yuu stockpiling food at Ramshackle. The reason? "In case I get grounded without food," it takes Ace a full minute to process what this kid just said. And thenautomatically drags them off to have tea and eat some of Trey's candy at Heartslabyul . Ace isn't very good at this kind of thing, but he DEFINITELY knows it's not normal for a little kid to do that, and he needs someone RIGHT to point that out to them.

Deuce also notices some of Yuu's unusual habits, but especially when he talks about their home. When Deuce told them about his mother and how he wanted to make her proud, Yuu looked at him in a way they never had before. they said his mother wasn't happy with them either, that sometimes they wouldn't see her or thier father for days, but that was okay because then they wouldn't be a burden to them (Deuce proceeded to hug Yuu for three hours straight).

Jack is the one who affirms, the one who assures Yuu that they're not a bad kid, that their parents weren't good people, and most of all, that they deserves to be loved. He's especially gentle with them; they remind him of his little sibilings, so it pains him greatly to see how little affection they received in their life, and he's willing to change it. I can see Jack easily giving in to Yuu's whims, such as transforming into a wolf so Yuu can ride or sleep on him, hanging on his shoulders because he's tall, etc.

Epel definitely tells Yuu straight up that if he runs into their parents, he'll beat them up in seven different ways. Aside from that, he's great at making the kid laugh, whether it's with words from his original dialect/accent, exaggerated Vil imitations, or going on little escapades to get some candy/junk food for themselves. He's also taught Yuu a few tricks on how to use their "cute" appearance to their advantage to escape trouble.

Sebek makes a huge effort to not be so loud around Yuu, realizing that it brings back very bad memories for them, or at least encourages them to be louder and more vocal about what they want. He's the most offended and genuinely angry at the kind of treatment Yuu's parents gave the kid, and assures them that while they're in Twisted Wonderland, they won't have to fear being hurt, that they'll protect them. He's quite affirming without knowing it.

Ortho and Yuu are basically best friends; they're both in a new world and deeply curious about everything around them. Although, of course, Ortho tries to take more care of his more fragile, flesh-and-blood friend. Ortho ends up being the one who teaches Yuu various social skills like "stranger danger" and "trusted adult," and, above all, that if they feels ill or something bad happens to them, they can count on their friends to help them!

The teachers are so partial to Yuu, that while the others are practically fighting for survival in the hellish Vargas camps in the middle of nowhere, Yuu is playing jump rope with Ortho and Grim. While everyone else is dozing off listening to Trein's lectures, Yuu is completing a short basic quiz for the day, with Lucius on their lap. While the others are making potentially explosive potions, Crewel is teaching Yuu basic chemistry.

Sam has definitely given Yuu a couple of gifts to cheer him up when they feeling particularly down, whether it's their favorite food, an item they's been eyeing up, or something unexpected. You never know with Sam. Crowley is happy that he doesn't have to pretend he was looking find a way to get Yuu back home now that everyone's warmed up to them, or well, now they're demanding that he do it, but to... beat up their parents? Well, he might consider it.

After all, Yuu has united the school in a unique way, it's the least they could do, right?

_________

(ESPAÑOL)

Esto es muy bueno! Lmao

Grim deja que su pequeño secuaz lo cargue por NRC (no lo admitirá, pero le gusta que Yuu lo ayude a sentirse importante y grande), incluso si le dificulta un poco. Aparte, si alguien trata de meterse con ellos, Grim puede fácilmente escupirles fuego, es un ganar-ganar.

Definitivamente los de primer año, al ser los que más interactúan con Yuu, son los primeros en darse cuenta que algo malo paso con este niño. No son cosas directas en un inicio, sino mas bien ciertos hábitos que tiene Yuu que lo delatan como alguien que creció muy rápido (ser demasiado independiente o maduro para su edad, saber cocinar, limpiar y demás por su cuenta, no confiar en adultos, etc).

Ace probablemente una vez sorprendió a Yuu haciendo una reserva de comida en ramshackle ¿la razón? “en caso de que me castiguen sin comer”, a Ace le toma un minuto entero procesar lo que este niño acaba de decir. Y automáticamente después lo arrastra Heartslabyul para tomar el té y que coma algunos dulces de Trey. Ace no es muy bueno en este tipo de cosas, pero DEFINITIVAMENTE sabe que no es normal que un niño pequeño haga eso, y necesita que alguien ADECUADO le diga eso.

Deuce también nota algunos de los hábitos inusuales de Yuu, pero más que nada cuando habla de su hogar. Cuando Deuce le hablo de su madre y como quería hacerla sentir orgullosa, Yuu lo miro de una forma que nunca lo había hecho, dijo que su madre tampoco estaba feliz con ellos, que a veces no la veía ni a ella ni su padre por días, pero estaba bien, porque así no sería una carga para ellos (Deuce procedió a abrazar a Yuu por tres horas seguidas).

Jack es el de la afirmación, el que le asegura a Yuu que no es un niño malo, que sus padres no eran buenas personas, y sobretodo, que merece que lo quieran. Es especialmente gentil con ellos, le recuerdan a sus hermanos pequeños, por lo que le duele mucho ver el poco afecto que ha recibido en su vida, y está dispuesto a cambiarlo. Puedo ver a Jack cediendo fácilmente a los caprichos de Yuu, como transformarse en lobo para que Yuu lo monte o duerma sobre él, estar sobre sus hombros porque es alto, etc.

Epel definitivamente le dice directamente a Yuu que si se topa con sus padres les va a partir la cara de 7 formas diferentes. Aparte de eso, es un grande en hacer reír al niño, ya sea con palaras de su dialecto original/acento, imitando a Vil de forma exagerada o yendo en pequeñas escapadas para conseguir algunos dulces/comida chatarra para ellos solos. Tambien le ha enseñado un par de trucos a Yuu sobre cómo usar el aspecto “adorable” a su favor para escapar de los problemas.

Sebek hace un esfuerzo enorme de no ser tan ruidoso cerca de Yuu al darse cuenta de que eso trae muy malas memorias para ellos, o al menos, los incita a ellos a ser más ruidosos y claros con lo que quieren. Es el más ofendido y sinceramente enojado ante el tipo de trato que le dieron los padres de Yuu al niño, y le asegura que mientras este en twisted wonderland, no tendrá que temer que lo lastimen, que lo van a proteger. Es bastante afirmativo sin saberlo.

Ortho y Yuu son básicamente mejores amigos, ambos están en un mundo nuevo y tienen una gran curiosidad por todo lo que los rodea. Aunque claro, Ortho trata de cuidar más de su más frágil amigo de carne y hueso. Ortho termina siendo quien le enseña a Yuu varias cosas sociales como “peligro extraño” o “adulto de confianza” y sobretodo, que, si se siente mal o algo malo le pasa, puede contar con sus amigos para ayudarle!

Los profesores son tan favoritistas hacia Yuu en este caso, mientras que los demás están prácticamente luchando por sobrevivir en los campamentos infernales de Vargas en medio de la nada, Yuu esta jugando saltar la cuerda con Ortho y Grim. Mientras que todos se están durmiendo escuchando las lecturas de Trein, Yuu esta completando un pequeño cuestionario básico por el dia, con Lucius en su regazo. Mientras los demás están haciendo pociones potencialmente explosivas, Crewel le enseña a Yuu química básica.

Sam definitivamente le ha dado un par de regalos a Yuu para animarle cuando le ve especialmente decaído, ya sea su comida favorita, algún artículo que haya ojeado o algo sorpresa. Nunca se sabe con Sam. Crowley esta feliz de que no tiene que (fingir que estaba buscando) buscar una forma de que Yuu vuelva a casa ahora que todos se encariñaron con ellos, o bueno, ahora le exigen que lo haga, pero para…¿darle una paliza a sus padres? Bueno, puede que lo considere.

Después de todo, Yuu ha unido la escuela de una forma única, es lo menos que podrían hacer ¿no?

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

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tsunodaradio · 16 hours ago

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the thrill of the chase ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 somewhere in the rush of outlines, clerkship interviews, and caffeine-induced breakdowns, you forget to hate lando norris.

♫ starring: law students!lando x reader. ♫ word count: 3.3k. ♫ includes: romance, friendship. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: law school. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. one-sided rivalry, feelings realization/denial, 3 + 1 fic -ish. @piastriprincess requested r u mine? by arctic monkeys. ♫ commentary box: a very, very late response to this request, and also a very late birthday gift. but we ball! i adore u so very dearly, lily; i hope u get a kick out of this one 💫 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Law school is supposed to be miserable.

That’s what everyone says. You show up already bracing for it, spine rigid under three overpriced textbooks and a warped Hydro Flask. It’s only the first week and your eyes already burn from too many case summaries that all end in dissent. Your brain is fried. Your Stabilo highlighters are drying out. You think, dramatically, that your soul is too.

And then there’s Lando.

You meet him on day three, Contracts. He’s late.

Like, five full minutes late, walking in as if this is a fucking café and not the carnage grounds of Section B. He wears a hoodie. He’s got sunglasses hanging from the collar and a pen stuck behind his ear, which you never see him use once throughout the class. He grins as he takes the last open seat beside you and says, with a British accent that makes three girls turn their heads, “Morning, love.”

You don’t look at him. You don’t dignify trust fund babies with eye contact.

Word spreads fast. His full name is Lando Norris, and his parents—or maybe it was his grandparents—donated a wing to the law library. Rumor has it he was accepted before his application even hit the portal. Someone swears they saw him get dropped off in a McLaren. Another person claims he doesn’t even need a JD; he’s just here for the ‘experience.’

You decide you hate him almost immediately.

It’s not personal. It’s ideological. He represents everything you’re here to destroy: old money, soft hands, people who smile their way out of consequences.

He makes it easy for you. He calls the professor ‘mate,’ shows up without notes. He draws little race cars in the margins of his casebook. You see them once, a full page of doodles and only one underlined sentence: Consideration must be mutual.

And yet he never gets cold-called. Or when he does, he somehow pulls it off. He frowns thoughtfully, tilts his head, and gives a half-decent answer that makes your blood boil. Either he’s smarter than he lets on or he’s lucky as hell.

“He’s harmless,” your roommate says.

You don’t buy it. Harmless is a trick. Harmless is what people say about boys who have never had to sharpen themselves against anything.

By October, he knows your coffee order. By November, he says it like a joke: “Oat milk latte, no sugar, because you’re sweet enough already.” You glare. He winks. You consider transferring.

But you’re in too deep now. There are study groups. Shared outlines. The occasional late-night panic over Civil Procedure where you end up texting him for help and he actually replies. He’s infuriatingly decent in those moments. A little too sincere as if he’s not playing any game at all. You’re not convinced.

It gets worse when you’re paired together for a mock negotiation project. The professor calls your names together and something in your stomach sinks.

“Guess it’s fate,” Lando says with a lazy grin you want to smack off his face. “You and me, legal dream team.”

You sigh through your teeth. “God help us both.”

You’re walking out of class when he says it again, twirling a pen between his fingers. “So, are you mine?”

You know what he means. The project. The pairing. The assignment that's going to ruin your weekend. Still, it lands wrong. It lands sideways. You mutter, “Unfortunately.”

Lando blinks, caught off guard for half a second. Then he laughs. Bright and delighted, like your hostility is a gift he’s been dying to unwrap.

“God, you’re sharp,” he says. “I like it.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. Something in your chest is already shifting, bracing.

Second year, and you stop expecting to drown.

You still choke sometimes—overdue readings, group projects that implode, cold calls that catch you in a daze. But you’ve grown gills. You know which professors demand citations and which just want opinions dressed in precedent. You highlight with purpose. Your backpack doesn’t give you shoulder pain anymore. You’ve adjusted.

What surprises you is that Lando has, too.

You expected him to drop out. Or transfer. Or realize here isn’t where he wants to be. Someone like Lando, who treats deadlines like loose suggestions and writes in loopy cursive like he’s signing autographs instead of briefs? He shouldn’t have made it past 1L.

And yet he’s still here. Still in your section. Still floating just outside your line of vision like an inside joke the universe won’t explain.

You catch him sleeping in Torts. Not just dozing. Full-on, tilted head, mouth-open sleeping. The professor says nothing. When you glare, Lando shrugs like he can feel it. Like he knows.

“Up late prepping my oral argument,” he says later, unbothered. “Had to make sure my metaphors were air-tight.”

“It’s a legal argument, not a stand-up set.”

“Shame,” he says. “I had a great one about negligence and banana peels.”

You hate how often he makes you want to laugh.

By winter, you’ve stopped denying the rhythm of your rivalry. You anticipate his presence like a minefield, treat him like a fucking migraine. You look for his name on class rosters and feel a weird spike of something when it’s there. He drives you up the wall with the way he walks, the way he talks, the way he carries himself. He skates by with just enough effort to avoid disaster. The worst part: he keeps flirting.

With everyone, at first. Then with a select few. Then, eventually, mainly with you.

He holds doors open with exaggerated bows. He calls you ‘counselor’ like you're both in a legal drama. He leaves doodles in your notebook when you’re not looking: a tiny judge banging a gavel. A cartoon of you glaring. A car with hearts for wheels.

You never say thank you. He never expects it. Sometimes you think he doesn’t even take you seriously. Like your rivalry is a solo act he’s accidentally wandered into.

But he remembers things. Your moot court topic. The fact that you hate peppermint. The specific way you line up your pens.

He offers to split his notes when you miss class with a fever. You take them, reluctantly. They’re annotated with tiny smiley faces, like you’re both still in middle school.

You don’t ask him why he hasn’t flunked out. You don’t ask him why he stays. You just keep watching him out of the corner of your eye, waiting for the moment he finally cracks, or quits, or gets bored of bothering you.

But he doesn’t.

It hits again during a study night in your block’s shared kitchen. There’s pizza grease on your notes and someone’s playing Arctic Monkeys too loud through a Bluetooth speaker. You’re explaining proximate cause to a bleary-eyed 1L when Lando strolls in, steals a breadstick off your plate, and plants himself beside you like he belongs there.

“Back off, Norris,” you grit out, not looking up from the poor soul in front of you who looks like they’re about to have a nervous breakdown.

Lando leans in anyway, elbow brushing yours. You hate that your skin notices.

“You mine tonight?” he says casually, flipping through your outline. The one the two of you made on Google Docs for days, arguing in comments and grappling with Suggestion Mode. “For the study group, I mean.”

The entire table of blockmates goes quiet in that grinning, knowing way. That’s another thing that ticks you off. People claiming you’re playing the field, that you’re acting hard to get. Lando is supposed to be irresistible, and yet—time and time again—you resist him.

Someone snorts. Another mutters, “Just admit you’re dating already.”

You give Lando the middle finger without missing a beat.

He bursts out laughing, delighted. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You go back to your notes, jaw clenched. The rivalry isn’t a game, not to you. But Lando’s always smiling like you’re the most fun puzzle he never meant to solve.

You don’t realize until much later—maybe months from now, maybe longer—that part of you flipped him off just to hear him laugh.

The years go by faster than you thought they would. Law school has a way of folding time. The first year stretches like taffy. Long, sticky, unbearable in places. But your second year moves quicker. Your third year hits like a freight train.

Somewhere in the rush of outlines, clerkship interviews, and caffeine-induced breakdowns, you forget to hate Lando Norris.

Not completely. He still gets under your skin. Still shows up late to lectures with a Jamba Juice in hand and a sleepy grin like the world bends just a little for him. But it stops being about irritation. Somewhere along the way, it just became how things are.

You crackle with him. That’s the word. Like static clinging to wool, like sparks leaping between wire tips. Never quite a fight, never quite a flirtation. Just tension, humming under your skin, winding tighter every time he calls you ‘counselor’ or bumps your shoulder with his. He’s still in your periphery.

Third year is supposed to be easier, but you’re juggling everything. Final clinics, last electives, prep for the bar that looms like a guillotine. Your life shrinks into flashcards and study groups and long nights staring at outlines until the words blur.

Lando sticks around. Unchanged. Relentless. Infuriatingly consistent.

You catch him in the library one night, feet on the table, headphones in, mouthing something that definitely isn’t a legal doctrine. He pulls one earbud out when you walk past.

“Fancy seeing you here, star pupil. What’s the damage today? Constitutional crisis or caffeine overdose?” he teases, but his voice is light.

A concession. A white flag. He knows the type of week you’ve been having, knows satisfaction feels like a distant memory when you’re not the big fish in the pond anymore.

You grunt. “Both.”

He smiles sympathetically. You hate how it lands.

You find yourselves sharing more and more space. Study tables. Elevator rides. The quiet corners of the library where no one goes unless they’re desperate or hiding.

He doesn’t flirt as much now. Or maybe he does, and you’ve just stopped recognizing the difference between teasing and attention. It all blurs together under the fluorescent lighting.

Sometimes, you catch him watching you when he thinks you won’t notice. Sometimes, you let him.

You’re too busy to ask why it feels like something’s building. Too busy to admit the way he still makes your stomach tighten when he tosses you a highlighter like it’s an offering, or mutters an answer under his breath just before you do. Too busy to do anything about it.

But the pressure’s there. Always. Like the bar exam isn’t the only thing coming for you. Like Lando Norris is a deadline you’ve been dodging for years, and now there’s nowhere left to run.

Your fate is sealed on an inconsequential Friday night.

The kind that doesn’t need a reason, just the collective desperation of law students teetering on the edge of responsibility, clawing at the last scraps of their recklessness. Your friends text a location. You show up. Everyone is overdressed and under-slept, slurring bad jokes and clinging to drinks like lifelines.

The speakeasy is half aesthetic, half claustrophobic. Exposed brick. Bartenders in suspenders. A jazz band playing something neither ironic nor sincere. You down your second gin and tonic too quickly. It doesn’t burn. You wish it did.

Lando’s there, of course. You didn’t come together, but he finds you anyway. It’s inevitable, like gravity and hangovers and legal liability as a principle of substantive rather than procedural law.

He slides in beside you at the bar, smelling like something dark and expensive. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be unfair. You say nothing. He smiles like you did.

Your blockmates are scattered across booths and stools, bodies draped over each other like coats. There’s a girl asleep against her boyfriend’s shoulder. Two guys arguing about the difference between fraud and misrepresentation, voices rising with every syllable. You should care. You don’t.

Hours pass in fragments. Laughter. Another drink. Someone suggests shots. You lose track of whose idea anything was.

You end up outside.

The alley behind the speakeasy is slick with rain and shadow. You shouldn’t be here. You don't know who followed who out the back door, only that Lando is pressed against the cold bric, and you’re kissing him. He kisses you like he never expected he’d be allowed to.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s urgent, messy, tasting like lime and gin and whatever this thing between you has curdled into over three years.

His hands are on your waist. Yours are in his hair. Everything spins.

Your tongue traces his bottom lip—and then he pulls back. You hate that you instinctively lean forward, mouth chasing his. You hate that he tightens his grip at your hips, holding you back, staring you down with the watercolor eyes that have plagued your dreams.

“Are you—” he’s breathing, but he doesn’t get to finish that question. You don’t let him.

You kiss him again. Harder. Stealing the words, the chance to make this mean something. You know what he wants to ask. You don’t want to answer.

Are you mine?

Not tonight.

Tonight, you’re just drunk and young and unfinished. Tonight, you’re still allowed to be thoughtless. To make out with the guy who was a silver lining in the otherwise bleak, hectic rush of law education.

Lando exhales into your mouth like he gets it. Like he’s not surprised. He kisses you, just kisses you, until you’re both breathless and dazed. There’s a lipstick mark on the collar of his polo shirt. He leaves an infinitesimal hickey just above your collarbone.

Neither of you talk about that night again.

Not when he hands you a coffee the next morning like nothing happened. Not when your knees brush under a library table. Not when he looks at you like he remembers.

Because maybe you do, too.

By the time you graduate, you begrudgingly call Lando your friend.

You say it with a sigh. With an eye roll. With a jab to the ribs when he’s said something infuriatingly British or smug or both. But you say it.

And when he hears it, he lights up like someone handed him the sun. He wears the title like a tailored suit. You wish you hadn’t given it to him.

