#that frustration is absolutely maddening

[driedlillies]

The erasure of uchiha contribution to konoha’s founding makes me so sad because that village was as much madara’s dream as it was hashirama’s and his part in it deserves to be remembered. How does izuna get erased from everything when he was one of the strongest people of that time, an equal to Tobirama, and his death was the literal catalyst to the peace treaty and the village’s creation?

[some-pers0n]

Man what if Kinkajou was an actual character with a personality and not just a gatling gun of lol xd random funny dialogue and goofs who's trauma and general purpose to the narrative was completely ignored. that'd be nice

[iirulancorrino]

Long before Roe was overturned, providers’ desire to avoid risk—from professional ostracization to picketing to shootings—shadowed abortion care. This is why medical schools often refrained from offering training in terminating pregnancies, and why abortion procedures were not regularly performed in the vast majority of public hospitals. Since Dobbs, some medical institutions have gone further, hesitating to provide care to women such as Christina Zielke, who was rushed to a hospital in Painesville, Ohio, last September after experiencing heavy bleeding from a miscarriage. Instead of performing a dilation-and-curettage procedure to remove the pregnancy tissue from her uterus, the hospital staff discharged Zielke, apparently in response to a six-week abortion ban that had been passed by the Ohio state legislature. Zielke was soon lying in a bathtub in a pool of blood, wondering if she would die. After she lost consciousness, her family called 911, and paramedics eventually took her back to the hospital, where a doctor performed the procedure.

Such horror stories are a predictable consequence of the fear that criminalizing abortion has spread through the medical community. For fifty years, Roe protected providers from legal risks like the ones taken on by the Jane Collective, an underground network of women in Chicago. Collective members arranged more than eleven thousand illegal abortions in the late nineteen-sixties and early seventies, until a team of detectives raided their makeshift clinic and charged them with multiple counts of “conspiracy to commit abortion.” (Just before their cases went to trial, the Supreme Court legalized abortion.) Arguably, providers face greater legal dangers now than they did before Roe. Carole Joffe, a sociologist who has written about the history of abortion, told me that doctors who performed illegal procedures in the past “typically received sentences of a few years,” whereas physicians today face “an aggressive anti-abortion movement that, in some states, is calling for life imprisonment.” Abortion opponents have also targeted organizations such as Planned Parenthood with spurious lawsuits and violent attacks, in an effort to shut them down.

Planned Parenthood’s motto is “Care. No matter what.” These words suggest an uncompromising commitment to serving patients. Yet some pro-choice advocates feel that the group, along with other large organizations that have shaped the modern abortion-rights movement, has lately seemed more focussed on self-preservation than on taking bold risks. Tracy Weitz, a reproductive-rights scholar who directs the Center on Health, Risk, and Society, at American University, told me she is worried that these groups are being guided too strongly by attorneys whose priority is to shield them from lawsuits. The mission of Planned Parenthood is not “institutional survival,” Weitz said. “Their entire goal, their mission, is to serve patients.” If caution supersedes this goal, she warns, not only will patients suffer but the pro-choice movement will fall into a familiar trap. “One of the critiques of the abortion-rights movement is that we put too much faith in the law, believing that it would protect the right to abortion,” she said. “I think it’s ironic that all of a sudden we have turned over this movement to a whole new group of lawyers—not constitutional lawyers but risk managers.”

In the fall of 2021, a preview of how these dynamics could play out in a post-Roe era unfolded in Texas, after Governor Greg Abbott signed the Texas “heartbeat” bill. Better known as S.B. 8, the law banned abortion after six weeks of pregnancy, and it offered a ten-thousand-dollar bounty to any private citizen who successfully sued someone involved in such a procedure. In the view of some analysts, S.B. 8 was plainly unconstitutional—Roe v. Wade was then still federal law—and designed to intimidate both patients and providers. (Indeed, Planned Parenthood joined the A.C.L.U. and other groups in a lawsuit to block S.B. 8.) One might imagine that Planned Parenthood and other large pro-choice organizations, including the National Abortion Federation, which funds and supports many independent clinics, would have responded to this threat by urging providers to continue offering care and by pledging to defend anyone named in a lawsuit. Vicki Saporta, who served as the N.A.F.’s president until 2018, believes that such a strategy would have been both feasible and effective. “There could have been a legal-defense fund set up to pay out various ten-thousand-dollar suits while S.B. 8 was being challenged, and, in the meantime, care could have continued to be provided,” she said. Planned Parenthood and its affiliates, whose net assets exceed two billion dollars, have “the wherewithal to raise the legal-defense money,” she added.

Instead, Planned Parenthood’s South Texas affiliate instructed its providers to stop performing all abortions, even before six weeks. The affiliate’s apparent anxiety about lawsuits was shared by Planned Parenthood’s leaders and by its attorneys in Washington, who warned that Republicans in Texas could weaponize S.B. 8 to try to bankrupt the organization. Meanwhile, the N.A.F. announced that it would stop funding any providers and patients who didn’t comply with S.B. 8—and even pressed clinics to perform a second ultrasound after patients had endured Texas’s mandatory twenty-four-hour waiting period, in case a heartbeat could be detected then. Many Texas doctors refused to adhere to the N.A.F. directive. In fact, some physicians had the impulse to publicly flout S.B. 8. Shortly after the law took effect, Alan Braid, a provider in San Antonio, published an op-ed in the Washington Post in which he acknowledged having performed an abortion after the six-week limit. He explained that in the early seventies, while completing his ob-gyn residency, he had seen several women die from illegal abortions. “I understand that by providing an abortion beyond the new legal limit, I am taking a personal risk, but it’s something I believe in strongly,” he wrote. Braid told me recently that, at the time, he’d talked to several physicians who shared his feelings and who, like him, were willing to defy S.B. 8. If doctors were willing to fight, he wondered, why were institutions designed to protect women’s rights capitulating?