The night you two kissed sits in the space between you like a folded letter neither of you open. Not when you cross the stage in your rented gown, your name echoing through the auditorium while your blockmates cheer and Lando wolf-whistles. Not when everyone tells him to calm down, but he cheers and whoops like he fucking funded your education himself.

Not when, afterwards, you introduce him to your parents with a diplomatic “This is the friend I was talking about. Lando.” Not when he shakes their hands with a grin and half-jokes, “I definitely could have been more than a friend.”

Your blockmates scatter like dandelion seeds into internships and clerkships and private firms with names that sound like inheritance. Your days blur into outlines, footnotes, and caffeine.

Your bar prep books get heavier, and your spine curves around the weight of them. Life becomes dictated by outlines and mnemonics and a calendar that seems to laugh in your face.

You and Lando study together because neither of you say no. Because he’s persistent and you’re tired. Because it’s easier than being alone with your thoughts. Because it’s easier than being alone with him.

The rhythm becomes familiar. He brings you coffee without asking. You steal his highlighters. He hums under his breath when he reads, and you threaten to throw your CivPro book at him at least once a week.

The bar exam feels less like a milestone and more like a storm. A test you’ve been preparing for your whole life, and still aren’t ready for. Two days in a cavernous convention center with bad lighting and too much silence. You sit three rows apart. It might as well be miles.

You catch a glimpse of his profile once, and it calms you more than you’d admit.

Afterwards, you both look like you’ve aged five years. He makes some quip about suing the NCBE for emotional distress and irreparable damage to the soul. You want to laugh. You want to cry. You settle for stealing the muffin out of his hand, and he chases you down the sidewalk, screaming bloody murder.

Then the waiting begins.

It’s worse than the test. Purgatory with a deadline. Time stretches, bends in on itself. The 44% pass rate in your jurisdiction becomes a mantra and a curse. Every time you think about it, your stomach drops. You text Lando late at night, just question marks and anxiety. He replies with terrible memes and gentle reassurances.

When results go live, it’s early. Barely sunrise. Your stomach is lead. You meet Lando at a quiet café you both like, the one with chipped mugs and a broken sugar dispenser.

The city still feels half-asleep. Your fingers are cold. He’s already there, laptop open, waiting. You’re the only people there, which is both a blessing and a curse.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the heat off his arm. He looks at you.

“Ready?”

You shake your head. He smiles anyway. He checks first. Types in his ID number. You both watch the screen.

He passes.

“Lando!”

You throw your arms around him without thinking. He melts into it like he’s been waiting all year, all four years, even, for this. His arms wrap around you, firm and grounding. He holds you like you matter. Like you’re his victory, too.

“Easy,” he chuckles, but he’s burying his face into the crook of your neck and breathing you in.

Not easy. Not as easy as he might’ve liked. But he made it, he made it, and you—you feel pride. Something you never expected to feel for that infuriating boy late to Contracts.

You pull back, a little shaken by how badly you needed that. Then it’s your turn.

You log in. Hands trembling. You miss a key. Type again. Lando doesn’t make any jokes or snide remarks about it. He keeps one hand on your shaking knee, his palm warm over your thigh.

The page loads.

You pass, too.

You barely whisper it, but it escapes you in a rush, disbelieving and stunned. Lando doesn’t wait for confirmation. He sees it on your face.

He’s on his feet in the next minute, swooping you up, but this time tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll float away. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you feel him laughing with relief into your hair.

And then, gently, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Then another.

And another.

Like he can’t help it. Like you’re a prayer being answered. Your throat goes tight. You try to push him off, but it’s a feeble attempt; he keeps on showering you with the affection he’s held back for years and years.

You stand there, caught in the kind of silence that says everything. Grinning and breathless. Changed. Gone are the days of misbehaving, of teetering near the deep end, of begging and borrowing for tonight and tomorrow.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now,” you murmur, voice muffled against his collar. “My on-call.”

He laughs, soft and bright before pulling back, just enough to look you in the eye. “Are you mine?”

No smirk. No teasing lilt. Just a question.

No, it’s the question, and it lands exactly where it has to.

This time, you don’t dodge it. You don’t deflect. You meet his gaze, steady. Heart loud in your ears.

“Yeah,” you say, “you got me, baby.” ⛐

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula one fluff #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 fluff #⛐ kae prix #⛐ ln4 #⛐ event: this is f1 #rpf taking me places i would never go (researching about law school)

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swtnjk · 3 days ago

Text

pov you’re ushijima’s daughter’s teacher

ushijima sighs as he gets out the car. his daughter, nari, skips beside him. her brown curled pigtails bouncing and her hands hold a glitter covered envelope.

“you sure about this?” he asks her as they reach your classroom door. nari nods, “miss y/n said she didn’t want anything—“ she says, all breathless with determination.

“but i know she didn’t mean it! she loves when we give her presents! and she’s humble!” nari smiles. ushijima tilts his head. how the hell did she know what the word humble meant?

he doesn’t argue. mostly because he has no idea how to argue with a seven year old when she’s on a mission. they stand outside of the classroom, he hears laughter, the shuffling of paper, and your voice. bright and warm and impossible to ignore.

“remember, my birthday wish is that all of you show up every day this week. no skipping for cartoons!”

he knocks. three firm raps. you open the door mid-laugh, eyes sparkling with joy, and freeze when you see him.

“mr. ushijima?”

he clears his throat. “…happy birthday.”

you blink. your eyes drop to a bouquet of tulips, a card with your name written in sparkly gel pen, and the pink box that smells suspiciously like powdered sugar and strawberry.

“oh my gosh, you didn’t have to— wait, did you draw this card?”

nari peeks out from behind his legs. “i made the card! daddy got the donuts and flowers. i told him what to get. i said pink donuts make you happy.”

you look at him, lips curling into something soft. “pink donuts do make me happy.”

for a moment. a tiny pause in the rush of the day. where it’s just the two of you. his stoic eyes on yours. your sweet smile melting his entire brain.

“would you like to come in?” you ask, stepping aside.

“i can’t stay long,” he replies. but he still walks in. he still hands you the tulips like he’s never given someone flowers before. he still watches you carefully when you laugh and thank him again, tucking the card close to your chest like it’s treasure.

after your birthday, something shifts.

he tells himself he’s just being polite. dropping his daughter off a little later, picking her up a little earlier.

definitely not because he likes watching you wave goodbye to every student like they’re VIPs or because he caught himself smiling at how your hair caught the sun the other day.

then there’s the saturday he shows up at the school garden cleanup, wearing a plain white t-shirt that should probably be illegal. you do a double take.

“you’re here?”

“my daughter volunteered,” he says flatly but his ears are a little pink.

“uh huh,” you hand him a trowel. “let’s see if you’re as good at planting as you are at picking donuts.”

you work side by side, dirt under your nails, sun on your backs. you’re chatting about how the second graders accidentally planted jellybeans last year when he looks up and says, totally deadpan:

“you laugh with your whole body.”

you blink, “…was that a compliment?”

“yes.” you nearly drop your trowel.

one afternoon, you find him leaning against the classroom doorway after school, arms crossed, watching you stack art projects with that unreadable gaze.

nari plays with some other little girl on the glass as she waits for her dad.

“i don’t want to overstep,” he says, voice low. “but would you like to join us for dinner sometime?”

you freeze, “like… a parent teacher thing?”

“no,” he says simply. “like a me, you and nari thing.”

you break into a slow, disbelieving smile. “only if there’s donuts after.”

he nods, “of course.”

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bueckersleftbraid · 21 hours ago

Text

”— Not For Real

WC: just abt 4.0k (trust it’s good even tho it’s short)

paring: pazzi ofc 🤗

warnings: ummm fluff, fake dating, rom com ass moments, paige lowkey being stupid

authors notes —> hi!! here is this. I sort of love it so I hope you do too! I wrote this quick so my apologies for how short it is but it’s very cutesy

THE PITCH

The coffee shop was nearly empty except for a few students buried in their laptops and an older couple sharing a newspaper by the window. Paige slid into the booth, her cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a takeout cup in one hand and skepticism written all over her face.

Azzi was already there, lounging like she owned the place, one leg crossed over the other and an unread book open in front of her like a decoy. Her sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on top of her head, her dark curls pulled back in a loose bun. She didn’t look frantic or upset — not the way her text had sounded— “Emergency. Meet me at Haven. Bring caffeine.”

“Alright,” Paige said, plunking her drink down. “I came. I caffeinated. What’s the ‘emergency’?”

Azzi gave her a look, one brow quirked, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was holding back a grin. Paige didn’t trust that expression. Azzi was rarely panicked. Calculated? Yes. Hyper-competitive? Definitely. But desperate?

Something was up.

“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

Paige blinked. “You—what?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. “Just for a few weeks.”

Paige sat back, stunned. “This is a joke.”

“I’m completely serious.”

There was a silence between them, the kind that stretched and pulled like taffy. Paige stared, trying to figure out if Azzi had finally lost it.

Azzi’s tone was matter-of-fact. “My sister’s wedding is in three weeks. My parents are hosting half the extended family. And last year—because I was being cornered by four aunties asking why I was single—I might’ve said I was dating someone. Someone serious.”

“Oh my God.”

“I didn’t say it was you,” Azzi added quickly. “But now they want to meet her. And I panicked. And I may have shown them a photo from our joint charity game last summer. You looked good.”

“You—what?”

“I didn’t think they’d remember! But now they’re asking if you’re coming. And since I hate lying—”

“You’re literally lying right now,” Paige interrupted.

“—I figured it’s less lying if it’s you,” Azzi said, flashing a smile that could only be described as weaponized charm.

Paige stared at her like she’d grown another head.

She and Azzi had never been friends, not exactly. Their relationship existed in a gray area between reluctant allies and rivals. They knew each other’s weak spots. They pushed each other during games, sparred during interviews, and occasionally made nice at league events. There had always been tension there — a kind that hovered just on the edge of something else.

But this?

“Why me?” Paige asked finally.

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Her expression turned serious — sincere in a way that Paige rarely saw from her.

“Because you can handle it,” she said. “My family can be… intense. They’ll ask questions. They’ll pry. I need someone who’s smart, quick, and can improvise. You’re the only person I trust not to crack.”

Paige felt a strange flicker of pride at that, which she quickly smothered. She hated how Azzi’s approval always stirred something in her.

“I don’t know,” Paige said, eyeing her warily. “What’s in it for me?”

Azzi smiled, like she’d been expecting that.

“I’ll owe you. Big time. I’ll even owe you publicly, if you want. You name the favor. I’ll make it happen.”

Paige took a slow sip of her latte, weighing her options. She could walk away. Tell Azzi she was out of her mind and let her deal with the fallout.

But instead, she said, “I want your warm-up playlist.”

Azzi went still.

“…You’re not serious.”

“I am deadly serious,” Paige replied. “The one you play with the wireless earbuds. The one you turn off the second someone gets too close. You give me that playlist, and I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Azzi looked betrayed. “That’s like—sacred. That’s mine.”

Paige smirked. “Then maybe you should’ve asked someone else to fake date you.”

Azzi muttered something under her breath and stared down at her coffee like it had betrayed her too. Then she sighed, reached into her bag, and pulled out her phone.

She scrolled, tapped, and then held it out. “You’re the worst.”

“I try,” Paige said, gleefully accepting the transfer.

There was a strange beat of silence after that, as if both of them realized this was no longer hypothetical. Azzi sat back, a little too calm again.

“So,” Paige said cautiously, “how exactly does this work?”

Azzi raised a brow. “We ease into it. Coffee shops, casual photos, a couple of public run-ins. We soft-launch the relationship by next weekend. Then the wedding. A few smiling family photos. Some lingering looks. Maybe even a dance. Two weeks after that, we stage a quiet breakup. Friendly. Mutual. Devastatingly mature.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You’ve thought this through.”

Azzi gave her a crooked grin. “You have no idea.”

THE ACT

Fake dating, Paige quickly realized, required a surprising amount of coordination.

There were rules, schedules, contingencies. Texts needed timestamps. Stories had to match. They spent an entire afternoon building a believable relationship history — from their “first coffee after a preseason scrimmage” to their “accidental slow dance at a teammate’s birthday party.” Paige had never spent so much time with Azzi without the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood in the background.

And somehow, being around her without the structure of basketball— just sitting close on a couch, laptops open, occasionally stealing each other’s fries— felt more intimate than anything else they’d ever done.

It was during brunch on the first Saturday of the plan that things started to feel…off.

Not bad off. Just different.

Their table was tucked into the corner of a sunlit café that Paige didn’t usually frequent— the kind of place with overpriced avocado toast and artisanal jam in tiny glass jars. She kept checking the window, half-expecting someone to recognize them.

Azzi, meanwhile, looked utterly unbothered.

She was dressed in a soft brown sweater that brought out the warm undertones in her skin, her hair loose for once, curls brushing her shoulders. She’d insisted on sitting next to Paige instead of across from her — “Couples sit side-by-side. Optics.” — and now, her knee kept brushing Paige’s beneath the table like it was nothing.

It was not nothing.

Paige was hyper-aware of every point of contact: the press of Azzi’s shoulder, the occasional light touch on her wrist when Azzi laughed at something she said. And then there was the moment— the one Paige didn’t know how to explain— when Azzi reached across the table and gently, casually, brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

“Missed a spot,” she said, voice low, like it was just for her.

Paige stared, momentarily frozen. She barely managed a sarcastic “Thanks, Mom,” just to defuse the tension in her own chest.

Azzi only smirked.

Then— in full view of the table across from them— she reached down and laced her fingers through Paige’s.

Paige’s pulse jumped.

“What are you doing?” she hissed under her breath.

Azzi tilted her head. “Handholding. Basic public display. You want this to be convincing, right?”

“This is—” Paige trailed off, unable to find a word that didn’t sound like denial. Her fingers stayed tangled in Azzi’s for a beat longer than necessary before she forced herself to look away.

Convincing. Right. This was just for show.

But it felt like something else.

____

Later that evening, they found themselves scrolling through Instagram together on Azzi’s couch, reviewing what Azzi referred to as “launch content.” It had been Paige’s idea to soft-launch their relationship through stories and casual posts — enough to stir curiosity without a hard announcement. “Let the public fill in the blanks,” she’d said. “It’ll feel more real if people think they caught it happening.”

Azzi had been disturbingly into that idea.

“Okay,” Paige said, reviewing a photo Azzi had taken earlier — the two of them walking away from the café, arms looped together. It was slightly blurry, clearly taken from behind. “This one looks stolen. Paparazzi vibe.”

“Good,” Azzi said. “Tag it or leave it?”

Paige sighed. “Leave it. Keep them guessing.”

Azzi grinned, but her voice was quieter when she added, “You’re good at this.”

Paige didn’t look up. “At lying to the world?”

“At making it believable,” Azzi said. “Too believable, maybe.”

There was a silence between them.

Paige felt it stretch again — like the space between words you want to say but don’t know how to. The room was warm, too warm, and she suddenly became very aware of the fact that they were sitting closer than strictly necessary.

She risked a glance over.

Azzi was already looking at her.

Paige swallowed hard. “You’re kind of good at this, too.”

Azzi arched a brow. “Kind of?”

Paige shook her head, eyes flicking away.“Unfairly good.”

A smirk tugged at Azzi’s lips, but she didn’t press. Instead, she nudged Paige’s knee lightly with her own. “Don’t overthink it, Bueckers. Just follow my lead.”

That sentence echoed in Paige’s head for the rest of the night.

____

The first real test came the following weekend— a casual dinner with some of Azzi’s extended family visiting early for the wedding.

Paige had told herself she was prepared. She’d practiced their story, remembered names, even rehearsed a few go-to anecdotes. But nothing prepared her for the way Azzi introduced her:

“This is Paige,” Azzi had said, voice softening at the edges. “She’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

It shouldn’t have hit Paige in the chest the way it did. But the pride in Azzi’s voice, the way she slipped an arm around her waist like it was second nature, it all felt too natural.

Too easy.

“You’re even prettier in person,” Azzi’s aunt said with a warm smile, making Paige blush hard enough to want to hide under the table.

“She is, isn’t she?” Azzi replied, grinning, and Paige gave her a warning glance that Azzi absolutely ignored.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation, wine, and shared glances that lingered a little too long. At one point, someone brought up future plans — careers, cities, and timelines — and Paige heard herself say something about “we’re figuring things out,” and Azzi didn’t correct her.

She just nodded. Like it was true.

Like it could be.

That night, after the guests had gone and they were back on the couch, Paige kicked off her heels and flopped backward with a groan. “I deserve an Oscar.”

Azzi collapsed next to her, eyes half-lidded from wine and exhaustion. “They love you already.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“You were perfect,” Azzi said quietly, not teasing for once. “Natural.”

Paige turned her head to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Sometimes I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige’s breath caught.

For a moment, the room felt too still. The words hung between them like something fragile — something dangerous.

“Don’t,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t what?” Azzi asked.

“Don’t say stuff like that unless you mean it.”

Azzi looked at her. Really looked. Then — just as softly — said, “Maybe I do.”

Paige didn’t answer.

She didn’t move.

She just let the words sit there, tucked between them on the couch, daring her to pick a side.

THE SHIFT

Paige had faced playoff pressure before. She’d stood at the free throw line with a championship on the line, heard arenas scream her name, stared down defenders with everything at stake.

And still, nothing made her feel quite as unsteady as walking into Azzi’s childhood home.

The place was beautiful — all warm wood and framed memories, the scent of something sweet in the air — but it wasn’t the house itself that threw her.

It was the fact that everyone knew who she was.

“Oh my god, the girlfriend!”

“You’re even cuter than the photos!”

“I heard she plays just as well as Azzi — is that true?”

“Do you want to see baby pictures?!”

Azzi watched it all unfold with thinly veiled amusement, her arm a steady presence at Paige’s back. She was too calm. Too smooth. Like she’d always known Paige would say yes. Like she’d planned for this exact moment.

Paige leaned toward her as soon as they had a sliver of privacy in the hallway. “Your family’s intense.”

“I warned you,” Azzi said with a smirk, then added, “You’re handling it like a pro.”

“I’m dying inside.”

Azzi bumped her shoulder. “You look great while doing it.”

The rehearsal dinner was the first real blow.

Paige had worn a soft cream dress that Azzi couldn’t seem to stop staring at — not that she ever said anything outright, just a glance too long when Paige wasn’t looking, or a compliment murmured so low it felt like a secret.

They sat together at the head table, posing for casual couple photos, telling rehearsed stories about “how we met” and “our first date,” laughing too easily, leaning in like magnets.

But it was during the toasts— when the groom’s brother started talking about soulmates— that Paige glanced over and caught Azzi watching her.

Not with amusement. Not with performance.

But with something soft. Bare. Real.

It was the kind of look no one gives unless they mean it.

Paige looked away, heart thudding in her chest, guilt bubbling like carbonation in her ribs. This was fake. This was supposed to stay fake.

But suddenly, she didn’t know if Azzi had ever drawn the line. And worse — she didn’t know if she had either.

____

That night, in the guest room down the hall, Paige lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind racing.

She thought of how Azzi had casually brushed her hair over her shoulder earlier. Of the way she’d poured her wine without asking. Of how she’d reached for Paige’s hand in the dark when no one was watching.

This was the most dangerous part of the lie: the moments that didn’t serve the story. The things that weren’t for anyone else.

And then came the knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

She sat up. “Yeah?”

Azzi peeked through the door. She wasn’t in her dress anymore— just a pair of shorts and an old tee, her curls pulled back loosely, her expression unreadable. “You decent?”

“Depends on your definition,” Paige said, forcing a weak smile.

Azzi stepped in and leaned against the doorframe. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Paige watched her carefully. “Me either.”

There was a long pause.

Azzi broke it, quietly. “Can I tell you something?”

Paige nodded.

“I didn’t think this would get to me.” Azzi looked down, fiddling with a ring on her finger. “It was supposed to be simple. Clean. Controlled.”

“But it’s not.”

“No,” Azzi said. “It’s not.”

Paige felt her heart tug, just a little. “You’re not the only one.”

Azzi looked up at that— eyes locking onto hers, something raw flickering behind them. “When I look at you, Paige…” She stopped. Swallowed. “I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

She just sat there, frozen, every nerve in her body firing at once.

Azzi crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough that Paige could see the tension in her shoulders. “You can tell me to stop. You can tell me it’s just a role. But I need you to know I’m not pretending anymore.”

Silence.

A long one.

Then, quietly— like a truth Paige had been holding in for days— she said, “I don’t want to pretend either.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “You mean that?”

Paige nodded, voice shaking. “Yeah. I do.”

____

The next day was chaos. Wedding prep. Final fittings. Tears and champagne and frantic flower girls. But somehow, through it all, Paige and Azzi found pockets of stillness.

A touch on the back as they passed each other.

A whispered joke during a photo session.

A look— held too long— when no one else was looking.

By the time the dance floor opened and Azzi reached for her hand, Paige didn’t hesitate.

They danced slow. Intimate. Their arms wrapped around each other like second nature.

“Everyone’s watching,” Paige murmured, her cheek brushing Azzi’s.

Azzi’s hand tightened at her waist. “Let them.”

“I feel like we’re supposed to kiss or something.”

Azzi paused. “Do you want to?”

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Not because we’re supposed to. Only if it’s real.”

Azzi looked at her like she’d already made that choice.

And then, quietly, deliberately— she kissed her.

Soft at first. Like a question. Then with more certainty, like she already knew the answer.

When they pulled apart, Paige didn’t look away.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she whispered.

Azzi smiled. “Good.”

____

The kiss didn’t shatter anything.

It settled something. Quiet and unforced, it slipped between them like a puzzle piece finally falling into place. Not a performance, not a statement— just Paige and Azzi, wrapped in music and low light, eyes closed to the world and open only to each other.

And then, slowly, the moment passed.

They pulled apart, breath brushing between them, eyes locked. Paige blinked first.

Someone behind them cheered— not for them, for the newlyweds— and the real world came rushing back.

But nothing about them felt fake anymore.

They didn’t talk about the kiss right away.

Paige needed space to think. She slipped away from the reception after midnight, half-drunk on champagne and adrenaline, and found herself sitting on the venue’s back steps, heels dangling from her hand.

She was running her thumb over the lip of a glass when Azzi found her.

“You always disappear after the good parts,” Azzi said, voice soft as she stepped into the night.

Paige didn’t look over. “Wasn’t sure if it was a good part.”

Azzi sat beside her. Close, but not touching. “It was for me.”

That quiet admission settled in Paige’s chest like warmth in cold hands.

She exhaled. “I don’t know where the line is anymore.”

Azzi didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “I think it’s gone.”

Paige finally turned to look at her.

Azzi’s hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from dancing. Her eyes, though, were steady. “This stopped being fake a while ago. We just didn’t want to be the first to say it.”

Paige bit her lip. “And now?”

“Now I want to know what it looks like when it’s not a performance.”

There was no crowd to play to here. No family. No cameras. Just moonlight, soft music from inside, and two people trying to find their footing.

“I’m scared it’s not different enough,” Paige admitted. “That it’ll feel the same, and somehow that’ll make it less real.”

Azzi reached for her hand. “Then we make it different.”

“How?”

“Let’s start with this.” Azzi’s voice was calm but certain. “Tomorrow— no stories. No setups. We go on a real date. Just you and me.”

“No pretending?”

“No pretending.”

Paige nodded slowly, almost like a dare to herself. “Okay.”

Azzi smiled. “Okay.”

____

They danced again before the night ended.

Not for show, not for pictures. Just the two of them, alone near the edge of the floor, slow-swaying to a song no one else was paying attention to. Azzi’s arms were loose around her waist, and Paige let her forehead rest against Azzi’s collarbone.

No eyes on them.

No script.

No lie.

Just a beginning — unspoken, but undeniably real.

THE RAIN

The wedding glow didn’t last.

Maybe it was the travel. Or the shift back to real life. Or the fact that what had started as a joke— a fake relationship to get through a weekend— had suddenly become something far too delicate to joke about.

Whatever it was, by the time they were back home, something between them had changed.

Paige pulled away first.

Not in a dramatic, obvious way. It was subtle— fewer texts, fewer “just because” calls, excuses about being tired, busy, overwhelmed. She showed up late to dinner one night and didn’t lean in when Azzi brushed her hand.

Azzi noticed every beat of it. Every flinch. Every pause.

But she didn’t push.

Not yet.

____

“You good?” Azzi asked one night, when they were sitting side by side on Paige’s couch, a game on the TV, untouched.

Paige didn’t look over. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Paige let out a short breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With me?”

“With any of this.”

Azzi paused. “You want out?”

“No. Yes.” Paige rubbed her face, eyes burning. “I don’t know.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

Because what could she say, when Paige was already slipping through her fingers?

____

The next few days were worse.

Paige stopped answering. Not just texts — calls, too. She skipped their usual Sunday shootaround. She didn’t invite Azzi to the fundraiser dinner they’d planned to go to together. She didn’t say anything was wrong.

She just stopped showing up.

____

It was raining when Azzi finally found her.

Not a soft drizzle— a downpour, the kind that soaked through clothes in seconds, that made the whole world feel like it was breaking open.

Azzi didn’t care.

She stood outside Paige’s building, coat already heavy with rain, hair clinging to her face, and poundedon the buzzer until someone let her in.

She didn’t call first.

She didn’t text.

She just knocked on Paige’s door, hard, until it opened.

Paige stared at her, stunned. She was barefoot in a hoodie, face pale and tired, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Azzi didn’t wait.

“You don’t get to ghost me,” she said, soaked and furious. “Not after all of that.”

Paige swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“No. You were. And I let you. Because I thought maybe you needed space, but now I’m standing here in a storm, and I’m not leaving until you say whatever it is you’re afraid to say.”

Paige’s voice cracked. “This isn’t going to work.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“This thing. Us.” Paige stepped back like she couldn’t bear her own words. “It was supposed to be fake. We were never meant to be real. It’s too much. It’s too fast. And I’m going to mess it up.”

Azzi took a step inside. “You’re not messing it up. You’re running from it.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Yes, you do. You’re just scared.”

Paige’s eyes welled up, but she held her ground. “I’ve never had anything like this before, Azzi. Not with anyone. I don’t know what it looks like to let it be real.”

Azzi stood there, soaked to the skin, heart wide open. “You want to know what it looks like?”

Paige didn’t answer.

Azzi closed the space between them. “It looks like me, right now, standing here completely drenched, because I love you so much I couldn’t not come. It looks like two people terrified out of their minds choosing each other anyway.”

Paige froze.

Azzi’s voice dropped. “I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Paige stepped forward— one shaky, breathless step— and kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking.

And in the middle of it, she whispered, “I love you too.”

____

Later, they lay tangled on the couch, wrapped in towels and each other, the storm still whispering against the windows.

Neither of them spoke for a while. There was nothing to explain.

Because for the first time, nothing was pretend.

And neither of them was running.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #wlw fiction #uconn huskies #pazzi crumbs

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leriexoxo · 1 day ago

Text

Rumor Has It…

Bully! Jeongin x Fem Reader

Genre: Bully AU, Rivals to Lovers, College AU

Tags: Smut, Angst, Fluff, bullying themes, toxic behavior, jealousy, possessive behavior, rough kisses, emotionally confusing situations, mutual obsession, protected sex, soft aftercare

Word count: 5.5k

Summary: You had a crush on the golden boy junior everyone loved. Jeongin noticed—and didn’t take it well. Now you’re his favorite target, his sharpest insult, his worst-kept secret. The tension between you two builds until it breaks… or explodes.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

A/N: This was a request from an anon. (Next time, ask with your account so i can tag you and also be sure you’re not a minor 😩 I only wrote this cos I actually loved the idea) Hope you enjoy it!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn’t mean to draw attention to yourself.

Especially not his.

College was supposed to be your quiet reset. New campus, new people, no more high school drama or cafeteria hierarchy. You weren’t aiming for popularity, just a peaceful freshman year with decent grades and enough coffee to survive it.

And for a while, that’s what you had.

Until Jeongin.

Jeongin was a junior—untouchable in every sense. Smart, smooth-talking, always surrounded by people who hung onto his every word. Girls giggled louder when he passed by. Guys looked up to him like he ran the place. Professors loved him. The kind of person who could talk his way out of anything and charm his way into everything.

You noticed him early on—how could you not?

The way his hoodie always hung loose off one shoulder, the curve of his grin when he was teasing someone, the casual way he leaned against doorframes like they were made for him. He was so far out of your league it was laughable. But you still found yourself watching.

A crush. That’s all it was. Harmless.

Until that seminar.

The class was small—thirty students tops—and you’d arrived late that day, flustered and sleep-deprived. The only seat left was next to him. You hesitated, but the professor had already called your name.

So you sat beside Yang Jeongin.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t acknowledge you. Not at first.

You didn’t mean to answer the question out loud. You really didn’t. But the professor had asked something you’d actually studied, and your hand went up before you could think twice.

And Jeongin looked at you.

A slow turn of his head. Just a glance. But it lingered. And when he smiled—sharp and unreadable—it felt like the floor dropped beneath your chair.

“Freshman’s got opinions,” he said, not even bothering to whisper it.

The class laughed. You shrank.

He didn’t stop there.

After that day, something shifted. He started showing up next to you more often—always with some offhanded comment.

“Didn’t know they were letting high schoolers audit this course.”

“You sure you’re not lost? Cafeteria’s two buildings down.”

“Careful. That bag looks heavy. Don’t hurt your baby arms.”

It was constant. Subtle enough that no one really called him out, but pointed enough that you felt it. Always you. You’d seen him joke around with his friends before, but this was different. He wasn’t laughing with you—he was smirking at you.

You stopped sitting near him. Stopped speaking up in class.

But it didn’t matter. He always found you.

One time, you heard him tell someone you were “the new campus kitten—jumpy, clueless, probably still using Apple Notes to write essays.”

You hated him. You hated him.

And still, your stupid heart stuttered whenever he leaned too close.

Still, your eyes searched for him in the crowd.

You wished you could stop noticing him. Wished his cologne didn’t stick in your lungs after he brushed past. Wished he wasn’t so effortlessly hot when he was being awful.

Wished he didn’t make you feel so small and seen all at once.

And he had no idea.

He didn’t know you ever liked him. Didn’t know you still kind of did.

Didn’t know that even when you clenched your fists and scowled in his direction, your throat tightened whenever he said your name.

And you swore to yourself, if he pushed you one more time—just once more—you’d snap.

You tried to avoid him.

Switched lecture sections. Ate lunch in the library. Took the long way around campus if you so much as sensed him nearby.

But Jeongin was like smoke—always finding its way into your lungs, no matter how tightly you sealed the windows. And once he’d gotten a taste for your discomfort, it was like he couldn’t get enough.

He started showing up in places you knew he didn’t belong. The student lounge outside your psych class. The library’s third floor where you studied every Wednesday. Once, he even joined your shared elective’s group chat and volunteered for your project team—just so he could be across from you during meetings, watching you squirm.

And yet, he never touched you. Never raised his voice. Just words. Looks. Quiet mockery, sugarcoated in charm.

Golden boy, they called him.

But he was especially cruel when it came to you.

“You always this jumpy?” he asked once, sliding into the seat beside you without warning. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned closer. “Unless you want me to.”

You’d swallowed hard, gritting your teeth through the heat crawling up your neck. “Do you enjoy this?” you muttered under your breath. “Being a dick?”

He chuckled. “Only when it works.”

You hated that you flushed. Hated that your mouth went dry and your pulse picked up. Hated that he could reduce you to that with a look.

So you buried it. You ignored him. You let him win.

Until the party.

You hadn’t even planned on going. But your roommate begged you, and honestly, you needed the distraction. Music, noise, new people. Anything that wasn’t Jeongin’s smirk or his voice in your ear.

You didn’t expect him to be there. It wasn’t even his crowd.

But of course, he was.

And he noticed you immediately.

He didn’t approach. Didn’t say anything. Just stood across the room—red cup in hand, dark eyes locked on you like he’d been waiting for you to walk in.

You turned away.

Which was probably why you ended up talking to the guy by the drinks table. He was nice. Funny. A little nerdy, but in a charming way. He made you laugh. And it felt good—so good—to be seen without malice.

But then something shifted.

You felt it before you saw it. A weight. A pull.

And when you turned your head, Jeongin was watching again—this time with his jaw tight and eyes sharp, like he was trying not to feel something.

You brushed it off.

Until the next week—when whispers started following you around campus.

Heard she’s easy.

Thirsty freshman.

Already trying to climb.

You froze when you heard it. Your hands shook when you opened your phone and saw the vague, biting posts floating around socials. No names, of course. Just cruel implications.

But you knew. Everyone else might not—but you knew.

And so you stopped avoiding him.

You found him.

He was outside the dining hall, laughing with a few people you didn’t recognize. Sunglasses on. Perfect smile. Still untouchable.

You didn’t wait. You walked right up to him, heart pounding, fists clenched.

His smile faltered when he saw you. “Well, well. Campus kitten found her claws.”

You didn’t blink. “Did you start it?”

He tilted his head. “Start what?”

“The rumors.”

Silence.

Then: “Why? Upset someone finally saw through the act?”

That was it.

You stepped forward, shoving at his chest—harder than you meant to.

He caught your wrist before it could fall. His fingers closed, warm and sure, his grip firm—but not rough. Not quite.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re not built for war.”

Your breath hitched. His face was close. Too close.

“You’re an asshole,” you whispered.

“And you,” he said low, eyes flickering to your lips, “should stop looking at me like that if you really hate me.”

And just like that, you weren’t sure if you were about to slap him… or kiss him.

Your wrist slipped from his grip.

And you didn’t hold back this time.

“You’re a fucking coward,” you snapped, voice louder than intended. “That’s what you are. You act like you’re too cool to care, but you’re the one hiding behind whispers and petty rumors. What—scared people might think the golden boy actually gives a shit about someone like me?”

It was the first time you’d ever seen Jeongin freeze.

His smile dropped.

His jaw clenched.

And you didn’t wait to see what came next.

You turned on your heel and left.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid.

Your hands were still shaking as you pushed open the dorm stairwell door, taking the stairs two at a time just to get away from the weight in your chest. You didn’t know what hurt more—how badly you’d wanted him to say something real, or how stupid it was to expect anything from someone like him.

You barely made it to your floor when the door slammed open behind you.

“What the hell did you just say to me?”

You spun around.

Jeongin stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes blazing, chest heaving like he’d sprinted the whole way.

“I said you’re a coward,” you bit out, “and a dick. And I hate you.”

He was in front of you before you could blink, cornering you against the wall at the end of the hall. Not touching. Not yet. Just close—his breath ghosting across your cheek, his expression unreadable.

“You hate me?” he echoed, voice low.

You nodded, stubborn. “With every fiber of my being.”

“Funny,” he muttered, “you didn’t look at me like you hated me the other night at the party. When you were smiley and giggly for that guy by the punch bowl.”

Your stomach twisted. “So you did start the rumors.”

“Maybe” he said flatly. “After I saw you with him.”

You blinked, thrown off. “What—?”

“Because I didn’t like it,” he said, voice sharp now, as if he hated admitting it. “I didn’t like watching you laugh with him. I didn’t like how close he stood. I didn’t like that you smiled like that for someone who wasn’t me.”

The air thickened. His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“I don’t like any of this,” he whispered. “And I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”

And then he moved even closer—just enough to skim your cheek, his lips barely brushing the corner of your mouth. A heartbeat. A single breath between contact and restraint.

“I’m not the only one lying here,” he murmured. “You say you hate me, but your body doesn’t know how to fake it.”

You hated how your breath hitched. How the heat between you tightened into something unbearable.

“Say it again,” he challenged. “Look me in the eye and say you hate me.”

You swallowed.

But you didn’t say a word.

Because you couldn’t.

And he knew it.

“You’re a sick asshole, you know that?” you spat, cornered between the stairwell wall and the weight of his body again.

Jeongin didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked satisfied. Like he wanted you mad.

“Because I didn’t like seeing you with someone else?” he asked, dark eyes narrowing. “Because I made sure no one else would touch you after that?”

Your pulse jumped.

“You spread a rumor that I sleep around,” you hissed, throat tight. “You called me easy, Jeongin.”

“I didn’t say your name,” he said coolly. “They just knew who to talk about.”

Your chest heaved.

“You ruined my reputation just because I talked to someone who wasn’t you?”

His jaw clenched, and this time, he didn’t hide it.

“Yeah. I did,” he said.

Simple. Sharp. No excuses.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re the one who made me do it.”

You shoved him, hard.

He didn’t budge.

“Get away from me,” you said, though your voice cracked on the last word.

“Say you didn’t like it,” he muttered, dipping his head lower. “Say you didn’t like knowing I cared that much.”

Your mouth opened—to scream, to curse, to spit in his face—but the only thing that came out was a weak, shaky breath as your back hit the wall harder than before. He didn’t touch you, but his words slid across your skin like hands.

“You want me to apologize for it?” he said, tone mock-soft. “Or do you just want to know if I’d do it again?”

You swallowed hard.

Because you should slap him. Scream at him. Run.

But instead, your thighs pressed tighter together, heat crawling traitorously up your neck.

And Jeongin saw it.

His lips curled into something dangerous.

“You hate me,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “But you still want me.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

Your heart thundered.

You hated him.

You hated him so much.

And if he leaned in just a little closer, you were going to do something really fucking silly.

You shoved your hand against his chest, breathing hard, trying to steady your voice through the fire crawling up your spine.

“Say you’re sorry.”

Jeongin blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me,” you snapped. “Say. You’re. Sorry.”

He stared at you, eyes flicking between your lips and the frustration trembling through your body. You didn’t think he’d do it—he wasn’t the type. But then something in him cracked.

His hand curled behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair, the tension in his jaw cutting like glass.

“I’m sorry.”

You froze.

His voice was low, but not mocking. Not cold.

Real.

“I’m sorry for the rumor. For the way I talk to you. For being a complete fucking asshole.”

Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered. And before you could react—

He kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t sweet or slow, not at first—it was messy, wild, weeks of sharp words and stolen glances crashing together in one devastating second. His lips crashed against yours like he was trying to make you forget every insult, every time he looked at you like you were nothing—and you kissed him back like you knew he was lying every damn time.

His hands slipped down, palms flattening against your waist, dragging you closer. Your fingers fisted in his shirt like you were trying to keep from drowning.

He broke the kiss first, barely.

“I meant it,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “I’m sorry.”

Your hand cupped his jaw. “Then shut up and kiss me again.”

He did.

And this time, it was slower. Deeper. A different kind of desperate—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your mouth, like he’d waited too long to do it right.

You hated him.

But God, you wanted him.

—

It had been three weeks since Jeongin kissed you in that stairwell.

Three weeks since he muttered an apology against your lips, like it physically pained him to admit he’d been wrong. Three weeks with your heart in your throat and your mouth still tingling from the way he kissed you like it meant everything.

And in those three weeks, Jeongin hadn’t touched you once.

But he texted you.

God, he texted you.

At first, it was random.

[1:47 AM] Jeongin:

can’t sleep

You didn’t answer. The next morning, he texted again.

[9:04 AM] Jeongin:

ignore me like that again and I’ll kiss you harder next time

Then it was constant.

He started sitting behind you in lecture. Not beside you—behind you. Close enough for you to hear his breath shift when you adjusted in your seat. Close enough to drop texts mid-class.

[11:12 AM] Jeongin:

stop playing with your pen like that unless you want me to take it away and put your mouth to better use

You nearly choked in the middle of econ. Your professor shot you a look. And Jeongin? He just smirked when you glanced over your shoulder.

You tried to pretend it didn’t happen. The kiss. The texts. The fact that now, every time he passed you in the hall, your chest got tight and your thighs pressed together instinctively.

And he pretended too.

On campus, he was the same cocky golden boy—loud with his friends, always joking, always charming.

But when you caught him watching you—really watching—you felt it.