[scarletfasinera]

Castro and Khrushchev being so catty to each other in their letters back and forth during the "Cuban Missile Crisis"/October Crisis of 1962 is very fun to read all things considered

[absentlyabbie]

seriously, though. i work in higher education, and part of my job is students sending me transcripts. you'd think the ones who have the least idea how to actually do that would be the older ones, and while sure, they definitely struggle with it, i see it most with the younger students. the teens to early 20s crowd.

very, astonishingly often, they don't know how to work with .pdf documents. i get garbage phone screenshots, sometimes inserted into an excel or word file for who knows what reason, but most often it's just a raw .jpg or other image file.

they definitely either don't know how to use a scanner, don't have access to one, or don't even know where they might go for that (staples and other office supply stores sometimes still have these services, but public libraries always have your back, kids.) so when they have a paper transcript and need to send me a copy electronically, it's just terrible photos at bad angles full of thumbs and text-obscuring shadows.

mind bogglingly frequently, i get cell phone photos of computer screens. they don't know how to take a screenshot on a computer. they don't know the function of the Print Screen button on the keyboard. they don't know how to right click a web page, hit "print", and choose "save as PDF" to produce a full and unbroken capture of the entirety of a webpage.

sometimes they'll just copy the text of a transcript and paste it right into the message of an email. that's if they figure out the difference between the body text portion of the email and the subject line, because quite frankly they often don't.

these are people who in most cases have done at least some college work already, but they have absolutely no clue how to utilize the attachment function in an email, and for some reason they don't consider they could google very quickly for instructions or even videos.

i am not taking a shit on gen z/gen alpha here, i'm really not.

what i am is aghast that they've been so massively failed on so many levels. the education system assumed they were "native" to technology and needed to be taught nothing. their parents assumed the same, or assumed the schools would teach them, or don't know how themselves and are too intimidated to figure it out and teach their kids these skills at home.

they spend hours a day on instagram and tiktok and youtube and etc, so they surely know (this is ridiculous to assume!!!) how to draft a formal email and format the text and what part goes where and what all those damn little symbols means, right? SURELY they're already familiar with every file type under the sun and know how to make use of whatever's salient in a pinch, right???

THEY MUST CERTAINLY know, innately, as one knows how to inhale, how to type in business formatting and formal communication style, how to present themselves in a way that gets them taken seriously by formal institutions, how to appear and be competent in basic/standard digital skills. SURELY. Of course. RIGHT!!!!

it's MADDENING, it's insane, and it's frustrating from the receiving end, but even more frustrating knowing they're stumbling blind out there in the digital spaces of grown-up matters, being dismissed, being considered less intelligent, being talked down to, because every adult and system responsible for them just

ASSUMED they should "just know" or "just figure out" these important things no one ever bothered to teach them, or half the time even introduce the concepts of before asking them to do it, on the spot, with high educational or professional stakes.

kids shouldn't have to supplement their own education like this and get sneered and scoffed at if they don't.

[sacrificiallane]

──── fuzzy pink handcuffs !

pairing ! luke castellan x fem!reader content warning ! pure smut! established relationship / oral (male receiving) / rushed ending / usage of handcuffs (Luke is cuffed hehe) / mention of dom!Luke ♡

The son of Hermes was usually all about taking charge, eager to show you a good time all the god-damn time. And it's not like he wasn't good at it either, honestly. He'd always leave you satisfied.

But gods, he'd be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying that little show you were putting on just for him. A pink glittery cowboy hat prettily sat on top of your head, thighs on either side of him as you were straddling his lap, and his wrists bound to the headboard with "fuck―" fuzzy pink handcuffs...

"Come on princess," the metal rattled against the headboard with a sigh as he tried to get it loose, "y'know you won't go through with that. Hm?" Because he knew you better than that, knew that you would become tired and whiny just in mere minutes, and then beg him to finish the job for you.

But your cute little giggling noises made him overthink that statement again. Maybe you were going to go through with it, and that just made him restless.

"I'm serious, doll face."

But you were too. Very serious indeed about taking charge for now, as your fingers broadly traveled over your boyfriend’s defined body all the way down to his belt. It was seriously maddening to the dark haired demigod. You knew exactly where to press to coax out another groan.

"M‘ serious too. Very serious."

"Is that so?" Luke had to swallow at the sight of your warm fingers working him over his pants, gradually getting stiffer under your touch, too.

And that was your goal, wasn’t it? To tease him, just like he’d normally do you instead. This was sweet revenge for all the denying and teasing he would always put you through.

You hummed happily at the sight of his prominent boner, eyes flickering occasionally up to his own gaze, as though you were making sure that he was still cuffed to the headboard. Which he still was, of course, and much to his own demise…

Being satisfied with him still being bound, you resumed your journey down his v-line, until you became restless yourself and tugged his pants down. Just enough so that you could reach inside his boxers.