All of it.

The tension. The hunger. The subtle claim of ownership buzzing in the air.

Because he wasn’t just watching. He was waiting.

And you were starting to want to give in.

⸻

You didn’t dress up for him.

You told yourself that over and over as you checked your reflection in the bathroom mirror before class.

But the skirt was short—barely thigh length when you stood still. The top? Cropped just enough to tease, especially when you leaned forward. And your lip gloss shimmered in a way that would catch the light—and his eyes—without even trying.

You didn’t dress for him.

But when you passed him in the hallway and caught the way his gaze snapped to your legs, lingered, then dragged up your body like he was physically starving—you didn’t look away.

Not even when he pulled his phone out with a clenched jaw.

You were halfway through your next lecture when your phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

[1:13 PM] Jeongin:

you wore that on purpose

don’t lie to me

[1:14 PM] Jeongin:

I can’t fucking focus

all I can think about is bending you over the desk and making you forget everyone else is in the classroom.

[1:15 PM] Jeongin:

i’m not even expecting a reply

i just needed you to know what you’re doing to me

You stared at the screen, heat crawling down your neck.

For weeks, he’d been needling you—softly, slyly, like he was waiting to see how far he could push before you snapped.

And today? You’d pushed him.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Your heart thundered in your throat.

And then you typed—slowly. Just one sentence.

[1:16 PM] You:

Then why don’t you do something about it?

Three dots.

Then nothing.

You smiled to yourself and tucked your phone away.

Class hadn’t even ended yet when your screen lit up again.

[1:27 PM] Jeongin:

be at my dorm in 20

door’ll be unlocked

You stared at his message until your vision blurred.

be at my dorm in 20

He didn’t even ask. He just knew you’d come.

And the worst part?

He was right.

Your knee bounced under the desk as the professor droned on about behavioral economics. You weren’t hearing a single word. Not when your body was buzzing, not when your thoughts were stuck on that stairwell—the taste of his mouth, the way his hand gripped your waist like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

You hated him.

God, you hated him.

But then why did your fingers burn remembering how soft his voice went when he whispered sorry against your lips? Why did your stomach flip every time your screen lit up with his name? Why did every guy on campus seem suddenly, painfully uninteresting?

And why—why—couldn’t you stop thinking about what it would feel like if he kissed you again?

You exhaled sharply as you stood and left class early, ignoring the stares.

Your dorm was in the other direction.

But your feet didn’t take you there.

You weren’t even sure what your plan was—if you’d knock and leave, if you’d tell him off, if you’d kiss him senseless or slap him across the face. Maybe all of it. Maybe neither.

But you found yourself standing in front of his door anyway, pulse thudding at your throat, your hand frozen mid-air.

You didn’t knock.

You pushed the door open.

And there he was—sitting on the edge of his bed like he’d been waiting the whole time, elbows on his knees, head tilted.

Jeongin looked up. Smirked.

But his eyes… His eyes burned.

His room was warm. Too warm. Or maybe it was just you, standing there like your skin was one breath away from catching fire.

Jeongin didn’t move. He just watched you.

Like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Like he felt the chaos in your chest because it mirrored his own.

“You really came,” he said, low and casual—like you hadn’t been losing your mind over him for weeks. Like he hadn’t humiliated you, kissed you, texted you filthy things between lectures and then acted like none of it mattered.

You crossed your arms, stepping in but not too far. Not close enough to fall.

“I almost didn’t.”

Jeongin’s smirk faltered. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up.

“But you did.”

You hated that he was right.

“I should go,” you mumbled, even as your feet stayed planted. “This was stupid.”

“You think I didn’t mean what I said?”

“That’s the problem, Jeongin,” you snapped, voice sharp to cover the tremble. “You always mean it. Until you don’t. You kiss me, then you treat me like—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, standing slowly. “Don’t do that.”

You flinched as he stepped closer, crowding your space. He didn’t touch you—but the heat of his body was magnetic, unbearable.

“I do mean it. I meant the kiss. I meant the texts, the apologies. I mean this.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, throat tight.

“I hate you,” you whispered, chest heaving.

He took one step closer, gaze fixed to yours.

“No,” he said softly, “you don’t.”

His fingers brushed your wrist. Not forcefully. Not demanding.

Just asking.

Your breath caught.

And for a second—just a second—you leaned in.

Not enough to kiss. Just enough to want it.

The air between you buzzed, full of heat and panic and everything unsaid.

He stared at your mouth like it was the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t answer with words.

Just leaned in, slow and steady, until your nose brushed his. Until your lips ghosted over his—soft, deliberate, electric.

And when he didn’t move?

You kissed him.

Deep. Slow.

A kiss that said I heard you. A kiss that said I’m still mad, but I want this too. A kiss that let him in.

Jeongin exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.

His hands came up, featherlight at first—one cradling your cheek, the other finding your waist, fingertips curling into your hoodie like he couldn’t believe you were real. The kiss deepened, his lips parting, tongue brushing yours with cautious reverence.

But the caution didn’t last long.

Because the second you whimpered—barely audible, barely there—he broke.

A low, strangled groan vibrated in his chest as he backed you against the wall, lips still locked to yours like he’d die if he let go. His hand slid down to your hip, gripping just a little tighter, guiding you flush against him.

You could feel it—all of him.

Thick, hard, throbbing through the denim he probably didn’t even realize he was grinding into you.

Still, his voice cracked when he pulled back enough to breathe.

“Let me make it up to you,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, his mouth swollen and trembling. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just let me touch you.”

You shivered, fingers fisting in his shirt.

“Jeongin—”

“I’ll be good,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin as he kissed down your jaw, your neck. “I’ll take my time. I’ll make you feel so good, just, please—please—let me show you.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You grabbed his wrist, turned toward his bed, and pulled.

And the way he followed you—obedient, breathless, burning—it was almost needy.

The second your back hit the mattress, he was on you. Not rough. Not greedy. Just everywhere at once.

He kissed you like he owed you every apology he never said. Like he was trying to etch I’m sorry into your skin with every slow drag of his tongue against your throat, every trembling grip of your thigh.

He took his time undressing you.

Lifted your hoodie like it was sacred. Pressed soft, reverent kisses to your stomach as he pulled it over your head.

“God, look at you,” he whispered, eyes hungry, hands gentle. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”

Your breath caught when he dipped his head and kissed down your chest, your ribs, your hips.

But when he knelt between your legs and looked up at you?

His voice broke.

“Please let me taste you.”

And when you nodded?

He moaned. Not quiet. Not controlled.

Desperate.

And then his mouth was on you—tongue slow, deep, greedy. Like he wanted to drown in you. Like he needed to.

You’d never felt anything like it.

The way he licked. Sucked. Worshipped.

And when your hips started to tremble, when your thighs squeezed around his head, when your hands clawed at the sheets and you tried to push him away from overstimulation?

He didn’t move.

Just growled into your core and held you still.

“You’re not running from me,” he murmured, voice slick with praise. “Not when I’m making you feel this good.”

And fuck—he was right.

Because you came for him, hard.

And he didn’t stop until your legs were shaking and your voice was wrecked and all you could say was his name.

Over and over and over again.

You were still gasping when he kissed his way back up your body—wet mouth trailing fire across your skin, up your stomach, your chest, your throat. His lips met yours again, soft but needy, and you tasted yourself on his tongue as he murmured against your mouth.

“So sweet,” he whispered. “Could stay down there forever.”

His voice was cracked wide open now—low, breathy, almost reverent. His hands cradled your face like you were something breakable. Sacred. Untouchable—except you’d just let him touch you everywhere.

And he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He kissed you again. Slower. Deeper.

Then his fingers curled around your hips and turned you over—gently, guiding you onto your stomach with a press so tender it made your spine arch without thinking.

You shivered.

He leaned over you, chest brushing your back, breath hot at your ear.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His lips grazed your shoulder. “Still want this?”

Your answer came out like a gasp. “Yes.”

He groaned—quiet, strained, like the word physically affected him.

And then he reached into his back pocket.

You heard the foil tear, the soft rustle of denim and the shift of his weight as he got ready.

Still, he paused—one hand pressed flat between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your hip like an anchor.

“Can I fuck you now?” he asked, barely audible.

Like he couldn’t believe he was really asking. Like he needed to hear it from you, one last time.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

And that was it.

He lined up behind you—slow, careful, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your slick folds, teasing until you whimpered, pushing just enough to make you ache.

Then he sank in.

Deep.

You choked on a moan.

He cursed softly, both hands bracing on your hips now. “Fuck—baby—you feel so good…”

He moved slow at first. Long, shallow strokes that stretched and dragged and made your body melt beneath him. His fingers tightened around your waist, but not to hold you down—just to stay grounded. Like he needed the contact. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Every inch. Every sound.

And the second he found the right angle—that spot—he grunted low in his throat, hips rolling deeper, slower, like he was trying to fuck an apology straight into your soul.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, leaning over you again, lips pressed to your shoulder. “No more games. Just this. Just us.”

You whimpered.

“Say it,” he begged. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“I’m yours.”

His breath caught.

Then he fucked you harder.

You couldn’t hold back the moans anymore.

Not when he was fucking you like this—slow and deep, every stroke dragging a whimper from your throat, every grind of his hips sending sparks up your spine.

“God, Jeongin,” you gasped, gripping the sheets. “You feel so fucking good.”

He cursed under his breath, hands tightening on your hips. “Yeah? You like that?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes— fuck!” you confessed, hips pushing back into him. “Give me more.”

That wrecked him.

You felt it—the way his rhythm faltered for a second, the way his grip trembled.

Then he growled.

Deep in his chest.

He pulled out and flipped you over in one quick, effortless motion, pressing you into the mattress with his body before sliding back in deeper.

This time you could see him—his cheeks flushed, blown-out eyes, lips parted as he watched you fall apart beneath him.

And you did.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, hands gripping his back like you needed to hold on or lose your mind entirely.

Every thrust punched little gasps out of you, soft and high and needy.

“Fuck,” you moaned. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

“I won’t,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Not until you come all over me. Not until I feel it.”

You kissed him then—fierce, messy, hot—and he groaned into your mouth, hips grinding deep as you rocked up to meet him.

But you wanted more.

You needed control.

So you pushed at his chest until he got the message.

He let you flip him—only because he wanted to see what you’d do.

And you didn’t disappoint.

You straddled him, slick and flushed and trembling, and sank back down onto his cock with a moan that echoed off the fucking walls.

Jeongin’s hands flew to your thighs, head tipping back against the pillow.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped. “Look at you—fuck, baby—ride me.”

And you did.

You moved like you were trying to make him lose his mind.

Grinding down slow, bouncing just enough to tease, clenching around him until he was a mess beneath you.

He tried to thrust up into you but your hands pinned his chest, keeping him down.

“I’m in charge now,” you whispered, breath hot against his jaw. “You want to make it up to me?”

He nodded, frantic.

“Then take it.”

You started to move faster.

Harder.

And he broke.

Whimpering your name, begging for release, hands bruising your thighs as he tried to hold on.

“You gonna come for me?” you asked, biting his lip.

“Y-Yeah—fuck—gonna come so hard, baby—please—don’t stop—”

You leaned down, moaning into his mouth, and let your hips roll just right.

And that was it.

He came with a shout, deep inside you, fingers digging into your skin, body shaking beneath you.

You followed a second later—head thrown back, spine arching, vision blurring as the orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You collapsed on his chest, both of you breathing like you’d just run a marathon.

And then—He laughed.

Quiet. Breathless. Disbelieving.

“Holy fuck.”

He didn’t let you move. Not at first.

He just wrapped both arms around you and held you like you might vanish—his face buried in your hair, heart pounding so hard beneath your cheek it echoed in your ears.

“Jeongin,” you whispered.

“Mhm?”

You pressed a slow kiss to his collarbone. “You okay?”

He nodded against you, but didn’t speak. His arms stayed locked around your waist, one hand drifting up and down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine like your skin grounded him. Like if he let go, the moment would disappear.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to meet your eyes.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said, voice low. “You were perfect.”

A shaky breath left him—half a laugh, half a sigh of relief.

“Good,” he muttered, brushing your hair away from your face. Then, he exhaled hard, eyes flicking down to your mouth before settling back on yours.

“I mean it,” he murmured. “No more rumors. No more games. I want this to be real.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He hesitated, like the words scared him. “I want you to be mine. For real. Like—actual dates, hand holding, annoying you on purpose just so you’ll kiss me to shut me up. All of it.”

Your heart skipped.

You stared at him for a beat too long—just long enough for panic to flicker behind his eyes.

Then you kissed him.

Slow. Certain.

His whole body softened beneath you, arms tightening again as he melted into your mouth.

“I’ll go on one condition,” you whispered when you pulled back.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You smirked. “You have to stop bullying me in school.”

He groaned, hiding his face in your neck. “Fuck, no promises.”

“Jeongin—”

“Fine,” he muttered. “But only because I like you. So much it makes me stupid.”

You grinned, curling into him as he pulled the blanket over both of you.

And for once, he didn’t have a single sarcastic thing to say.

He just held you.

Like he meant it.

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Authors note: Hey baby girls! Soooooo yeah like i said earlier, requests are open but i wont be taking any from anons, (cos i need to know i’m not feeding minors tbh 😩) feel free to send in requests, i’ll write the ones i can relate to!

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youthguk · 3 days ago

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Entropy: Collapse (Finale) | jjk (m)

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N

“The universe tends toward chaos.”

You said it was just sex. But gravity doesn’t stop pulling — and entropy always ends in collapse.

genre: smut, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language

Wc: 10k

part 1 here (!!!) your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You’ve spent the past four hours staring at the same simulation code, and the red blinking cursor feels more like a threat than a prompt. Your desk lamp is the only light on in the room, casting long shadows over textbooks, half-drunk tea, and the wrinkled copy of your research grant application — still unsigned, still mocking you with possibility.

It's one forty-seven a.m., the kind of hour that strips everything quiet, even your thoughts. The sky outside is the color of unfinished ink, and the campus streets below are empty. No movement. No noise. Just the occasional flicker of a hallway light going out down the corridor — dormitory entropy, in real time.

You rub your eyes and stretch your neck, but nothing shifts. Not the physics paper. Not the persistent heat blooming in your stomach. Not the memory of how his voice rasped when he told you to open wider. Five days have passed since Jeon Jungkook's last text.

Well — not since you left him hard in the TA room, lips bitten raw and pants around his thighs, after whispering “Don’t think this means anything.”

Your phone lights up with his name again - no message this time. He's already sent plenty that you've left unanswered, filling your notifications with desperate attempts at connection.

Something tugs at you, an invisible force as real as gravity. Your hand moves toward the phone with the careful slowness of someone trying not to startle fate. Each moment feels weighted with possibility, with the kind of weakness that threatens to become something more significant.

Without responding to his messages, you press call. The phone rings twice before his sleep-rough voice answers, "...Y/N?"

That sound - deep, warm, familiar in the worst way - hits you like a collapsing wave. You lean back, eyes closed, phone pressed to your ear. "Are you alone?"

A pause. "Yeah."

Your voice softens instinctively. "I'm in bed."

Through the speaker, sheets rustle. "Are you okay?"

"I can't stop thinking about that night."

His exhale trembles. "Baby..." The word slips past his pride. "I've been going crazy."

You wish you could stop, wish you could call this a mistake, but the moment has already consumed you. "I've been touching myself."

A guttural groan tears from his chest. You picture his hand flying beneath the sheets, his cock hardening as your thighs press together. "Fuck," he rasps. "Tell me what you're doing. Please—"

The leather chair squeaks as you shift, fingers trailing over your sleep shorts. "My hand's already there. I'm so wet, Jungkook."

His moan fills the line. "Are you rubbing your clit?"

"Mhm..."

"Slow?"

"Not slow enough."

His rhythm becomes clear through the phone - his ragged breathing, rustling fabric, the unmistakable sound of him stroking himself. You picture his tattooed hand wrapped tight around his cock, eyes closed, lips parted.

"Fuck, I wish I was there. I'd spread you open, use my mouth until you begged."

"I don't beg."

"You did," he growls. "You do."

Your breath catches as your fingers quicken, hips rolling toward something forbidden. "You'd fuck me slow first, wouldn't you? Just to tease."

His groan sounds pained. "Yes. God, yes. I'd make you come on my cock until you forget your name."

"Too late."

His laugh comes broken, winded. "God, you're unreal."

Your soft moan makes his rhythm falter. "Don't stop," he gasps. "Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop—"

You let him drown in your breathing, in the slick sounds of your movements, let him believe you're about to unravel. Then you pull away, letting silence fill the void.

"Y/N?" His voice comes breathless.

"I have to go," you whisper. "Goodnight."

"Wait—"

The call ends before he can finish. You stare at the dark screen, pulse still hammering between your legs, throat dry and cheeks burning. Somewhere in his room, he's still hard, still aching, still alone.

Without smiling, you let your head fall back and whisper to the ceiling, "Thermodynamics never warned me about this kind of heat."

The phone is face-down on the desk now, like it’s guilty. Your hand is still sticky with want. Your heart still beats faster than it should. But the room is quiet again — painfully, cruelly quiet. As if nothing just happened. As if you didn’t just break your own rules for the fifth time in two weeks.

You don’t move. You just sit in the stillness, surrounded by half-solved equations and the low hum of your old desk lamp. Your body is flushed and your mind is disgustingly awake.

The post-call static crackles louder than it should in your ears. What the hell are you doing? This wasn’t supposed to be anything.

Jeon Jungkook was entropy incarnate — hot and careless and untouchable. A beautiful disaster contained in perfect muscle memory. A reputation in motion. You were supposed to observe him like any other chaotic system: from a distance, with your hands behind your back and your lab coat on.

But now? Now you’re one of his goddamn data points. You swipe your tongue across your lips, still tasting the desperation in your own voice. He sounded wrecked. And the worst part? You liked it.

You liked knowing you could pull him apart with a few words. You liked the way his breath shook when he said your name. You liked the way you made him beg, even when you were the one unraveling.

The thrill of power over him was intoxicating, but that only made it worse. Your control slipped too easily when his voice came through the line - low and desperate, cock in hand, saying things that made your breath catch. He spoke like you were his whole universe, the only constant worth orbiting, and that terrified you.

With guilt tightening your spine, you push back from the desk and stand. This is exactly why you don't let yourself get attached. This is why you insisted it was nothing more than sex.

Because you can’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when you’re a finalist for the CERN summer rotation, when your advisor just asked for your draft proposal, when your whole future has to be measured in unit conversions and GPA decimals. And Jungkook? He doesn’t fit into the equation. He’s not a constant. He’s not a vector. He’s not even a variable. He’s the error term — the chaotic, unpredictable, heat-inducing mistake that corrupts the entire model. The kind of anomaly your professors warned you about.

And still, the memory of his moan echoes in your mind - that raw, strangled "baby" when you confessed your hand was between your thighs. Your knees buckle and you collapse face-down into your pillow, groaning into cotton.

You make the same promises you always do: You'll delete his number tomorrow. You'll end it properly next time. You'll mean it when you say it's over.

Because you are not a girl who gets off to old mistakes. And even thought entropy is inevitable — collapse is still a choice.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus courtyard is flooded with late-morning sunlight, the kind that turns everything golden and too warm, like the world’s trying to trick you into slowing down. You don’t. Your sneakers hit pavement with the same clipped rhythm they always do — fast, focused, efficient. A girl with a purpose.

There’s a coffee cup in one hand, a folder clutched to your chest, and your headphones are in — not for music, just for armor. Physics department office hours, then lab, then TA prep. No room for detours. No reason to look anywhere but straight ahead.

And yet, something catches your attention - his laugh. That low, boyish sound you've memorized despite yourself. Your steps falter slightly as your eyes find him: Jeon Jungkook.

Back leaned casually against the stone column outside the business department, one ankle crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like the heat doesn’t dare touch him. Two girls are perched far too close on either side of him, their voices high and coy, like everything they say is an invitation. One twirls a strand of hair around her finger. The other leans in, whispering something near his ear.

His smile is polite but distracted - his eyes are fixed solely on you. The moment your gazes meet, you freeze, blood rushing through your veins as your mouth fills with the bitter taste of caffeine and regret. He's not doing anything extraordinary, just standing there, yet the air seems to bend around him like he's become the center of gravity itself.

The sunlight catches him perfectly - illuminating his golden skin, the intricate tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt cuff, the silver ring glinting as he absently brushes hair from his face. You despise how vividly you remember those fingers against your skin, how he's the only one who's ever made you come undone with just his voice through a phone, making you feel completely his.

When his expression shifts into a subtle frown, hurt evident in the slight crease of his brow, you immediately drop your gaze. Without hesitation, you continue walking, shoulders squared and headphones suddenly deafening despite their silence. Behind you, Jungkook pushes away from the column, his eyes tracking your retreat until you vanish behind the admin building.

The girl beside him notices, nudging his arm with a pout. "Who's that? She looked... intense."

He doesn't answer, because only one thought consumes him: She saw me. And looked away like I never happened.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The seminar room smells like chalk dust, overripe fruit from someone’s lunchbox, and too many minds running on too little sleep. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Your pen taps lightly against your knee, bouncing in rhythm with the low buzz of voices filling the space before the professor arrives.

You’re early. As always. You’ve got your notes laid out like a defense line: printed equations, a crisp copy of the grant rubric, your half-drafted proposal for the summer placement. It’s the kind of prep that should settle your nerves, that should root you in facts and numbers and control.

But exhaustion weighs heavy, and your mind wanders to dangerous territory - his voice still echoing in your ears. Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop

Behind you, two girls slip into their seats, their laughter cutting through your thoughts.

"God, he's such a slut," one says, voice dripping with disdain.

"Who?" her friend asks absently.

"Jeon Jungkook. I swear if I see him flirting with another freshman outside the business library again..."

"He doesn't even try," the other scoffs. "Girls just throw themselves at him like they want their lives ruined."

Their gossip continues - something about a chemistry student with green hair, an economics major who fell off a table. Their words blur together as you stare at your notes, at the clean columns of formulas. ΔS = ΔQ/T. Entropy as heat divided by temperature. Order, motion, equations - these should be your constants.

But your stomach twists as memories flood back unbidden: your knees on his bedroom floor two weeks ago, his fingers teasing you under a library table while Newton's third law lay forgotten, his name on your lips just last night as aftershocks rippled through you.

They don't know. They shouldn't know. This was meant to be meaningless - for both of you. You were supposed to be different, just an anomaly in his system, a temporary spike in temperature. Yet here you are, his touch branded into your skin, his name still burning on your tongue.

When the professor walks in, you force yourself to focus on the equations before you, ignoring how your throat constricts and your hand trembles around your pen.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The air outside the lab building is heavy with spring. Not fresh — just close. Like something’s about to happen, but hasn’t yet. The sky’s turned white with too much light, and your skin feels a few degrees too warm as you step outside, research proposal folder pressed tight to your chest.

You need coffee. You need silence. You need distance from the way your body still pulses whenever you remember his voice on the phone.

Your heart stops when you spot him on the ledge near the back entrance. Jungkook lounges there with deceptive casualness - one foot propped on the low wall, black ball cap shadowing his face, fingers toying with his hoodie drawstrings. Though his posture seems relaxed, you know he's been waiting. Your stomach sinks as reality settles in.

A futile glance over your shoulder confirms this isn't your imagination. His eyes lock onto yours, and there's no escape.

And for a split second, his face breaks open like light through cloud cover — too fast, too warm. He stands up.

“Y/N.”

You continue walking, but he matches your stride, undeterred.

Keeping your eyes fixed ahead, you barely acknowledge his soft "hey" with a slight nod.

“Didn’t think I’d see you outside a textbook this week.”

You huff out a dry sound that might pass for a laugh. “I’m busy.”

He falls into step beside you. His hands are in his hoodie pockets. You can feel the heat coming off him like a small sun — too close, too real.

“You always say that,” he says, trying to joke. “Even when you’re coming on my—”

“Don’t.” The words come out too fast, too sharp. He falls silent as they continue walking, the tension between them thick enough to slice through.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler: "Hey... about the other night..."

You pause mid-step, refusing to meet his gaze. "There is no other night," you say coldly. "There was nothing."

He flinches as if struck, and you continue walking, leaving him behind.

And before he can recover enough to respond, you’ve already pushed through the glass doors of the research wing and disappeared into the building.

Behind you, Jungkook stands frozen in the courtyard, lips parted, jaw tightening.

He watches the door for a full ten seconds before muttering to no one, “…yeah. Fucking nothing.”

You don't stop walking until you're inside the stairwell, out of sight, out of breath.

Your fingers are white-knuckled around the folder. You hate that your hands are shaking. You hate that your heart is doing that thing again — the stuttering thing, like you just sprinted across a field when all you did was stand in his shadow for sixty seconds.

There was nothing. The words left your mouth with practiced ease, rehearsed like a formula you'd memorized. They should have felt precise and clinical - a clean incision to excise what had grown between you. Instead, the declaration burned like touching a live wire, leaving aftershocks that refused to fade.

The cool wall against your back offered little comfort as you tried to steady your breathing. His appearance had shattered your careful equations - that smile that hinted at shared secrets, that look that suggested you still held meaning. You'd convinced yourself he was forgettable, reduced him to simple physics: just impulse, just friction. But one glance was enough to resurrect every memory of his touch, every place his mouth had mapped your skin.

What twisted deepest was the hope in his eyes - that earnest belief that you might want conversation, that you hadn't truly relegated him to past tense. You pressed your knuckles to your lips, drinking in oxygen like it could douse the ember in your chest. You'd told him there was nothing, but your body betrayed you with every quickened heartbeat, every nerve ending crying out for more.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The third floor of the physics library holds a particular kind of silence - tense and punishing, where even the slightest sound draws sharp glares from focused grad students and ambitious TAs. Usually, this atmosphere helps clear your mind, but today the quiet only amplifies your thoughts.

From your favorite corner cubicle, you stare at your open laptop and notebook, equations sprawling across the pages in messy trails. The grant deadline looms just three days away, but instead of focusing on formulas, your mind keeps drifting to Jungkook's expression when you dismissed what was between you - not angry or smug, just wounded in a way that makes your chest ache.

You shift in your seat, grateful for the comfort of your loose sweater and short black skirt, hair clipped back carelessly. Relief should come easily after ending things, but your body betrays you - thighs pressed together, fingers twitching with muscle memory of threading through his hair.

The soft scrape of a chair breaks your reverie. An iced Americano appears at your elbow, condensation beading on the plastic, and your breath catches as Jungkook settles across from you uninvited. He's wearing a hoodie and black cap, a light sheen of sweat suggesting he rushed here. When his eyes meet yours, the silence between you grows thick with unspoken words.

He just nods once toward the drink. “You look like you needed it.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

He raises his palms, surrendering. “Just being nice.”

You remain silent, knowing you should tell him to leave but finding yourself unable to form the words. Returning to your notes proves futile as the numbers blur together, his presence impossible to ignore. His leg brushes against yours under the table once, then again. Though you shift away slightly, you don't completely break the contact.

He leans in, his voice low, soft as static. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You blink slowly. “Then why are you here?”

He shrugs, lips curling into something unreadable. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me come from a phone call.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “I was alone.”

“You didn’t sound alone.”

You glance at him, sharply. But he’s not teasing. His gaze drops to your lips.

“I keep thinking about the way you sounded. Like you were trying not to moan.”

His voice dips lower. “Like you wanted me to beg.”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s not—”

His hand moves beneath the table, landing on your knee with deliberate intent. You freeze as he speaks in a low, steady voice: "Tell me to stop and I will." His fingers trace upward along your thigh in a slow caress, and though you know you should stop him, the words catch in your throat. His touch continues its path until he reaches the heat between your legs, pausing just shy of where you need him most. You can feel the warmth of his skin hovering there like a promise, and your body betrays you - already wet, wanting, yearning for more.

“I knew it,” Jungkook whispers, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. “I fucking knew it.”

Then he touches you. A single stroke through your folds — not too hard, not too soft — just enough pressure to make your back lift a half inch from your chair. You suck in a breath. Sharp. Audible.He doesn’t stop.

His fingers slide through your slick again, this time slower, almost reverent, parting your folds like he’s learning them from scratch. His middle finger circles your clit, not quite touching it directly — just close enough to make your thighs tremble.

“You shaved for me?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “Came to study like this?”

Words fail you, conscious thought evaporating at his touch. Because just then, he pushes two fingers inside you. You bite your fist, hard.

The stretch is immediate. The way his fingers hook — upward, firm, unrelenting — makes your eyes roll back. You clench around him, wet and hot and embarrassingly ready, and he groans low under his breath like he feels it in his spine.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts moving — slow at first. A careful pump. Testing. Feeling how you open for him. His thumb brushes your clit, and your thighs jerk again. The table shakes slightly. You dig your heel into the floor to ground yourself, but it’s useless. He has you.

Every curl of his fingers finds that same spot inside you — the one that makes your knees want to give out.

Every stroke deeper makes your walls flutter. And every second your body stays silent is a war.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Taking my fingers so well. So fucking good.”

You glance at the students two rows away — hunched over laptops, lost in problem sets. They have no idea you’re being finger-fucked within arm’s reach. That he’s curling his fingers just right. That his thumb is pressed to your clit now in slow, deliberate circles. That you’re already starting to twitch, to break.

“Keep your eyes open,” he whispers. “I want you to see how good I make you feel.”

You try with every ounce of willpower you possess. But when he leans across the table and growls “Come for me like this — right now — let them sit and fucking listen if you can't stay quiet,” you lose it.

Your orgasm shatters through you with the force of a detonation, your body pulsing desperately around his fingers as your hips buck forward. Stifling a moan, you bite down hard on your hand, stars exploding behind your eyes as waves of pleasure leave you trembling and wrecked. His fingers slow their torturous pace before slipping free, leaving you clenching around empty air, your skin feverish and oversensitive. When you finally manage to look up, you find him watching you intently as he slowly licks his fingers clean.

And before he can speak — before he can smirk or tease or reach for your hand — you’re already standing, already shoving your notebook back in your bag.

Wordlessly, you brush past his chair, pausing only to whisper close to his ear, "Don't follow me next time." Before he can respond, you slip away, leaving nothing but the ghost of your breath against his skin.

Jungkook remains in the sterile silence of the library, his chest heaving and body aching with need. Beyond the physical desire, something deeper and unfamiliar takes root in his chest - a feeling he can't name or shake.

The journey down the stairs passes in a haze, your legs unsteady and skin electric with lingering sensation. Your skirt clings damply, and every breath carries the taste of what just happened - salt and secrets, wild and unspoken.

The bright afternoon sun assaults your senses as you exit the building, the glare through the glass awning making your eyes water. Your heart still pounds an erratic rhythm as you stride forward, refusing to look back. You don't need to - you can feel his gaze following you from the third-floor window, heavy and inevitable as gravity itself, weighted with something that feels dangerously close to guilt.

By the time you make it to the research building, your pulse has evened out — mostly. You’ve redone your lip gloss. Pulled your hair down to hide your flushed neck. Smoothed the back of your skirt at least twice.

No one would suspect what had happened in that silent library just minutes ago, but the memory burns fresh in your mind. You climb the stairs rapidly, attempting to focus on anything else - trying to reclaim your identity as the dedicated student who lives for equations and late nights of study.

Your advisor stands outside his office, leaning against the doorframe with a coffee mug bearing "I Void Warranties." After exchanging greetings, you follow him into his paper-strewn office clutching your proposal folder like a shield.

"I read your draft," he says, thumbing through the pages. "The structure and math are solid. Your quantum modeling section exceeds expectations. If you complete the final sections this week, I'll submit it early to the CERN summer board."

Your breath catches at the mention of CERN - the pinnacle, the dream, your escape route. You manage a quiet thanks as he continues.

"Remember, you're competing with grad students," he adds, pausing to sip his coffee. "Stay focused. Don't lose momentum now - especially not for a boy, no matter how good he looks in sweatpants."

Your spine stiffens at the casual observation. Though he delivers it like light banter, the implication makes your ears burn. You respond with a quick "Understood" before taking your folder and retreating to the hallway.

Outside, the ambient noise feels overwhelming - footsteps, vending machines, the persistent hum of academic ambition. As you press your hand to your chest, the reality crystallizes: Jungkook represents entropy while this grant embodies order. The math should be simple, with order emerging victorious - shouldn't it?

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There’s something almost sacred about an empty hallway just past four p.m. — the way footsteps echo too loud, the way the scent of old paper and aging floor polish settles like a hush over everything. The way the fading afternoon light slices through the tall windows in strips, dust motes dancing like particles suspended in time. You’re alone in the TA room.

The door’s cracked open. Your laptop hums softly beside the thick stack of lab reports you haven’t graded. You’ve half-forgotten what time it is. The world feels far away — a distant thing made of unread emails and unreadier feelings. The hum of fluorescent lights above your head offers the only company.

The soft click of the door opening makes you freeze. You look up to see Jeon Jungkook standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with an unspoken tension. His footsteps echo as he moves closer, each step weighted with purpose.

You don’t look up at first. You can’t. Because the second you do, the second you see the way his sweatshirt hangs off his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he closes the door behind him — you know this whole room is about to become a physics problem you can’t solve.

“I need help,” he says, casual, soft, like he’s reciting a line from memory.

You finally meet his eyes. “Wrong department.”

He exhales a laugh — just air, no humor. “I know.”

You glance past him toward the hallway, toward the closing door. The click echoes too loud in the silence. You straighten in your chair, fingers curling loosely around your pen. “If someone sees you here...”

“They won’t.”

Silence hangs between you, the air thick with tension as he moves closer, each deliberate step echoing in the quiet room.

“I’ve been trying to leave you alone,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, head tilted like he’s trying to read your expression. “I really fucking have.”

“Try harder.”

His lips twitch at the edge. “You don’t want that.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

He nods slowly. “No,” he says. “But I know how you sound when I’m inside you.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press together instinctively. The chair creaks beneath you, traitorous. You stand before you know why. Maybe to put distance. Maybe to make it worse.

“I told you,” you say, not quite steady, “this isn’t anything.”

He steps into your space so slowly it feels like a drug — all heat and closeness and scent. His fingers reach out, grazing the hem of your sleeve.

“But you keep letting me in,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing. Just tension. Raw and real. “You keep looking at me like this means nothing, then moaning like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel alive.”

You look up at him sharply. And that’s when it breaks. His hand catches the side of your jaw as his mouth crashes into yours, and there’s no slowness now, no subtlety. His other hand is already at your waist, pulling you in, gripping you like he’s waited years for this. Your folders scatter to the floor behind you, pages fluttering like panicked wings.

He pushes you against the door — not hard, but firm, solid. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the sound like it belongs to him.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, lips brushing yours, breath hot, chest pressed to yours like he’s daring you to lie.

Your silence answers for you, and without another word, he sinks to his knees. Hands sliding up your skirt, mouth already open against your thigh, biting gently as he drags your underwear down — not teasing this time, not patient. His fingers dig into your ass as he pulls you closer, lips ghosting up your inner thigh, nose brushing your skin.

And when his mouth finds you — hot, wet, already aching — you nearly scream. He licks you slow and deep, like he’s memorizing every inch. Tongue flattened, circling your clit, then sucking it softly until your knees buckle. You press your palms against the door behind you to stay upright. He groans into you, like the taste of you is something that hurts. His tongue works faster. You’re panting now, trying to stay quiet, trying not to grind against his mouth — and failing.

“Jungkook...” you whisper, broken, breathless.

He hums in response, lips wrapping around your clit again, two fingers suddenly sliding inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the sound of your wetness filling the room — it all hits at once.

You bite down hard on your knuckle as your legs tremble beneath you, feeling the heat of tension radiating through the wood at your back. The familiar tightness builds deep inside as he senses your approaching release.

“Come on,” he growls, lips slick against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And when it hits, your world dissolves into pure sensation. The force of your release ripples through you like an inverted gravitational pull, your body writhing against the wall as waves of pleasure crash over you. Through the haze of your climax, you're dimly aware of your thighs clenching around his head, your desperate gasps for air echoing in the empty room.

He continues his relentless attention until your breathless pleas finally make him stop. When he pulls away, his face is slick with evidence of your pleasure, his swollen lips curved into satisfaction as he takes in your thoroughly debauched state.

Before he can speak or reach for you, your mind snaps back to reality and the words are already forming on your tongue.

“This doesn’t change anything.”

He flinches, barely. Straightens slowly, chest still heaving.

“I’m busy,” you say again, voice steadier now, cooler. “You should go.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. He just stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie, the look in his eyes something molten and close to violent. Not dangerous. But on edge. Like he’s been keeping something down and you just dared him to let it loose.

He takes one step closer and you don’t back away.

“You really want me to go?” he asks, voice too calm, too soft, too furious. “After everything?”

“Yes.”

Another step. Close now. You can smell yourself on him. and it makes your knees lock.

“After the fucking library? After this?” He gestures downward, voice rising. “After you came on my face and still had the audacity to look me in the eye and pretend it meant nothing?”

You straighten your spine. “It doesn’t.”

His face hardens. “You’re such a liar.”

“I told you what this was.”

“No,” he growls, “you told me what it wasn’t.”

The air shifts. You feel it happen — the weight of the silence that follows. Heavy. Stifling. The kind that carries consequence.

Then his movements shift - he takes hold of your wrist with a grip that's firm yet gentle, his touch deliberate and sure. You shove him back instinctively, but he catches you again, faster this time. Presses you to the door — hard, body flush to yours, arm braced beside your head.

His mouth is just inches from yours. His eyes burn like he’s standing at the center of a star.

“You want me to stop?” he asks again, voice low, cracking at the edges. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t, instead, you tilt your chin higher and whisper, “Make it quick.”

Without hesitation, his hand finds its way between your thighs as he shifts your panties aside. His hardened length presses against your slick entrance, drawing simultaneous sounds of pleasure from both of you - your sharp gasp mingling with his deep groan.

“No time,” he mutters, lining himself up. “No teasing. I need to be inside you now.”

And then he’s pushing in. You cry out — soft, sharp — your fingers digging into his hoodie as he fills you in one deep, unrelenting stroke. He’s thick, hot, and you’re still too wet from before. Your walls clench around him instantly.

“Fuck,” he growls into your neck. “You feel—so—fucking—good.”

You whimper, nails catching the fabric on his back.

He starts to move — slow only for the first two thrusts, then fast, desperate, furious — hips slamming into you with a rhythm that’s more like punishment than pleasure, but it still makes your toes curl. The door rattles. The room fills with breath and skin and the slap of his body against yours. Your head hits the wood behind you as he thrusts harder, deeper, fucking into you like he’s trying to leave his shape inside you.

“Tell me it’s nothing now,” he spits, voice hot in your ear. You moan.

“Say it,” he growls, hand gripping your thigh, hiking it up higher. “Say it while I’m fucking you so deep you can’t think straight.”

You can’t speak. You’re too full. Too gone. Your fingers claw for purchase as he pounds into you again and again, the pressure building fast, filthy, sharp. Every thrust pushes the breath from your lungs, and every time he slams in deeper, your walls tighten helplessly around him.

“God, you’re so wet,” he gasps. “So fucking tight. You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You shake your head — a weak denial. He grabs your face with one hand, turning your mouth to his.

“You’re mine when you come,” he whispers. “No lies. No running.”

And then his fingers slip between your bodies to find your clit.

You shatter in seconds.

The orgasm rips through you — fast, brutal, silent but screaming in every nerve. Your body arches, clenches, legs shaking as he fucks you through it, still chasing his own. It only takes three more thrusts before he groans and stills, cock pulsing deep inside the condom, forehead pressed to yours. The silence after is deafening.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as his arms cage you in, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric between you. When you finally open your eyes, you find him already watching - no smile, no smirk, just an intense gaze that makes your chest tighten. For a fleeting moment, everything feels weighted with possibility.