Luke hissed at your touch, head banging against the wooden headboard with a frustrated groan.

"Come on," he tried to coax you again, "the fun is over…, let me take charge now."

But you just wouldn’t listen…

Where your fingers had been, there was soon enough a heat surrounding his straining dick. Your tongue licking broadly over the underside, up and down, just to drive him immensely mad.

"Fuck―" he couldn’t keep himself quiet anymore. Your mouth was just so warm, and the way you were looking at him … lovesick and sweet, made it all the more difficult to keep his noises down.

Groans and such were spilling over your boyfriend’s lips with much more fervor as you began to do it the slightest bit quicker.

It was messy, as your drool mixed with his pre, making it easier to glide your tongue over all the spots that made him twitch.

"Fuck― baby," another groan as his fingers tightened around the handcuffs, as he would’ve normally gripped your hair by now, "a little more, come on…"

And the sight of you was absolutely sinful. Your lips all shiny and smeared with his pre - it had him tightening his whole body, twitching and huffing and "shit…"

Luke couldn’t have warned you even if he tried…, his chest just heaved up and down, out of breath, as ropes of cum spurted over your hands and painted your sweet little face with more and more sin…

[phoenixrisingastro]

Synastry Hot Takes: The Spicy Edition 🔥

When it comes to synastry, the stars don’t lie. Some connections sizzle with chemistry, while others leave you wondering if the universe is playing a joke. Here are some bold takes on synastry and aspects that might just explain why you can’t stop thinking about someone—or why they drive you absolutely insane.

---

1. Venus-Pluto Aspects

If you have Venus-Pluto in synastry, good luck. This aspect will have you obsessing over someone at 2 a.m., scrolling through their Instagram, wondering why they’re suddenly your entire universe. It’s magnetic, transformative, and absolutely maddening.

Hot Take: Is it love or a karmic lesson in boundaries? Probably both.

---

2. Mars-Uranus Aspects

Mars-Uranus synastry screams "instant attraction" with a side of unpredictability. This connection is electric—think whirlwind romance, sudden confessions, and "how did this happen so fast?" vibes.

Hot Take: It’s thrilling until one of you ghosts because the intensity was too much to handle.

---

3. Moon-Mars Aspects

Emotional meets physical with Moon-Mars in synastry. The passion is off the charts, but so are the arguments. You’ll either be making up... or breaking up... every other week.

Hot Take: This is the ultimate "can’t live with them, can’t live without them" aspect.

---

4. 12th House Synastry

When someone’s planets fall into your 12th house, it’s like they’ve stepped into your subconscious and started rearranging the furniture. The connection feels karmic, but it can also be confusing and heavy.

Hot Take: Is this soulmate energy or a psychological experiment? You’ll find out eventually (maybe).

---

5. Mars-Pluto Aspects

This is raw, primal attraction that’s almost impossible to ignore. The chemistry is undeniable, but the power struggles? Intense. It’s the kind of connection that can feel addictive and destructive at the same time.

Hot Take: Mars-Pluto synastry is like playing with fire—and loving every second of it.

---

6. Sun-Moon Aspects

In harmonious synastry, this is the “you complete me” aspect. In challenging synastry, it’s the “you don’t understand me at all” aspect. Either way, it’s impossible to ignore.

Hot Take: Sun-Moon connections are either soulmate energy or a masterclass in compromise.

---

7. 8th House Synastry

Planets in the 8th house in synastry create a connection so intense it feels fated. The physical and emotional chemistry is unmatched, but the vulnerability can be overwhelming.

Hot Take: This is "I’ll never forget them" energy—but it might cost you your sanity.

---

8. Mercury-Mercury Aspects

When Mercury synastry flows, the conversations never stop, and you feel like you’ve met your mental match. But if it’s in hard aspect, it’s just endless debates and miscommunications.

Hot Take: Intellectual foreplay or exhausting mind games—there’s no in-between.

---

9. Venus-Mars Aspects

Venus-Mars synastry is all about sexual tension. The attraction is magnetic, but if the aspects are challenging, it can turn into a frustrating game of “who’s in control here?”

Hot Take: This is that “love-hate” energy everyone secretly craves.

---

10. Saturn Synastry

Saturn synastry can feel heavy, but it’s what makes a connection last. It’s all about lessons, commitment, and (sometimes) karma. You either grow together or feel trapped in a cosmic lecture series.

Hot Take: Saturn synastry is the “parent” of the zodiac—strict, but it keeps you grounded.

---

Which synastry aspect do you secretly love (or hate)? Share your stories below! 😉

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Professor!Viktor Headcanons

Professor!Viktor who just knows you're not in mechanical engineering 101 to learn anything. Every week you come to class, sit in the front row at the table closest to his desk, and openly stare at him like there's nobody else around you. You rest your cheek in the palm of your hand, with a slight pout of your plump lips, and watch him like a lovesick puppy. You always wear tops that are much too low and skirts that are much too short for university, and he's certain it’s only to check what makes him tick. But if you think that's going to be enough, you're sorely mistaken: there are few people he dislikes more than those who go through school mindlessly, without any intent to study or to give it their all. And you're not the first, nor the last, to try and get his attention like this. So, he ignores you.