The silence stretches between you as he slowly withdraws, his movements careful and deliberate. His fingers trace delicate patterns at your waist, like he's memorizing the curve of you, and his breath fans hot against your neck. When he finally breaks the quiet, his voice is barely above a whisper, but carries a gravity that makes your pulse skip.

“You’re more than this,” Jungkook says. “Why do you keep acting like I’m not supposed to see that?”

You blink, stunned by the softness in his voice. By the truth in it. He looks at you — really looks at you — and there’s no arrogance left, no cocky smirk, no boyish charm to hide behind. Just eyes that burn too bright and too honest, like he’s tired of pretending this is all it is.

Something inside you fractures at his words. No one has ever spoken to you with such certainty, touched you as though you were irreplaceable. Not even him, until this moment.

Yet you can't afford to let him in - not when you've finally built something stable, something that won't crumble under the weight of feelings over logic.

With practiced ease, you retreat behind your walls. As you smooth your sweater and adjust your skirt, you keep your gaze fixed anywhere but his face, methodically erasing any evidence that his touch had left you trembling just moments ago.

"I have work," you say flatly, turning away. "And you need to go."

His brows pull tight as he whispers your name, but you cut him off.

"You got what you wanted."

"I didn't come here for sex," he says, voice strained. "I came here to see you."

You grab your folder from the floor, each movement deliberate and distant. "Well, now you have."

Before he can say anything else - before he can make you stay or tell you something you're not ready to hear - you slip past him and out the door, leaving him alone in a room that still echoes with everything left unsaid.

His texts light up your screen, but you can't bring yourself to open them. Three messages in total - two from last night, one this afternoon. Each notification feels like a weight on your chest.

Deep down, you already know what they say. His words echo in your mind without needing to read them: "hey, you okay?" followed by "can we talk?" and finally, "just tell me what's going on, please." The familiar cadence of his concern makes your heart ache.

You've repeated the mantra countless times - that you're done, that letting him in again would only lead to more heartache. Yet when the knock echoes through your building, your body betrays you. Despite every logical reason to stay put, your feet carry you downstairs, drawn to him like gravity refusing to let go.

He waits outside, hood drawn and hat low, hands tucked in his pockets as if trying to make himself invisible in the daylight. When you step out and close the door behind you, the sharp morning air fills your lungs.

His posture straightens at the sight of you, but his expression remains solemn. "You've been ignoring me."

You cross your arms tight against your chest, offering a noncommittal shrug. "I've been busy."

His jaw tightens as he studies you. "I needed to see you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what we're doing anymore."

"There's no 'we,' Jungkook."

He draws a careful breath. "You've said that before."

"Because it's true." Your voice wavers despite your resolve.

"You claimed there was nothing between us," he says, "yet you kept coming back."

"It was just sex."

The words strike him visibly, making him flinch. You force yourself to look away, focusing on the empty street while he shakes his head. "You're lying."

A bitter smile crosses your lips. "So what if I am?"

His eyes meet yours, filled with a desperate kind of hope that's beginning to fade. "Then prove it. Look me in the eye and tell me I meant nothing."

You face him, mouth parting to speak, but the words die in your throat. The truth is, you can't bring yourself to be that cruel.

The silence stretches between you like a thread about to snap. Finally, you break his gaze. "I don't have time for this. I have a future to think about."

He accepts this like a final verdict, nodding once. "Then I won't bother you again."

As he walks to the curb without looking back, you remain frozen on the steps, heart caught in your throat. You try to convince yourself this is what you wanted, even as you watch the one person who truly saw you walk away.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The bass vibrates through the off-campus house, each beat sinking into your ribs like a reminder of something long forgotten. You wonder, not for the first time tonight, why you let your friend drag you to this party where you clearly don't belong.

The scene feels foreign now - dim lights casting shadows, sharp laughter cutting through stale air, and hallways thick with the scent of vodka and poor choices. You lean against the kitchen counter, nursing a sour drink, dodging the occasional stumbling partygoer.

Despite telling yourself you'll leave within an hour, your eyes keep searching the room. And there he is - Jungkook, lounging in the corner couch with casual grace, his hoodie unzipped and a restrained laugh playing at his lips. It's nothing like the unguarded joy you remember from more intimate moments.

But he's not alone. A blonde in a short skirt presses against his side, her fingers trailing his arm with practiced familiarity as she whispers against his jaw. The sight makes your chest constrict. He neither welcomes nor rejects her attention, remaining perfectly still as she continues her advances.

Your grip tightens around your cup while someone - your friend, probably - says something you can't process. Heat rises behind your eyes as you watch this scene unfold, jealousy coursing through you despite having no right to feel it. After all, you were the one who insisted there was nothing between you.

The girl moves closer, her fingers now skimming his necklace with clear intent. But then he turns his head and catches your gaze across the room. Everything freezes - her voice fading to background noise as his eyes lock with yours, intense and unreadable.

You want to look away but can't, knowing exactly what he sees: you in your tight black dress, perfect lipstick masking hollow eyes, jealousy written in every line of your body. After three endless seconds, you break first - turning sharply and walking out into the spring night that smells of cigarettes and missed chances.

When his footsteps follow you onto the porch moments later, you cross your arms tighter and whisper to yourself: "Don't be stupid. Don't turn around. Don't let him be the thing you'll regret."

When he says your name behind you - just once, soft and broken - you already know this night will undo you again.

The cold night air wraps around you as you stand at the edge of the porch, arms crossed tightly against your chest. From here, the party's music feels distant, muffled like memories you're trying to forget. The street beyond the lawn stretches dark and empty, while you remain fixed in place, caught between staying and leaving.

The door opens behind you, followed by his footsteps and then his breath. You stay facing forward as he hovers there, the space between you charged with everything left unsaid.

"I wasn't going to kiss her," he says quietly.

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to."

You close your eyes, letting silence settle between you before he speaks again.

"She doesn't matter," he says softly. "None of them do."

A bitter laugh escapes you - not because you doubt him, but because it would be easier if you did. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear that."

His voice comes rougher now, raw with honesty. "I didn't even want to be here tonight."

"Then why come?"

"Because I knew you might be."

Something in his words makes you turn. The porch light traces silver along his features - his messy hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

"You think showing up changes anything?" you ask.

"I don't want to change things," he says. "I just want you to stop running."

"Running?" The word comes out hollow.

"Yes." He steps closer, voice dropping low. "You come to me like you need me, then leave like we're strangers."

Your chest tightens. "It was just sex."

"No." His eyes narrow, voice sharp with frustration. "Say it like you mean it."

You stay silent as he continues, moving closer still. "You say that, but you look at me like I've broken something. Like you hate me for making you feel."

"I don't hate you."

"But you don't trust me either."

The truth of it makes your heart pound as he softens, vulnerability bleeding through. "I'm not asking for forever. Just... a chance. I want you to try."

"You don't understand."

"Then help me."

You look down, fingers twisting in your dress as the words you've been holding back finally spill out. "I'm leaving. I got the grant."

His expression shifts subtly - not shock or anger, but a careful kind of hurt. "When?"

"End of term. Three months of research abroad."

"You weren't going to tell me."

"What would it change?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. "Maybe I wouldn't have wasted time trying to hold onto something that was always leaving."

His words sting more than you expected. When your eyes meet his again, the world seems to pause, holding its breath.

"It wasn't supposed to be anything," you whisper.

"Then why are you still here?"

You have no answer, but he isn't finished. Drawing closer until you can feel his warmth, he speaks again, voice raw with emotion. "If this was just sex, why do I still taste you every time I close my eyes? Why do I check my phone constantly for a name I know won't appear?"

"I've been with others," he continues, "but never like this. Never feeling like I'm losing something I never had the right to claim."

The silence that follows feels heavy with possibility. You want to tell him so many things - not to wait, that he deserves better, that you're terrified. Instead, you whisper, "You shouldn't want me."

"Then stop making me."

His words hang between you like static, making everything else fade away. When he looks away and runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betrays his vulnerability. The quiet between you has transformed from tense to aching, filled with unspoken pleas.

"Let me go with you."

The words stop your breath. "What?"

"I mean it." His voice grows gentle but determined. "Wherever this grant takes you - I don't care. I'll follow."

"You can't just-"

"Why not?"

"Because it's not realistic," you say. "This is my work, my life. Not a vacation."

"I'm not trying to make it one."

His gaze holds steady, all pretense gone. "I'll figure it out. Find something short-term, take time off. Get a place nearby."

"You can't be serious."

"I've never meant anything more."

Looking at him now, you see past the facade - beyond the cocky student who once teased you under library desks, beyond the reputation that follows him through whispered conversations. This is him stripped bare, offering something no one else has: the promise that you're worth chasing, worth disrupting a life for, worth not having to face everything alone.

"I can't promise anything," you whisper.

"I'm not asking for promises. Just a chance."

As your arms finally fall to your sides, the tension shifts but doesn't break. He moves closer, voice soft and intimate. "I don't want to be your distraction. I want to be the reason you don't carry everything alone."

You close your eyes, the desire to say yes burning in your throat. But when you look at him again, all you can manage is, "I need to think."

He nods, understanding. "Okay. Think."

Then he steps away and leaves you standing there, your heart beating out of rhythm as the universe seems to tilt on its axis. For the first time, you're not sure if running is what you want anymore.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There's a hidden principle in thermodynamics that textbooks rarely mention: systems naturally resist equilibrium, fighting against stillness until the very end. Like heat dispersing through space and time, energy spreads itself thin across moments and people until everything settles into quiet calm.

But what happens when the natural order breaks? When something you're meant to release keeps drawing you back in - like gravity with too much memory, like a particle defying probability?

Jungkook is exactly that - a force of chaos and warmth, disrupting every calculated decision. He collapses your carefully constructed equations, making you realize that entropy isn't about disorder at all. It's about surrender, about letting go of control and allowing yourself to drift toward the heat that's always been there, waiting.

So this time, you’re not fighting it anymore. Every calculation, every logical path leads to him. And instead of running, you’re finally walking toward what you've been trying to deny all along.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus has quieted into hushed twilight when you arrive at his door, the usual bustle of footsteps and laughter faded to memory. Your heart beats steady and low like background radiation as you stand there, fingers curled at your sides - not urgent or frantic, just persistent.

Neither of you has reached out since that moment on the porch, since you said you needed time to think. But in the silence between then and now, your mind has done nothing but circle back to him, again and again.

When you finally knock - just once, soft - and hear movement inside, you know with certainty that you're not here for closure. You're here for him.

The door opens to reveal Jungkook looking beautifully disheveled - hoodie inside out, chain visible, hair mussed as if he's been running his fingers through it endlessly. But it's his eyes that catch you - they come alive the moment they find yours, filled with recognition and something deeper.

No words pass between you as you step into his apartment. The door closes softly behind you, and you're enveloped by warmth - his cologne lingering on the couch fabric, an open book abandoned spine-up on the table, another hoodie draped over a chair. Everything speaks of waiting, of anticipation.

When you turn to face him, his gaze is both cautious and hopeful in the dim light. The silence stretches between you, heavy with possibility, until you finally bridge the gap - reaching for him with steady hands and certain heart.

You don’t say anything when your hand curls into his hoodie, pulling him forward. You don’t explain when your mouth finds his — soft, slow, shy. He gasps like he wasn’t sure you’d really come. And then he kisses you back.

And suddenly nothing matters but the way his hands cradle your face like it’s fragile, like he can’t believe you’re real. The way he breathes your name between kisses, reverent and raw. The way you slide your hands beneath his sweatshirt and find warmth, skin, muscle — him.

When your clothes hit the floor, it’s not frantic. It’s intentional. His fingers pull your shirt over your head like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His lips brush your shoulder, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He whispers something — too low to catch — but it sounds like finally.

You fall into his bed and he follows. When you wrap your legs around his waist, it’s not for leverage. It’s to keep him close. When he sinks into you, slow and warm and so deep you forget how to breathe, it doesn’t feel like friction — it feels like home.

He’s careful at first. One hand gripping your hip, the other splayed across your lower back as if to shield you from the world while he pushes in, inch by inch, holding his breath like your body is holy.

“Fuck,” he whispers, jaw tight. “You’re so warm… baby, you’re perfect.”

You let your head fall back, lips parting in a soft gasp when he bottoms out. He stays there, not moving, just breathing — buried so deep inside you it feels like he could disappear there, if you let him. And you would. When he starts to move, it’s unhurried — slow, deliberate strokes that drag against every nerve ending, make you arch your back into him, make your thighs shake.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with restraint, as though he’s trying to hold back from letting go too fast. “I need to hear you.”

You meet his eyes, dazed and already drunk off the stretch, the pace, the way he’s looking at you like nothing else has ever mattered.

“You feel…” you start, and the words melt in your throat. You don’t want to say “good.” That’s not enough. Not nearlyenough.

“You feel like I finally exhaled.”

He groans, and it sounds broken, like you cracked something inside him that he didn’t know was still fragile. His thrusts deepen. Not faster or harder.

Just… more. More skin. More closeness. His chest flush against yours, lips dragging across your cheek before his mouth finds the corner of yours.

He doesn’t kiss you, not right away. He nuzzles. Soft. Slow. Like he’s trying to memorize your breath. And then, finally, he kisses you — not possessive, not filthy, but aching. A mouth pressed to yours like a secret, like the beginning of a confession, like if he could live in the space where your lips meet, he would.

You moan into it, hips rolling to meet his. His hand moves to your breast, fingers circling your nipple with the lightest brush, and when you whimper, he does it again — soft, slow, coaxing your body to bloom for him like it never has for anyone else.

Your voice is almost too breathless to be heard.

“Don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

You wrap your arms around his back, press your palm between his shoulder blades, hold him like you’re afraid this is all a dream.

He starts to move faster then — a new rhythm building, deeper now, hungrier, but still sweet, still controlled. Each thrust pulls a sound from your throat, quiet, high, desperate. Your nails rake softly down his spine and he hisses at the contact, fucking you harder for a beat before slowing again.

“God,” he pants, forehead to yours, “you take me so well—always. Fuck, I missed you.”

You clench around him and he notices.

“Ohhh,” he moans, voice guttural, “you like that?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Say it again. Let me hear you.”

You arch into him, voice softer than a whisper. “I missed you too.”

His pace stutters. Something in him gives way. And suddenly, he’s grabbing your hand — the one beside your head — lacing his fingers through yours like he can’t bear to come without holding you.

“I’m close,” he warns, and it sounds like an apology.

“Me too,” you whisper. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

He moves faster then. His hips slap against yours. Sweat beads at his temples. His thrusts grow sloppy, raw, needy. Your legs lock around him. You feel it building — low and sharp and inevitable.

Your climax rushes up from your spine and down your thighs, spreading like a slow, golden shatter. You cry out softly, clutching him, your whole body arching into his as you pulse around him, wave after wave rolling through you.

He breaks a second later, burying his face in your neck with a sharp groan as he spills into the condom. His body trembles above yours like a string pulled too tight while you whisper his name into his shoulder until he stills. He stays there, holding you close, neither of you wanting to break the connection.

When he finally lifts his head to kiss you — soft and unhurried and achingly tender — it feels less like an ending and more like the beginning of whatever comes next. The moment calls for words, but you let your body soften against his instead, finding comfort in the silence between you. For the first time, that silence feels full. Not empty. Not scared. Just real.

.🖤

taglist: @joansie9 @mgstudyingrocks @existentialzaddy @revolutionbreez @lyb3124 @parkinglot-nights @bhonbhon

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jihyoruri · 16 hours ago

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❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ HOUSE OF BALLOONS (richgirl!yn | chaewon x reader )

richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing ⭢ take your mask off ⭢ carmen ⭢ untitled

— BONUNS CHAPTER | the dark sides of the moon family- the tales of the three young moons on a power trip (or slowly loosing their minds) the lost media of the young heirs that can never be found

SEPTEMBER 1st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“RICH KIDS GONE BAD??”

“a deeply unsettling video featuring moon yn, a first-year high school student, and her older brother moon jae, now in his final year, has started circulating online and it’s sparking serious concern.” click the video below ⭣

the shaky footage, clearly taken in secret, shows the two siblings in their school uniforms, each wearing a distinct chanel brooch. but this was no time to admire their luxury.

the video begins with a girl standing nervously in front of them. jae has his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. his words are too quiet to hear, but his body language says enough, sharp, intimidating, and cold.

he lets go of her chin and moves his hand to her shoulder in what looks like a comforting gesture, until he begins applying pressure, pushing her down until she’s sitting against the wall. he lets out a low laugh and walks away, leaving yn standing over the girl.

yn kneels in front of her, mimicking her brother’s earlier gesture. she lifts the girl’s chin again, but where jae’s aggression was clear, yn is harder to read calm, collected, and unreadable in a way that makes your skin crawl. she says something too quiet to hear, then smirks.

as she straightens up, she turns her head, looking directly into the camera. there's a soft gasp from behind the phone as the person filming realizes they’ve been caught. the video cuts off abruptly.

the internet explodes… and then goes quiet

but as quickly as the clip emerged, it vanished. users began reporting that links were broken, posts were mysteriously deleted, and accounts sharing the video were suddenly locked or suspended. some claimed the file had been “scrubbed” from search engines entirely. a few who claimed to have saved the video reported their files becoming corrupted.

with no formal statement from the moon family and no official media coverage, the moment began to fade from public memory. a handful of reddit threads and obscure blog posts remain, clinging to what little evidence is left, but for the most part, the world has moved on.

those who still remember are left with questions, unease, and an unsettling silence.

but who they to question what’s going with the moon family? whatever yn and jae did was completely warranted obviously.

THE VIDEO IN THIS ARTICLE IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

OCTOBER 31st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“WHO WOULD’VE THOUGHT THE YOUNGEST WOULD BE LIVING UP THE MOON NAME THE MOST?”

“a voice audio of who seems to be moon yn the youngest of the moon family talking to a teacher has people thinking only one thing, her father sure did raise her.” click the video below to hear the audio⭣

it starts off soft.

“sir…” her voice is sweet, almost delicate. “I’ve been feeling like this for a while, and my brother’s noticed it too. it seems like you’ve been treating us a little unfairly… because of our name? would i be correct if i said that?”

there’s a pause before the man responds, calm and condescending. “yes, you would.” his voice is firm, too confident. “the moons need humbling, and you prove that every day. I’ve been doing this since your oldest brother was here. he took it. so did jae. now it’s your turn. moons don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, so suck it up, young lady.”

“oh…” she sounds hurt. quiet. small. but don’t be fooled.

“that’s too bad,” she says, and there’s a shift. some faint shuffling. her tone sharpens, losing its sweetness. “but here’s the thing… I’m not like my brothers. take that as a mental note.”

he doesn’t respond. silence.

“but anywho…” she sighs, fake and theatrical. “I should get going. it’s a shame we couldn’t come to better terms.”

then, her voice lowers to a near whisper. “but I guess everyone’s gonna love to hear about how much you like your female students.”

the laugh that follows is soft. too soft. and then, the audio cuts.

as of now, moon yn, is rumored to be a trainee under sm entertainment. insiders claim she’s been groomed for the spotlight her whole life, and based on this clip, it’s clear she knows how to perform, even when no cameras are supposed to be rolling.

but just like the infamous school hallway video of the moon siblings, this audio has vanished from the internet.

accounts that posted the original clip were suspended, links broken, files corrupted. forums discussing the audio were locked or mass reported. even users who claimed to have saved it privately say the file mysteriously disappeared or won’t play. no trace remains, and most who've heard it now speak of it like an urban legend, something you had to be online at the right time to witness.

and now, another piece of moon family history is buried.

but hey, she was so right, who was he to mistreat a moon?