Professor!Viktor who is genuinely surprised to see the result of your first class quiz is an A+. A stroke of luck, maybe? But then comes the second quiz, and the third, and the first big assignment, and you ace all of them brilliantly. He can't help a few wayward glances towards you during his lectures, trying to understand how you do it. The button of your dress shirt is pulled so tightly it might give out at any moment, and he can see the colour of your bra without meaning to: a vibrant lavender with pale lace. You're still looking at him with that enamoured look in your eyes, batting your eyelashes, visibly not absorbing a single word he says.

Professor!Viktor who asks you to come by his office after class at the mid-semester, because it's driving him insane. You keep getting the top marks for every single exam, but you never show an inkling of attention in class. All you do is sit there, dumb and pretty, begging him with your eyes to take you right there and then. You probably wouldn't even mind if it was in front of the other students; maybe that's part of whatever steamy fantasy goes through your mind during his lectures. Since last week, you've started ‘accidentally’ letting your pen fall off your desk, bending down at ridiculous angles to show him (and only him) the full expense of your thighs and the thin fabric of your panties. Your lack of subtlety is becoming as outrageous as it is a little endearing. And yes, he would be lying if he said it didn't affect him, that he didn't have frustrating thoughts of you at night. Thoughts he absolutely shouldn't have towards a student of his, no matter how blatantly flirtatious. But the conundrum that you are has managed to crawl under his skin, and he wants to fuck some respect for academia into you. He wants to give you exactly what you've been pleading for for weeks, until you understand exactly why you should have listened to him in class. But he has to know the truth behind your grades, first. If it turns out you've been cheating, then he'll expel you from the course without a second thought. But if you haven't…

Professor!Viktor who makes you sit on a chair in his office, opting to stand in front of you. He had intended it to be intimidating, but it's clearly having the opposite effect with the wanting expression on your face, your lips slightly parted in waiting. He’s certain that with only one word from him, you'd be on your knees and ready to suck his cock. And it's an idea that's getting harder and harder to resist, with that infernal way you always look at him. He thinks it might be the first time he’s heard your voice when you speak up. It sounds as pretty as the rest of you, just asking to be broken down into pants and moans. He’s very disappointed to learn all you've been doing is recording his lessons with your phone, and listening to them again at home. But then, you confess to something else.

Professor!Viktor who is unable to reply immediately, because the thought of you, riding a vibrator as you listen to recordings of him talking about linear algebra, is absolutely maddening. He can't get over the fact that you're so focused on his voice when you fuck yourself on your toys that you manage to remember all of the basics of kinematics for the exams. It's an unorthodox method, without a doubt, but you've proven its efficacity; and who is he to tell you how to best do your studying?

Professor!Viktor who agrees to let you keep audio recording his classes for the rest of the semester, and who promises that if you keep up the string of perfect grades, he’ll let you have the real thing at the end.

[hoshifighting]

Hi! How are you? This is my first request ever on this app... First of all, i have to say that you're my absolute favorite writer here! Kudos to you, really. Second of all, can i request for a dom hao where he says: "beg me.. beg me cutely" i can't stop thinking about when he said that on a fancall one day... well.. that's it. Thanks in advanced.

dom!minghao asking you to beg him cutely

a/n: your first ask? welcome anon!! thank you for all the love <333 and UGH minghao its such a tease!!! i rushed to see this fancall and left speechless

WARNINGS: smut, pillow/hand riding, begging, penetrative sex, dirty talk, slight humilliation kink

your breath is uneven, shaky gasps leaving your lips as you grind against minghao’s palm, which is pressed firm between you and the pillow. the friction is maddening—his fingers raise just slightly sometimes, just to brush your swollen clit. but it’s not enough. not nearly enough. your thighs are trembling, muscles aching from the effort of riding his hand for what feels like an eternity.

“hao,” you whimper, your voice breaking on his name.

he tilts his head, looking at you with that maddeningly calm expression, like this isn’t driving you out of your mind. “what is it, baby?”

“please,” you beg, trying to lean into him, your hands reaching for his shoulders, his neck—anything to ground yourself.

but minghao dodges your touch, effortlessly leaning back and away from your grasp, his hand never faltering in its rhythm. “ah, ah,” he chides softly, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “no shortcuts. keep going.”

you groan in frustration, your hips stuttering as you try to push harder against his palm, desperate for relief. “please, hao, i—i can’t—”

“you can,” he interrupts, his tone firm but not unkind. “you’re doing so well. don’t stop now.”

you bite your lip, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all. the pillow beneath you is damp, your arousal soaking through the fabric, and your body feels like it’s on the verge of breaking apart. “hao, please, i need—i need your cock. please.”

he raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your plea. “that’s not how you ask, is it?”

you shake your head, a frustrated sob slipping from your lips. “hao, i can’t—my legs—please, please just—”

“no,” he says simply, his voice steady and commanding. “if you want it, you know what to do.”

you whimper, your movements growing erratic as you try to find the right angle, the right pressure, anything to make you finally cum. your hands clench into fists, your nails digging into the pillow beneath you.

“beg me,” minghao says,. his free hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with almost agonizing tenderness. “but beg me cutely, and maybe i’ll think about it.”

your cheeks flush, the humiliation of his demand only heightening the tension coiling in your core. you look up at him, your eyes wide and pleading, your lips trembling as you force the words out.

“please, hao,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “please, i need you. i need you so bad. i’ll be good, i promise—just please.”

he hums thoughtfully, his fingers pressing just a little harder against your clit, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. “hmm. better. but i know you can do cuter than that.”

your pride wars with your desperation, but in the end, it’s no contest. “please, hao,” you whimper, your voice high and breathy, your body trembling from the effort. “please, i’ll be so good for you. i’ll do anything you want. just—just give it to me. please.”

his smirk deepens, satisfaction flickering in his dark eyes. “good girl,” he murmurs, his hand finally leaving the pillow to guide you closer. “see? i knew you had it in you.”

minghao’s eyes darken as he lines himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked folds, teasing and infuriatingly slow. “so desperate for me. i should’ve made you beg longer.”

you don’t even have it in you to respond. your body is trembling, your thighs twitching as you try to push yourself back onto him, but his hands grip your hips firmly, keeping you still.

“patience,” he says, but the smirk on his lips tells you he’s enjoying every second of your torment.

finally, finally, he pushes in, stretching you so perfectly that your back arches off the pillow beneath you. you let out a loud, husky moan, your hands scrambling to grip onto something—his arms, the sheets, anything to keep yourself grounded as he sinks deeper. “fuck, fuck, fuck” you gasp through gritted teeth, your chest heaving. the burn is intense, your body adjusting to the intrusion, but it’s exactly what you’ve been craving.

minghao doesn’t give you much time to recover. he sets a pace that’s just on the edge of too much, his hips snapping against yours and it has your eyes rolling back almost instantly. “you’re such a mess,” he mutters, one hand moving to grip your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. “so needy. you couldn’t even wait, could you? had to have me right now.”

his words send a shiver down your spine, and you moan, your voice breaking as your hips start to move on their own, meeting his thrusts halfway. your movements are frantic, desperate, like you’re in heat and he’s the only thing that can cool the fire burning inside you. “hao,” you whimper, your hands clawing at his back, leaving red trails down his skin. “please, don’t stop—don’t stop, don’t—”

“wasn’t planning to,” he cuts you off, his voice strained. the effort it takes to keep his composure is written all over his face, beads of sweat forming at his temples, his brows furrowed in concentration.

you feel like you’re losing control, your hips bucking wildly against his as your lungs burn, each breath a struggle to catch. every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the wet, obscene noises of him filling you.

“so greedy. can’t get enough, hmm?”

you nod frantically, unable to form a coherent response as your nails dig into his arms, holding onto him like a lifeline.

he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. “you feel so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling with restraint. “so tight, so perfect. you’re gonna cum for me?”

you moan in response, your walls clenching around him as your body spirals closer and closer to release. your head falls back, your mouth open in a silent scream as you lose yourself completely, your hips moving without rhythm, chasing that high. minghao’s grip tightens on your hips, holding you steady as he thrusts even deeper, hitting that perfect spot that has you seeing fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. he groans, his pace faltering as he chases his own orgasm. “cum for me, baby. let me feel you.”

your vision blurs, your ears ringing as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and boneless beneath him. minghao follows soon after, a low groan escaping his lips as he thrusts one last time, his release spilling inside you.

[levanterhaze]

── GAMEBOY, BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬 fratboy!bangchan x f!reader dirty talk, masturbation, rough sex, slight choking, use of nicknames, overstimulation among other things I can't even name

♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.

[10k words ]♡― once again, I must thank you all for your love and for continuing to enjoy gameboy! this chapter is a bit long, but for me it's interesting to write the development of the characters to get where we want to go! don't forget to listen to the playlist and those who just got here PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.

♡― THE PLAYLIST.

♡ [part one] ♡ [part two] ♡ [part three] ♡ [part four]

On the corner of my bed Oh, and maybe on the beach You could do it on your own While you're lookin' at me

After absolutely killing your performance of Out Here On My Own, the applause hit you like a tidal wave. A standing ovation. Even Mrs. Baek looked mildly impressed, which, considering her usual stone-cold demeanor, basically meant she was internally sobbing.

And just like that, all the nerves? Gone. Vanished into thin air like they were never even there.

Bangchan had been watching—because of course, he had—but before you could revel in that fact for too long, he got a call and had to bounce. Typical.

You should have been freaking out about the whole making out backstage situation. Should’ve been scanning every corner for witnesses, mentally preparing for a campus-wide scandal. But weirdly? You weren’t. That reckless, confident part of you—the one still floating on cloud nine—did not care. If anything, you could still feel him. His touch on your waist like a phantom burn, his lips still branded on yours.

But whatever. You had bigger things to stress about. The final list wasn’t coming out until Monday, which meant you had the entire weekend to sit in pure, unfiltered agony over it. Luckily, Saturday’s party was the perfect excuse to get out of your head for a while.

Fast forward through a day of pretending to be studious with Sohee—aka desperately trying to focus while your brain replayed that kiss—you finally took a well-earned shower and decided to go for a solo nighttime stroll. 

Campus was still alive, students buzzing around in little clusters, laughing and talking like they didn’t have impending deadlines. You shoved your headphones in, following the athletics track, which was mostly empty by now.

The night air had that perfect, crisp breeze—the kind that made you grateful you threw on a cardigan. And just when you thought the moment couldn’t get any better, Wonderwall started playing. You smirked to yourself. Damn, you loved this song.

And yet, with every step, your brain kept poking at you like an annoying little sibling. Anxiety, sure. But let’s not forget the other mess currently occupying premium real estate in your mind—Hyunjin.