THE AUDIO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

FEBRUARY 5th 2017

ARTICLE HEADLINE — “ALL THREE MOON SIBLINGS CAUGHT IN DISTURBING LATE NIGHT FOTAGE.”

a leaked clip of daeun, jae, and yn leaving an exclusive bar has resurfaced whispers about the moon family and this time, no one was laughing. click the video below to watch ⭣

it’s dark, filmed from across the street, blurry, shaky, and obviously taken in secret.

the video opens with the glowing sign of the club, an exclusive bar only frequented by chaebols, heirs, and politicians' children. entry is invite only. drinks are never cheap. and minors are never allowed.

but in the video, all three moon siblings step out of the building. daeun, the eldest and the only one legally allowed to drink, walks out first in a sleek designer coat, jaw tight with exhaustion. jae follows, swaying slightly as he pushes his hair back and looks like he’s trying to hold back a glare. and yn the youngest walks behind them both, not stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

the three of them look like they’re falling apart in silence. no one speaks. no one smiles. the air is thick.

a black car pulls up, but none of them move toward it.

daeun turns to jae and says something low. he flinches. daeun throws his cigarette down. yn leans against the wall, staring at the pavement like it’s talking to her. none of them look like they want to be there. none of them look like they want to go home either.

and then, jae lashes out, not violently, but enough to startle. he kicks something near the curb, mutters something at yn that makes her roll her eyes, and she finally snaps back. it’s silent on video, but the way they speak, no hesitation, no filter, it’s clear the masks they wear in public aren’t on tonight.

daeun rubs his temples. he looks older than ever.

the three eventually pile into the car. the door slams shut. and the video ends.

why was this ever online?

the footage appeared online late one night under the caption “are the moons okay?” and in less than an hour, it was reposted hundreds of times. viewers weren’t shocked by the drinking, they were disturbed by what it revealed.

“daeun looks like he’s seen hell.” “yn isn’t old enough to drink and she looked the most checked out.” “jae’s energy is always so off. the way he moved… i can’t explain it but it made me sick.” “why did they just stand there like that for so long? they looked so… broken.”

and then it was gone.

just like the school hallway video. just like the teacher audio. accounts were suspended, posts wiped, and copies of the video corrupted or removed. users now speak about it like some sort of cursed file — if you didn’t see it when it dropped, you probably never will.

some believe sm’s legal team got involved now that yn is a trainee. others say the moon family themselves had it buried. and a few claim it was never supposed to exist at all.

THE VIDEO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

#richgirl!yn #lesserafim x reader #lesserafim #le sserafim x reader #chaewon x reader #kim chaewon #chaewon #kim chaewon x reader #girl group imagines

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ilyprs · 2 days ago

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P I S T A N T H R O P H O B I A | s.geum

───𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛───

pistanthrophobia : the fear of trusting people, forming close romantic relationships, and being vulnerable in interpersonal connections

' in which she can't escape her first love

•seong-je x reader

•part 5. (other parts are out on my profile !!🐰)

ׂׂૢ་༘______________________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•✩♬ now playing: wildside | red velvet

The next few days flew by, and Serim could barely keep up. When she showed up at school the next day, everything felt strange. Her classmates—and even her best friend Gotak—were acting so differently that Serim asked him several times what was going on. But he just brushed her off and said it was something family-related. Hyun-Tak, who was usually so talkative, suddenly went quiet, and Serim knew something—or rather someone—was behind it.

But she couldn’t be mad at him. She had done the exact same thing to him the past few days. So with a sigh, she let it go.

The new student was just as strange. Serim had seen him a few times in the school hallways, and all her classmates talked about him during lessons. Every time his name was mentioned, Serim perked up her ears and tried to listen in as discreetly as possible. But she didn’t get much out of it—the students said things like he tried to stab people with pens. She couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. Seriously, what high schooler went around stabbing people with pens?

It wasn’t until she saw the completely wrecked basketball club room that she realized something was definitely going on. After seeing the destruction, Serim dropped everything and ran to a very specific place. She knew something was happening and just hoped she could get there in time before Gotak got into trouble. The boy was a walking stress magnet, and that worried her.

She ran like crazy toward the tunnel, where she assumed he was because most of the school fights happened there, her school bag bouncing painfully against her back with every step—but she didn’t care. A few older people gave her weird looks as she passed, and some even complained, but none of it mattered. If Gotak was in trouble, she would drop everything to help him. That’s just how she was and she knew he would do the same for her.

⸻

When she arrived at the tunnel, she froze, rooted to the spot, unable to believe her eyes. She took quick breaths to gain her normal breathing pace back. All of that running had worn her down.

Gotak was on the ground, surrounded by a group of students. Jun-Tae stood nearby, looking worried, and Baku—who, for some reason, now had red hair—was standing a little further away. Serim felt like she was in a bad movie. She pinched herself, just to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Something had clearly gone down, though Serim could only guess it had been a fight. But the how and why were still a mystery to her. Hyoman—God, how she hated that slimy guy—was lying on the ground like a corpse, collapsed on his right side. Baku was talking to the new student:

„And who are you? I’ve never seen you before.”

The new student just looked at him silently, and Baku kept talking without waiting for an answer. He was never the patient type.

„You’ve got a lot of guts,” he said, laughing.

Jun-Tae was the first to notice Serim. His eyes widened in shock. Baku turned around too, when he saw her he flashed her a proud grin like this was the most normal situation in the world.

„Yah, Lee Serim! Good to see you!” he shouted cheerfully through the tunnel as if nothing had happened.

Gotak looked up at the sound of her name, muttered a curse under his breath, and leaned against the wall. His face was scraped up—clear signs of a fight. A thousand questions raced through Serim’s mind, but they could wait. She rushed over to Gotak and shoved the students surrounding him out of the way.

„Get lost, you assholes,” she hissed at them angrily before kneeling down beside her friend.

He looked at her with guilty eyes, already knowing what was coming. Serim raised her hand and slapped him—not too hard, but enough to make her point.

„So this is what you were hiding from me, you idiot? What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled, completely losing it and tearing into him in front of everyone.

Jun-Tae inhaled sharply, nervous and afraid it could be his turn soon. Gotak didn’t respond—he just listened to her lecture until Baku came from behind, lifted Serim up, and pulled her away from him. She tried to resist, but Baku wouldn’t let go.

„Hey, we all know he’s not the brightest, but the guy’s half-dead. Maybe yell at him later and let him breathe a bit, huh? How about that, Serimi?” he said, trying to calm her down as he placed his hands on her shoulders.

Serim shot Gotak a furious look—but deep down, she knew Baku was right. Hyun-Tak really did look like hell. Guilt settled in her chest. With a roll of her eyes, she brushed Baku off and extended a hand to him. He grinned and grabbed it, letting her pull him to his feet.

Jun-Tae, who had been watching the whole scene with wide eyes, was quiet as a mouse. When Serim noticed his nervousness she gave him a gentle smile, and it seemed to calm him down instantly. Was he afraid of her? The thought made Serim giggle in her head, he was just too cute.

Even the new student—whose name Serim still didn’t know—watched the interaction between the three of them with quiet interest. When she looked at him she first noticed his eyes. The girl could swear she had never seen eyes as sad as his. Now that Gotak was back on his feet, Serim and Baku each took a side and let him lean on their shoulders for support. But Gotak had other plans. He limped over to the new student to apologize for something Serim had missed, then returned to his friends and leaned on them again. The girl wondered what that was about but she quickly brushed it off. He would tell them soon enough.

He used the moment to slap Baku lightly on the back of the head. „That’s for calling me ‘not the brightest’ earlier,” Hyun-Tak explained.

Serim nearly screamed when he leaned all his weight on her because Baku had let him go.Baku was about to insult him but the girl quickly interrupted him.

„Instead of standing around like an idiot, you could help me, Baku! He weighs a fucking ton,” she panted, struggling to keep him upright.Baku cursed Gotak under his breath and finally helped, and the three friends left the tunnel with Gotak limping between them.

„By the way, why the hell do you have red hair, Baku? It looks like shit.”

„Just be glad you missed his entrance. I’ll be having nightmares for weeks.”

„Yah! You guys are such assholes.”

—

By now, it had already gotten dark, and Serim said goodbye to her friends with a laughing group hug. The three teenagers had decided to grab something to eat after everything that had happened in the tunnel, and Hyun-tak had explained the whole situation. He said he was sure that Hyoman had manipulated the entire thing, provoking the two students to fight each other, only to jump in and attack both at the right moment, just like she had guessed in her head. He felt incredibly stupid about it, but his friends reassured him.

„Are you sure we shouldn’t walk you home?” Baku asked seriously, but she declined for the tenth time. She wanted to put in her headphones and walk in peace, without anyone talking her ears off. She was grateful for her friends, of course, but she still cherished the time she could spend alone. Convincing Gotak and Baku to let her walk by herself had been a battle. They were incredibly protective of her and never liked the idea of her walking home alone at night—but somehow, she’d managed to talk her way out of it.

Happy and with her favorite songs blasting in her ears, the girl walked home, enjoying the beautiful scenery around her. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but another reason she wanted to walk alone was the possibility of running into Seong-je again. She hadn’t been able to get him out of her head ever since he’d forcefully started inserting himself back into her life, and she hoped—prayed even—that he wouldn’t show up tonight. That’s why she walked more cautiously than usual. She didn’t want her friends to see him—it would only end badly, which is why she tried to avoid those situations altogether.

But he didn’t show up. Instead, she noticed something else—someone had been following her. A boy, probably no older than her, had been tailing her for quite a while now. Serim sighed in annoyance. She had gotten used to being followed ever since her breakup with Seong-je. It was almost a daily occurrence now—always someone different, always the same feeling. She had tried confronting a few of them before, but the next day, someone new would show up, and the whole thing would start all over again. She had long since given up on stopping it.

But then—she had a brilliant idea.

„Whoever you are, stop following me!” she shouted behind her into the seemingly empty street. But she knew someone was out there, hiding. When no one came out after a few minutes, she turned around deliberately and walked into a narrow side alley, waiting for the person to appear.

Bingo.

A student appeared, and in a split second, Serim stopped, grabbed the boy by the collar, and slammed him against the wall. She did feel a bit sorry for him, but right now, he was just a means to an end. The boy tried to wriggle free, but Serim didn’t let go. Then she spoke sharply:

„Who are you, and why are you following me?”

Serim already knew the answer to the second question. She just needed confirmation—proof that she wasn’t losing her mind. But when the boy didn’t answer, Serim was forced to push him harder against the wall, making it harder for him to breathe. She truly didn’t want to hurt him, but she knew this kid probably wasn’t that innocent either—especially if he was from the Union.

Breathless, the boy started pounding weakly on her arm, already turning red in the face, before finally managing to whisper a faint, lifeless: „Seong-je…”

Serim let go of him instantly, shocked. Sure, she had suspected it, but now she had confirmation. It really was him behind all of this. And with that realization, the anger surged inside her again. How dare he keep inserting himself into her life like this without her consent? All she wanted was to be left alone, and he couldn’t even give her that. Determined, she looked down at the boy one last time before yanking him up and dragging him along. She had had enough of everything going on around her. The boy tried to escape her grip, but Serim threatened to tell Seong-je that he had hurt her—which made him instantly afraid and obedient. His craziness could be useful for instances like this she thought. Of course, she’d never actually do that—it was just an empty threat to make things easier.

—

The girl stopped in front of the internet café, certain—100% sure—that he was inside. She pushed past a group of teenagers, the boy still following behind her, and entered, cursing under her breath. The place was packed with Union members, and she knew someone had probably already informed Seong-je of her arrival. They were like a filthy gang, and suddenly Serim didn’t feel so confident anymore.

She knew she was surrounded by dangerous people. Sure, she could defend herself to a certain extent—but what could she realistically do against twenty teenagers? Her MMA skills only went so far. The girl tried her best to push out the bad thoughts which started to fill her mind. She hadn’t come all this way to just leave again.

She glanced around the strange place. Seong-je used to come here before too, but back then it hadn’t been tainted by all these Union people.

As she entered the main room, her eyes scanned quickly, looking for one specific person. And then she saw him, sitting there facing a monitor and playing a game, not having a care in the world. Her heart tightened—but she knew she had to face this. Furious, she yanked the boy still trailing behind her and deliberately threw him at Seong-je’s feet. The boy slipped and rolled, landing right in front of him, which made Seong-je finally look up from his screen.

His eyes first fell silently on the boy, then on the girl standing there with clenched fists, still in her school uniform, backpack on her shoulders, glaring at him with rage. It took only seconds before a grin crept onto his face—and Serim felt like she was going to explode.

That fucking look.

But she had to stay strong. Now more than ever. She had to prove to him that he couldn’t intimidate her—so he would finally leave her alone „You look so fucking cute standing there all angry.“ he broke the silence in the room.

The reflection of the flashing lights around the room danced in Seong-je’s glasses as he stood up, chuckling, and casually nudged the boy to the side with his foot. Serim flinched. She suddenly felt bad for dragging the boy all the way here. He was definitely going to get punished somehow—she could feel it—and the thought weighed heavily on her chest. She didn’t want any of this.

Without a word, Seong-je walked slowly toward her and came to a stop right in front of her. Then, out of nowhere, he raised his hand, aiming for her face—but Serim was faster. She smacked his hand away in one swift motion, like she did that one time back in the convenience store, the sound of the impact echoing through the room. For some weird reason he seemed to love the idea of pushing her hair behind her ear and it only irritated her every time he tried to.

Gasps rang out. Serim hadn’t even noticed how many people were standing there and just watching, most of them being union members, her focus locked solely on the monster in front of her. Some students looked on in awe; others covered their mouths in shock. Only then did it hit her how much power Seong-je held over these people. They feared him. They obeyed him with a single command. That realization scared her.

He hadn’t always been like this.

Seong-je simply looked at his hand, amused. He was about to speak—but Serim cut him off.

„If I ever catch someone following me again because you sent them, I won’t let the next person off so easily.” Her voice was low and dangerous as she stared directly into his eyes. She tried her best to sound as intimidating as possible but she was only fooling herself.

The worst part was that he was a head taller than her, so she had to look up to meet his gaze which made her feel so small and obedient. As if he was looking down at her. But that didn’t matter. She stood her ground, even as he stepped closer, now way too close for her liking, and started laughing.

„You really think I care about those idiots?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement as he pointed at the boy who was laying there, twitching front the pain. „Do whatever you want with them. I don’t give a fuck. But you’re not walking around alone anytime soon, and you know that. Oh—and by the way, I love it when you threaten me. Better if we do that kind of thing in private, though. Turns me on so fucking much.”

His filthy grin didn’t leave his face as he inched closer to her face, and Serim was on the verge of losing it. His dirty mouth was not something she could deal with at the moment. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying not to burn this whole damn internet café with the people watching to the ground.

„You fucking bastard, leave me alone already!” Her words were venomous as she spoke. She had finally snapped. Then, she shoved him back angrily to create some kind of distance between the two—but Seong-je had other plans. He suddenly grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him.

He pressed her head against his chest, and for a moment, the girl froze. She couldn’t believe where she was or what was happening.

For a few seconds, she stood still, her arms fell limp at her sides, exhausted from all the drama haunting her. Old memories rushed into her mind, and she inhaled his familiar scent. He still smelled the same. That same cologne. Masculine. Good. Familiar.

She could’ve stayed in his arms forever for all she knew.

But when Serim realized what was happening, her entire body tensed, and she shoved him away with all her strength. He stumbled back two steps and looked her dead in the eyes. Even his gaze seemed to reflect the past they shared—and Serim swore she was about to lose her mind. The people around them were still watching, transfixed.

Serim tried again, this time with a firm voice.

„Seong-je, I’m telling you this one last time—and all these people here are witnesses.” She pointed at the crowd watching before continuing.

„If you don’t leave me alone soon, may God help you—because no one else will be able to save you from my hands.” Serim threatened him as she spat the words. The girl wasn’t even lying, with the way she was feeling at the moment, she really could’ve killed him right there.

She took a step forward to make sure her words hit him hard. She was furious—ready to tear this stupid café apart in her rage. Seong-je looked at her seriously for a moment, then sighed and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered her one. She stared at him, confused. Was this seriously happening? What the fuck was even all of this even about? It was like she was stuck in a bad movie.

„Come on take one. I know you want to. Just like I know you still want me back but won’t admit it,” he said with a smile, winking at her and pulling the cigarette back before she could respond, lighting his own.

He took a slow, deep drag, then stepped closer to her again—this time managing to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. Grinning, he exhaled the smoke right into her face, making her squint in surprise. Then he leaned down and whispered in her ear:

„What I said last time wasn’t a joke. You will be mine again—whether you like it or not.”

His voice was low and rough—and Serim knew he wasn’t kidding. He never was. When Seong-je wanted something, he got it. That hadn’t changed. Serim glared at him with venom in her eyes, then snatched the cigarette from his hand, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her foot. He just stood there looking at her with what seemed to be amusement in his eyes.

„Like hell I will,” she spat before turning on her heel and pushing her way through the crowd, desperate to leave the internet café as fast as possible. She couldn’t breathe properly in that stuffed place anymore.

His scent still lingered in her nose, and she could still feel the spots on her body where his hands had touched her. With fresh goosebumps crawling across her skin, she made her way home. This was way too much to deal within a day.

What she didn’t know was that she’d left behind a smiling Seong-je, who watched her leave for minutes, mind full of a new plan to get her back… before placing a new cigarette between his lips and making his way towards the door to follow the girl.

taglist: @gacktsa @dripoftheseus @rockerica @b3autyist3rror @jaymiwrld @urfavsagsblog @feralmaneater @mordessaa @inhoswifee @wagawana 🩷

#enemies to lovers #fanfic #geum seong je x reader #kdrama #toxic #weak hero class two #geum seong je #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class one #weak hero webtoon #weak hero class #keum seongje #seongje x reader

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cacospirit · 2 days ago

Text

Emmrich reads Thirst Tweets

Emmrich: Hello, I'm professor Emmrich Volkarin and today I am joining the LADBible to read Thirsty Tweets

*intro plays*

Emmrich: All right then shall we? Let's get to it... "I think if Emmrich sat me down to talk to me about life-work balance while giving me praise that would fix me"

Emmrich: I think we all can do with a bit of that, now and then. Not because we are broken, but because we are human. The human condition is not something that can be so easily 'fixed' in a one and done sort of manner, rather it requires constant maintenance in form of love and support that we should all strive to provide for each other

Emmrich: Next we have... "Hey Emmrich you're supposed to be a bone expert but I haven't seen you live up to the name. I think you need to demonstrate, preferably on me. Please and thank you"

Emmrich: Ah, a cheeky bit of double entendre going on here, in a quite polite way as well, If I may say so. I suppose common courtesy isn't entirely lost in this digital medium. I would be amiss to not point out that necromancy is not only the study of bones. They are, of course, the vessel, that much is true. But it is what the vessel contains that truly matters, the spirit, the soul. That's what makes necromancy so unendingly captivating, for me at least.

Emmrich: This one, quite succinctly, states "Who is the daddiest of daddies and why is it Emmrich"

Emmrich: A question and its answer, all wrapped up in one. That's certainly a time efficient way to get your point across. I'm not fully confident that I live up to that kind of apotheotic superlative but I could certainly aspire to. The qualities we associate with a paternal figure can of course feel very comforting even as we reach adulthood, and I'd undoubtedly see it as an achievement if I could provide that, especially to Manfred and my students.

Emmrich: And here we have..."Emmrich could throw me into a volcano, resurrect me, and then throw me into the same volcano again and I'd still spend eternity singing his praise in the afterlife"

Emmrich: Oh... we got a bit of... violent imagery going on here. Certainly not unheard of in romantic prose. After all, what is longing if not aching of the heart? Being taken from a loved one can often feel like a dagger to the heart, and quite often I think we feel like we'd rather take the dagger. There... might be a bit confusion here about the nature of necromancy. We can not 'resurrect people' as such, as a spirit is brought to animate a body some may claim, myself included, that the past soul has imprinted in a way on the mortal vessel, but it's not the same person. But... a very passionate proclamation we got here, that is for certain. Not that there's anything awry with that, after all, does not every proclamation of love feel like shouting from the rooftops? We might as well say it with our chest any of the times we are given the opportunity

Emmrich: So, let's see, our next inquirer has as much to say as... "Day 465 of trying to find out if Emmrich has used blood magic to turn me into his se[BLEEP] slave or if my brain is just spaghetti from gooning too hard"

Emmrich: that's... uhm, there is certainly much to unpack here. So... 465 days? That's.... quite a long time for sure, nevertheless.... uhm, yes. Blood magic, I think it's important to recognize that no mage is every truly safe from the allure of its promise of near limitless influence and power. Although... typically it's less often found in necromancers since our usual subjects don't possess blood. I don't practice blood magic, not only because of the deeply unethical aspects of its execution but also... I believe the best way to spread influence is through knowledge, not by some arcane force of hand. So I guess this troubled individual is more inclined to find the explanation of... brain, turned into spaghetti? To hold true here. I suppose at times a state of cognitive disarray can very much feel like our heads contain nothing but a sloppy mess of tangled up thoughts. And... gooning? Goon, like a lackey? Well... in moments of reverence it's certainly easy to get consumed by but one singular thought.