You hadn’t talked to him since you drunkenly spilled your guts, quite literally, about your whole Bangchan situation. And if you were being honest, which you weren’t, at least not with yourself, you were actively dodging that conversation. Because talking to Hyunjin meant facing your own feelings, and frankly, you were not clocked in for that emotional labor.

Your phone lit up mid-walk.

Mingyu: can I see you today?

You chewed on your lip, staring at the message. It was almost ridiculous how this boy—new, uncomplicated, and seemingly sincere—wanted something real with you. And yet, here you were, hesitating. Because no matter how nice Mingyu was, your brain wasn’t stuck on him.

It was stuck on someone else.

On a certain maddening, frustrating, insanely good kisser who had, at some point, tattooed himself onto your skin. If physical touch could be permanent, Bangchan’s hands would be everywhere on you. And, let’s be honest, you wouldn’t exactly be filing a complaint about it.

Before you even processed the decision, your feet had already made it for you. You were crossing campus, heading straight for his dorm.

Because you needed to talk. Like adults. No teasing, no sarcastic little jabs—just honesty.

And, okay, maybe you needed to see him, too. Feel him. More than ever.

Your determination was fuel to the fire already burning inside you. Your heart was pounding, your brain was screaming at you to calm down, but your body wasn’t taking any orders tonight. That feverish, all-consuming pull settled deep in your gut, an intoxicating mix of adrenaline, nerves, and something terrifyingly real.

You took the stairs two at a time, like the damn dorm might vanish before you got there.

By the time you reached his door, you were clutching your excitement close, biting back a smile even as your fingers trembled. Deep breath. You knocked, quick and sure.

It’s fine. He’ll listen. You’ll talk. You’ll finally—

The door swung open.

And instead of a tall, dark-haired boy, you were met with her.

She was pretty. Unfairly, effortlessly pretty—the kind of girl who belonged on magazine covers and in the daydreams of poets. Medium height, light hair, bright eyes. The kind of face men went to war over.

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

“Hi!” she greeted, all warmth and ease, completely oblivious to the way the air had just been sucked out of your lungs.

You swallowed, forcing a polite nod. “Uh, hey… is Bangchan here?”

She shook her head, smiling like this was just any other casual conversation. And that’s when you noticed it—his black t-shirt, draped over her frame.

“Oh, no. He went to grab some food.” she tilted her head, something curious in her gaze. “Are you a friend of his? Oh! Sorry—I’m Yeojin. His girlfriend. And you are…?”

Her words hit like a gut punch, sucking the warmth right out of your chest.

A bitter laugh bubbled up, but you swallowed it down, masking the sting with a tight-lipped smile. “A classmate,” you said smoothly. “I just had a question, but… I think it can wait till Monday.”

And just like that, the fire inside you? Extinguished.

The girl pursed her glossy lips, then nodded politely. “Okay. I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

“No need.” the words left your mouth before she could even finish. “Thanks, Yeojin.”

Her name felt like venom rolling off your tongue, thick and bitter, coating your mouth with something vile.

By the time you hit the stairs, you were moving so fast you were honestly surprised you didn’t wipe out. Your pulse was a hammer against your ribs, your breath uneven. Your brain hadn’t even caught up yet—stuck on a loop, trying to process the absolute train wreck that had just unfolded.

He had a girlfriend this whole time.

He lied to you.

He did exactly what everyone said he would.

The sharp sting of disappointment curdled into full-blown anger. Your steps turned heavier, each one smacking against the pavement like a silent war drum. You were so locked into getting to your dorm—so wound up with the need to disappear into your own space—you probably would’ve plowed through half a dozen people without a second thought.

But fate had a sick sense of humor. Because halfway across campus, you spotted him.

Bangchan, heading back toward the dorms, a paper bag dangling from his hand—food, obviously, because why wouldn’t he be casually picking up dinner while your world imploded?

His eyes lit up the second he saw you, but that moment of warmth flickered out fast when you didn’t even look at him. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. Just walked right past him like he was nothing—like he was air—nearly clipping his arm in the process.

He stood there for two seconds, frozen, before spinning around. Your name tore from his lips, sharp and urgent.

“What happened?” when you didn’t answer, his voice shot up, strained. “Where are you going?”

You sucked in a deep breath, your whole body practically vibrating with anger. Then, before you could stop yourself, you spun around and marched right back toward him, each step digging into the grass like you were stomping out a fire.

“To my dorm,” you snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business. Oh, and fun fact—I just came back from yours.” sarcasm dripped from your voice like honey laced with poison.

Bangchan blinked, his brain buffering like a slow-loading webpage. The look on his face almost made you laugh—almost. Instead, you just smiled, sharp and humorless. Yeah, process that, asshole.

You turned to leave, but before you could, his hand caught yours. Not your wrist, like some desperate last-ditch grab—your hand. Like he meant it. And the second your skin met his, it was like touching an open flame.

“Let me explain.” his voice was tight, urgent.

“Don’t touch me.” you yanked your hand back like it burned. “I don’t give a shit about whatever excuse you’re about to pull out of your ass.”

His jaw clenched. “Can you stop being so damn stubborn and just listen to me for once?”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, you wanna explain?” you licked your lips, tasting nothing but bitterness. “Go ahead. Explain how you had a girlfriend this whole time while you were fucking around with me.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut—on both of you.