Emmrich: With that out of the way... lets move on to the next one, let's see... "Hey Emmrich how is the lichdom coming along? I could sure use a lich as a dom"

Emmrich: Well... a rather clever rearrangement of words here. Achieving lichdom is not about dominance, regardless of... what the name might imply, if you read it with a certain type of bias anyways. In many ways it's the opposite, becoming a lich is about wanting to protect against the type of forces that seek to achieve... dominance. Not saying that it would be inherently undoable or unethical to have that kind of consensual agreement with a lich, but... it's also certainly not something that follows the title.

Emmrich: Oh, this one looks nice: "Many look at Emmrich and say that sexy does not have an expiration date..." I'd be inclined to agree with that! The nature of human attraction cannot easily be confined as narrowly as our usual societal standards often suggest "...but since there is no way to know for sure I think Emmrich should f[BLEEP]k me raw as soon as possible while we still have time"

Emmrich: well... I.... uhm, there's probably... I don't think there is a need for haste at this very moment. While it is true that we should seize any moment to live our lives to the fullest I don't think... this, is necessarily the logical endpoint of that line of reasoning. But... they do provide some semblance of logical reasoning here, which is of course commendable.

Emmrich: Oh, that was the last one? Well then, we have done what we came here to do. We have read all of the thirst tweets that you have put out there on the internet

Muffled voice off screen: these are just a few that we picked out, there are a lot more than this

Emmrich: Oh there's more? Well, maybe we could say that we have read most of them at least

Muffled voice off screen: well, some of them

Emmrich: some of them let's just say some of them. Thank you to LADBible for having and thank you all aspiring writers for these literary tid bits. This has been thirst tweets

#emmrich volkarin #dragon age thirst tweets #datv #datv spoilers #datv shitposting #datv memes #veilguard #veilguard spoilers #veilguard shitpost #veilguard memes #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age 4 #da4 #da4 memes #da4 shitpost #meme #shitpost #oc

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l1v-jzn · 2 days ago

Text

„Bite The Blade” Series – Chapter 03 – Run, Princess, RUN.

pairing: Ghostface!Seong-Je x FinalGirl!Reader

genre: Horror, Thriller, Dark Romance

summary: Keum Seong-Je’s obsession didn’t start loud, it started with a glance, a name, and the way Y/n never looked afraid. In the present, Y/n finds herself walking home alone until she hears footsteps. She runs. He follows. When she found herself trapped in his arms,breath hot against her ear, voice soft and unrelenting. The tension snaps taut, and still, she doesn’t move. Later, Seong-Je visits Na Baek-Jin and is tasked with taking down Choi Hyo-Man, who’s been spreading rumors about the Union. The takedown is precise, ruthless. Seong-Je finishes the job. But before the night ends, a quick meet-up at the rooftop moment of Y/n & Seong-Je.

taglist: @thepoeticfirefly @kyungjunnies @hikaerys @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @miyawwn @sanaxo-o @feralmaneater @jeewhat @satorustorm @jaymiwrld @satoru2716 @heeknow (and anyone wanna be tagged here!)

— All Chapters. — — Next Chapter. —

Flashback — The Beginning of Obsession

it started at dusk. Keum Seong-Je remembered the sky being stained with dying sunlight, bleeding gold and violet over the edges of the Ganghak rooftops. He was perched atop the abandoned stairwell behind the school, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, its embers glowing like the rage in his chest. Another fight. Another body. Another meaningless scream echoing in his ears. That’s when he saw her.

not because she was beautiful. Plenty of girls were. Not because she was kind. Kindness was a weakness, and he’d learned to spit on it.

but because she was clean—unainted by the rot he waded through every day.

she wasn’t doing anything special, just walking out of the library across the street, arms full of books, head slightly tilted like she was lost in a world far away from here. Her uniform was neat, her pace unhurried, and her eyes held something Seong-Je couldn’t place. It hit him like a bat to the ribs.

he didn’t believe in light or goodness. Not really. Not after all the blood he’d washed off his hands. But watching her pause to help a younger student fix their backpack, while still holding the books— then laughing when they thanked her—she even bowed down to them—he hated how his chest tightened.

he told himself it was curiosity. Then it became a habit. He followed her once. Then again. Then it became every week. He learned her patterns—when she left school, what bus she took, which café she liked to visit, the way she lingered outside the record store even if she never went in. He memorized the songs she hummed. Noted the way her lips curled when she was annoyed. Filed away the exact time she turned off her bedroom lights.

after all of that he didn't forget about the job his friend Baek-Jin has assigned him. Even with the habit of going to the Computer Shop to play online games, he only comes to his spot when he has free time.

from that moment, every fight he picked, every person he hunted—he did it with her in mind.

anyone who had ever made her frown, anyone who looked at her too long, anyone who might’ve even breathed her name without respect, he learned their faces. He made notes. He tracked them. He beat the shit out of it.

his version of love was built on blood and silence.

and now that she’d finally spoken to him—now that her voice trembled when she said his name, he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

because he had touched a piece of heaven with bloodstained fingers. He’d rather burn down the world than let anyone else reach her first.

Present Day

it was past sundown when Y/n stepped out of the library, bag slung over one shoulder and exhaustion clinging to her bones. She hadn’t meant to stay this late, one forgotten assignment turned into hours of frantic research, and the creeping dread of walking home alone had settled the moment the campus lights flickered on. She pulled her jacket tighter.

the streets were nearly empty. Just her... and the echo of footsteps that weren’t hers. She glanced back. Nothing. Still, unease crawled up her spine.

she turned a corner. The steps followed. She picked up her pace, boots tapping harder against the rain-slicked pavement.

then a shortcut—an alley she vaguely remembered. Narrow, quiet, dangerous. But it was instinct now. She ducked in.

the alley stretched long ahead of her, the only light coming from a buzzing sign above a closed diner. She kept walking. Kept glancing over her shoulder. Still nothing. But her gut twisted.

her breathing quickened. Her pulse pounded in her ears. The moment she turned her head again–

she slammed into a chest. Hard. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, spun her. Her back hit the alley wall with a thud. A sharp gasp escaped her lips.

“Looking for me?” a voice murmured. Keum Seong-Je.

not behind her. In front of her. Like he’d always been.

he leaned in, shadows licking the edges of his face, his breath warm against her cheek.

“You run fast,” he said, almost amused. “But not fast enough.”

she struggled to push him off, but he didn’t budge. Not threatening. Not gentle. Just there, like gravity had chosen to make him inescapable.

“You’ve been following me,” she hissed.

his brow twitched, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “I never left.”

her chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths. “You can’t just show up–”

“I can, Y/n.” His hand moved to the wall beside her, knuckles brushing hers. “And I will.”

her voice trembled. “Why?” His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up.

“Because you let him walk you home.”

Hu-min.

that one name. That one moment.

she blinked and suddenly his presence shifted. From stillness to storm in a heartbeat. But then, just as quickly, he stepped back. Like it was over. Like it meant nothing.

“You’re not safe out here,” he said softly. “Next time, don’t run.”

and then he disappeared again, footsteps swallowed by the rain.

leaving Y/n with only the bruised air between them and the haunting thought: “what does he mean by that?”

he’s always closer than she thinks.

their place was under the building—an underground bowling alley never opened before noon. No sign. No windows on the lower floor. Just a faint smell of blood and bleach that clung to the alley like a second skin.

the fluorescent hallway inside buzzed with a flickering strobe of cheap lighting. He passed the vending machine that hadn’t worked since winter and the crooked mirror that made everyone look like they were being stretched into confession

Seong-Je went straight to the bowling alley and was greeted by their minions outside—bowing at him.

Then down the stairs, until the hallway swallowed him whole. Door at the end. Baek-Jin’s office. He didn’t knock.

inside, Na Baek-Jin sat behind a clean, neat wooden desk littered with Baek-Jin’s test paper—reviewing them, Baek-Jin didn’t look up. “You were supposed to be done thirty minutes ago,” he said, voice smooth but laced with frost.

Seong-Je shrugged, dropping into the chair opposite him like it owed him rent. “Got bored.”

Baek-Jin finally looked at him. His eyes were always too calm, like the center of a storm. “You break the phone?” Seong-Je smirked. “Of course.”

“Good.”

a long pause. The only sound was the low hum of the office lights and something metallic clicking in Baek-Jin’s hand—a pen, maybe. Or a trigger.

then Baek-Jin slid a photo across the desk.

“He's next.”

Seong-Je leaned forward, eyes scanning the photo. Choi Hyo-Man. That name wasn’t new.

Eunjang uniform, cocky stare, lips twisted in a smirk that probably followed a dozen beatdowns. The kind of guy who loved the sound of his own fists. “He’s not just snooping,” Baek-Jin said flatly. “He’s trying to play both sides.” Seong-Je raised an eyebrow.

“He wanted in. Union material, he thought. Swagger, brutality, the usual.” Baek-Jin flicked ash into a cracked tray. “But he couldn’t follow orders. Couldn’t finish a job.”

“Ah,” Seong-Je smirked. “A poser with dreams.”

“Now he’s running his mouth. Talking to the wrong people. Making noise.”

Seong-Je’s smile widened—just a little. “Let me guess. You want me to remind him he’s not important enough to be dangerous.” Baek-Jin nodded, cold as a closing door.

“No violence. Not unless he forces your hand. We don’t need blood—we need silence.”

Seong-Je stood, pocketed the photo. “Delinquents like him don’t learn with words.”

Baek-Jin looked up, dead calm. “Then teach him to listen.”

the back of the convenience store was dimly lit, a flickering bulb buzzing like it was one insult away from giving up. Empty ramen cups littered the alley floor. Three boys leaned against the wall—rookies, all bark, no bite. And in the center?

Choi Hyo-Man.

he was mid-rant, waving a half-crushed energy drink like a microphone. “I’m tellin’ you,” he said, smirking wide, “Baek-Jin acts like he’s some godfather or something. But he’s just an academic achiever with a grudge.”

the rookies snickered, hanging on his words like they meant something.

“You think the Union’s all that? They turned me down. Me. After all the work I did bustin’ heads for their rep.” He spat on the ground—aggressive, theatrical. “So I’m done playing loyal.”

he leaned in closer, voice dropping like a dare. “I know stuff. I know where they meet. What they’re planning. And maybe I leak it, maybe I don’t. Depends on how I feel.” Laughter echoed down the alley.

and somewhere in that laughter—unnoticed—was the soft, slow click of a phone camera being put away.

a figure stood just beyond the flickering light. Hands in pockets. Hoodie half-zipped. Seong-Je.

Watching. Listening. Waiting.

the rookies' laughter barely had time to echo before it was sliced clean by a voice, low and lazy:

“You talk too much.”

the boys froze. From the edge of the alley, Seong-Je stepped forward—slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and none of it belonged to them. The flickering light caught half his face, the other half drowned in shadow.

Choi Hyo-Man straightened, mouth twisting into something between a sneer and a smirk. “Look who crawled out of his haunted basement.”

Seong-Je said nothing. Just kept walking, hands still in his pockets, gaze locked on Hyo-Man like he was something spilled and in the way.

the rookies backed off fast, sensing it—that kind of quiet that only came before pain.

Seong-Je stopped just a step too close. Tilted his head. “You wanna be in Union so bad you’re willing to die pretending?”

Hyo-Man bristled, scoffing. “You think I’m scared of you? Just another dog on Baek-Jin’s leash.”

Seong-Je’s expression barely shifted—but his right foot did. Just slightly. That was the only warning.

Hyo-Man swung first. A wild jab, angry and fast—but Seong-Je slipped it like wind. Moved sideways, let the punch pass, then leaned in with a knee to the gut.

Hyo-Man doubled but didn’t fall. Gritted his teeth and launched again. Fight on.

back-and-forth, brutal ballet in the alley. Fists slamming into walls, kicks echoing off concrete. Seong-Je dodging, redirecting, never overextending. Hyo-Man—sloppy, emotional, loud. Until–

Seong-Je shoulder-checked Hyo-Man into the wall. Hard. Grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him close.

“You wanna act like you matter?” he whispered, breath ice on Hyo-Man’s cheek.

“Then stop running your mouth and start surviving.”

Hyo-Man’s fist flew—fast, fueled by rage. But Seong-Je? Too calm. Too clean. Too cold.

he tilted his head just enough, the punch cutting through air.

Seong-Je’s elbow jammed into Hyo-Man’s ribs. One hit, and the breath whooshed out of him.

“Try again,” Seong-Je said, barely above a whisper, like he was bored.

Hyo-Man stumbled, snarled, came at him again—more reckless this time, a flurry of fists and fury. But Seong-Je? He flowed around it like water through cracks. Every dodge was disrespect. Every block was a message: you don't belong here.

the rookies had vanished, ghosting the scene the second things went south.

Seong-Je walked up to him, slow and deliberate. Grabbed him by the collar, lifted him halfway off the ground like he weighed nothing. He chuckled at the sight in front of him before slamming Hyo-Man into the wall. Hard. Loud. Final.

Hyo-Man groaned, barely conscious, bleeding from the lip. He tried to push himself up but collapsed halfway.

Seong-Je crouched beside him, brushing his uniform sleeve clean like Hyo-Man's blood was dirt on his clothes.

“Stay out of Union business, you fucking wimp” he muttered.

then he vanished into the night—no sound, no glory, just cold footsteps fading like thunder after the storm. He jammed a hand into his pocket, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes as his boots echoed against the wet pavement. One slipped between his lips, then sparked a lighter with a click that cracked through the silence like punctuation. Flame. Inhale. Exhale.

smoke curled from his mouth like a ghost escaping, soft and slow. His eyes didn’t blink. His back didn’t turn.

behind him, Hyo-Man was still crumpled, silent, trying not to choke on his pride or the blood in his mouth.

Seong-Je took one last drag, flicked the ash aside with two fingers, then walked off, boots heavy and unhurried.

Seong-Je pulled out his phone, and texted someone. He smirks at his message before sending it to them. He puts his phone back into his windbreaker's pocket and starts walking off—going somewhere, might be a rooftop.

Y/n sat at the edge of their bed, phone clutched tight, the glow of the screen casting pale light over their tense expression. The silence in the room was loud—louder than the racing thoughts pounding in their head.

until a message popped up on the screen.

[Unknown Number]:

“Where are you? Let’s meet up.”

Short. Casual. But it hit like a punch to the chest.

Y/n stared at it, thumb hovering. A reply formed, deleted, formed again. She shouldn’t go. Every rational voice in her head screamed stay away.

then two messages popped up again on the screen—same number.

[Unknown Number]:

Don't be late.

I'm waiting. Don't make me come to you.

but Y/n can feel the weight of the decision. Part of her wants to ignore it. To stay inside, locked away from him. He’s dangerous. She have seen it. Felt it. That twisted kind of power he has.

that deadly smile. The way his eyes watch—like he can see through everything. The cruelty behind that calm voice… It shakes her. Terrifies her.

because this wasn’t just a meeting. It was a test.

“I’m not weak,” she whisper to herself, fingers curling into a fist. She stare at the phone screen again. The clock ticks.

then she stood up. Pulled on her jacket. And walked out into the night.

the wind howled between the buildings, tugging at Y/n’s jacket as she stepped through the creaking rooftop door. It slammed shut behind her with a heavy thunk, echoing across the empty rooftop like a warning. And then—she saw him.

Seong-Je.

leaning against the railing, cigarette hanging loose between two fingers. His hoodie hood down now, hair tousled from the wind. The glowing ember flared as he took a long drag.

he didn’t look at her. Not yet.

"You came," he said flatly, voice almost lost to the wind.

Y/n crossed her arms, trying not to shiver—from the cold or from him, she couldn’t tell. “You asked me to.”

“No,” he said. “I told you to.”

something in her clenched. “Same thing.”

he smiled. A quiet, unnerving thing. “Not really.” Another beat of silence. The kind that buzzed against skin.

"You almost didn’t answer," Seong-Je murmured, flicking the cigarette over the edge. "What were you afraid of?" Y/n met his gaze, jaw set tight. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Seong-Je tilts his head, eyes scanning them like he’s trying to decide whether to tear them apart or simply consume them.

“You should be.”

he stepped forward, slow. One step at a time. Now he was right in front of her. Close enough to smell the smoke and metal on his breath.

but Y/n didn’t back down. Her eyes flickered—fear, defiance, something harder underneath. “I’m not weak,” she said.

he raised a brow, smirking. “That’s what they all say… right before they break.”

and then his hand lifted, not to strike, not to touch. Just to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was soft. Too soft. It shouldn’t have been soft.

“I wonder,” he whispered, “how long you’ll last.”

Y/n’s heart thudded against her ribs—but her voice stayed steady. “Longer than you think.”

for a split second, he stared at her. Really stared.

and then he laughed. Low. Dark. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss her or throw her off the roof.

the wind picks up. Hair whips around her face. But neither of them flinch.

Seong-Je’s eyes are locked on hers—something unreadable flashing behind them. His smirk fades. Just for a second. Like he’s seeing her. Really seeing her. And for once, he doesn’t have something clever to say.

Y/n feels it too, the shift in the air. The pull. Like gravity got tired of working properly.

his hand hovers near her cheek, not quite touching, but close enough for the skin to buzz with static. Seong-Je’s hand stayed frozen in that space near her cheek, fingers slightly curled, trembling—not from hesitation, but from restraint. His gaze never wavered, eyes a murky storm of curiosity and control.

his voice dropped, quieter than before—no snark, no swagger. “You really don’t scare easy,” he murmurs, voice lower now. Rougher.

“I never said that,” Y/n answered, barely louder than the wind.

then he moved. Just a tilt of the head. Just a fraction closer.

his breath grazed her skin, hot and smoky. His nose brushed hers, a whisper of a touch. Their foreheads nearly touched. Her lips parted, unthinking. That was it. The precipice. The cliff edge.

Y/n didn’t move. She couldn’t.

her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. But she didn’t back away. Didn’t flinch. Not even when his thumb lightly grazed her jaw.

Not rough. Not cruel.

just… careful. Careful in a way he never was.

his lips hovered less than a breath away. Her lashes fluttered.

the whole city fell away beneath them.

and then—he stopped.

Seong-Je inhaled slowly. Something flickered across his face. Not desire. Not pity. Something more dangerous: restraint.

“Tch,” he breathed, pulling back like it burned him. A lazy smirk slid back into place like a mask. “Not yet.”

Y/n blinked, the cold air flooding back into the space between them like a slap. Her body still leaned toward him, unwilling to believe he pulled away first.

he turned his back on her, that same cocky swagger back in his step. But his shoulders were tense. Just enough to show it wasn’t easy.

as he reached the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, eyes still lit like a fuse.

“I’ll see you soon.”

and then he vanished down the stairs, leaving Y/n alone on the rooftop, standing in the ghost of something that almost happened.

the wind whispered around her like it knew what was lost in that moment. And her heart?

still racing like the kiss did happen.

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note: IT'S HERE Y'ALL 💯😚 chapter 3 finished 🫡🙌🏻 lmao haven't put the summary yet 😭🫠

#geum seong je #geum seongje #keum seongje #wolf keum #geum seong je x reader #geum seongje x reader #keum seongje x reader #wolf keum x reader #weak hero x reader #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class 2 #weak hero class one #weak hero class two #crossover #ghostface!seongje

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