Because, deep down, being with you had never been defined. No labels. No promises. No safety net to fall back on. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Bangchan’s brows snapped together. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t even try it.” you scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re really gonna stand there and lie to my face? I saw her.”

His frustration bubbled over, his arms flying up in exasperation. “I genuinely have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” his voice cracked with frustration. He looked at you like he was praying for some divine intervention to make sense of this mess. “If you’re talking about—”

“Just go back to your girlfriend and leave me alone, Bangchan.” your voice was steady, but he wasn’t stupid—he saw the fire still burning in your eyes, catching in the moonlight.

And maybe if he had taken half a second to think, he wouldn’t have said it. Maybe he would’ve swallowed his pride and stopped himself from making it worse.

But he didn’t.

“Whatever, right?” he scoffed, voice laced with something bitter. “It’s not like we were anything.”

You pressed your lips together, jaw tight, throat burning like you’d swallowed glass. And for the first time in your life, really the first, you felt so humiliated—so stupid—that your eyes burned with unshed tears.

Bangchan saw it. Saw the way your waterline glistened, saw the way your breath hitched, but you wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not for him.

“If you really think that’s the problem, then that says a whole lot more about you than it does about me.” your voice was sharp, but quiet, like a blade sliding back into its sheath.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

You turned on your heel and walked away, each step fueled by a firestorm of anger, hurt, and something else you weren’t ready to name. Bangchan watched you go, standing frozen in place, and by the time he even thought about stopping you—

It was too late.

Outside your dorm, you yanked your phone out of your pocket, fingers flying across the screen like a woman on a mission. Your pulse was still hammering, adrenaline buzzing under your skin as you pulled up Mingyu’s contact and typed without hesitation.

You: Feel like crashing a party on Saturday?

Barely a beat passed before your phone vibrated with his response.

Mingyu: You had me at “party.”

Bangchan pushed open the door to his dorm with more force than necessary, letting it slam shut behind him. His pulse was still racing, his jaw tight with frustration.

And there she was. Yeojin.

Lying on his bed, scrolling through her phone like she owned the place. His old sweatshirt was hanging off her shoulder, and she barely spared him a glance when he walked in.

“Oh, you’re back,” she said, swinging her legs idly. “Didn’t take you long.”

Bangchan set his bag of takeout on the desk and exhaled sharply through his nose. “What the hell did you say to her?”

Yeojin finally looked up, her expression the perfect blend of innocence and amusement. “Say what exactly?”

His fingers flexed at his sides. “You know what,” he ground out. “You told her we’re together. Why?”

She tilted her head, brows lifting. “I never said that.”

Bangchan let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeojin, don’t play games with me.”

“I didn’t, Chan.” she sighed dramatically, stretching her arms over her head. “She asked if you were here, I said no, and I introduced myself. It’s not my fault if she jumped to conclusions.”

He clenched his jaw, glaring at her. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

She just smiled. “So what if it is?” her voice dropped, teasing, as she sat up. “You used to like when I messed with people.”

Bangchan took a step back when she reached for him, his whole body recoiling instinctively.

“We’re not kids anymore, Yeojin,” he muttered. “And I don’t have time for this.” he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “I got Thai food. Help yourself.”

Before she could say anything else, he was gone.

The cool night air did little to calm Bangchan’s nerves as he walked toward the basketball court, fists shoved in his hoodie pockets. His mind was a mess, replaying the way you had looked at him—like he was exactly what people warned you about.

Before he could spiral further, a familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

“Damn, what’s with the face?” Changbin asked, appearing from the other side of the path. “You look like you wanna punch a hole in a wall.”

Bangchan exhaled sharply. “Not a wall.”

Changbin frowned. “What the hell happened?”

Bangchan hesitated before tilting his head toward the court. “Basketball first. Talking later.”

Changbin smirked. “I like where this is going.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bangchan sat on the edge of the basketball court, legs stretched out, elbows resting on his knees, looking like life had personally drop-kicked him.

Across from him, Changbin dribbled the ball lazily, waiting. And waiting. Until his patience ran out.

“So?” Changbin finally asked, passing him the ball. “Spill.”

Bangchan caught it, staring at it for a second before shaking his head. “Yeojin’s here.”

Changbin nearly fumbled the rebound. “I’m sorry—what?” his face twisted in immediate disgust. “What the hell is she doing here?”

Bangchan sighed. “She came to visit. Said she was in town. It’s been years, and I figured—whatever, right? No harm in catching up.”

Changbin let out a dry laugh. “No harm? Bro, she’s a walking red flag. Why would you even entertain that?”

Bangchan pressed his tongue against his cheek. “I don’t know, man. Nostalgia? I mean, we didn’t exactly end badly, we just—” he sighed. “Didn’t work.”

Changbin scoffed. “Yeah, well, I never liked her. You know that.” 

Bangchan dribbled once, then tossed the ball toward the hoop. It hit the rim, circled, then dropped through the net. “There’s more.”

Changbin folded his arms. “Yeah, no shit. You’re sitting here like you just found out Santa isn’t real. What else happened?”

Bangchan caught the rebound and exhaled. “She saw.”

Changbin frowned. “Saw what?”

Bangchan gave him a look.

“Oh.” Changbin winced. “Shit.” he let out a slow whistle. “That’s… bad.”

“No shit,” Bangchan muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “She showed up at my dorm, and instead of me opening the door, Yeojin did.”

Changbin groaned. “Dude. No.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” Bangchan went on, voice dripping with frustration. “Yeojin, being the manipulative little menace she is, basically introduced herself as my girlfriend.”

Changbin stared at him like he just admitted to murder. “And she believed that?”

Bangchan laughed bitterly. “Why wouldn’t she? The look she gave me, man… like I was exactly what she expected. Some asshole playing games.”

Changbin studied him for a second. “And that bothers you.”

Bangchan scoffed. “Of course it fucking bothers me.” he leaned forward, gripping the ball tight. “She drives me insane, Bin. Like—she acts like it’s nothing. Like whatever we had was just this casual, meaningless thing. But then she turns around and—” he exhaled sharply. “Her actions say otherwise. She looks at me like she feels something. She reacts like she cares. But every time I get close, she shuts it down.”

Changbin snorted, rolling the ball between his palms. “So basically, she’s bullshitting, you’re bullshitting, and now you’re both miserable?”

Bangchan shot him a glare.

Changbin smirked. “I mean, she won’t admit she likes you, and you’re sitting here trauma-dumping on me instead of doing something about it.”

Bangchan groaned, tilting his head back against the wall. “She’s pissed, Bin. Like, really pissed.”

“So fix it.”

Bangchan laughed humorlessly. “Yeah. Easier said than done.”

Changbin passed him the ball. “So what now?”

Bangchan caught it, staring down at the faded lettering on the rubber. That was the question, wasn’t it? Because right now, you wanted nothing to do with him.

And honestly? He deserved it.

Saturday morning. Group breakfast. Good vibes. At least, that’s what you were aiming for.

You were mid-story, telling Felix how the auditions had gone, when the universe decided to test your patience. Again.

Changbin strolled in with Jisung, Bangchan, and—you had to blink twice just to confirm—Yeojin.

Of course. Because it wasn’t enough that he lied. He had to parade it around like some kind of grand event.

“I need a fat slice of chocolate cake,” Changbin announced, dropping into his seat. “Something sweet to cleanse the absolute trash energy in the air.”

Your eyes flicked to Yeojin, who was standing a little too comfortably next to Bangchan. 

“Yeojin, long time no see,” Hyunjin greeted, all polite and civil.

She beamed. “Hyunjin! Oh my God, it’s really you!” she gushed, voice dripping with enthusiasm. You wanted to be a girl’s girl, really—you did. But something about her tone made your eye twitch.

“Who’s that?” Sohee whispered, not even bothering to be discreet.

“Oh, nice to meet you,” Yeojin said, flashing a smile that felt way too rehearsed. “Yeojin. Chan’s friend.”

She said it like she was accepting a damn award. The table went dead silent. Everyone shared a look.

You, however, remained completely unbothered, taking a slow sip of your strawberry milk like you had all the time in the world.

Bangchan slid into the seat across from you, throwing not-so-subtle glances in your direction—just in case you maybe wanted to acknowledge his existence.

You didn’t. Instead, you busied yourself with literally anything else. The napkins. The straw in your drink. The slow, satisfying process of ignoring him.

If he wanted your attention, he’d have to earn it.

Yeojin was annoyingly easy to get along with. Effortless charm, perfectly timed laughs—like she’d studied the art of socializing and graduated top of her class. And maybe that wouldn’t have bothered you if you didn’t feel an immediate, inexplicable urge to dislike her.

Maybe it was the way she smiled just a little too much. Like she was in on some inside joke that no one else was laughing at. Or how she leaned into Bangchan like he had his own gravitational pull, always conveniently this close to falling into his lap.

For someone who had been so desperate to explain himself last night, he looked awfully comfortable letting her cling to him now.

“So, everyone’s going tonight, right?” Jisung asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

Yeojin jumped on the conversation like it was an open invitation. “What’s tonight?”

“Jisung’s DJing at a party,” Eunji answered, taking a sip of her drink.

Yeojin hummed, tilting her head in that thoughtful but not really way. “I was going to leave after lunch, but… I guess I can stay a little longer.”

She glanced at Bangchan like she was waiting for permission.

Too bad he wasn’t paying attention. His focus was glued to his phone, fingers tapping out a message.

Your own phone buzzed in your pocket.

Bangchan: can we talk?

Your eyes flicked up, purely on instinct. And there he was. Watching you.

You frowned, pulled out your phone, read the message, and stuffed it right back in your pocket. No response.

The table blurred into background noise. Laughter, conversation, the occasional clatter of silverware—it all melted into static. Because Bangchan was still looking. That steady, expectant stare that made your skin itch. That made your chest feel a little too tight.

Your phone buzzed again.

Bangchan: you can’t ignore me forever.

Bet.

You smirked to yourself. If Bangchan thought he could tell you what to do, he had another thing coming.

Grabbing the strap of your bag, you stood up, all casual confidence, and turned to Sohee and Eunji. “I’m heading out with Hyunjin.” no further explanation. Just a statement.

Hyunjin, caught in the crossfire of whatever this was, frowned. “Wait—what? Since when?”

You just kept walking, tossing a grin over your shoulder. “Since right now. Just smile and act natural.”

 You made sure to take the long way around the table, passing directly in front of Bangchan—not looking at him. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just air.

Hyunjin, still struggling to keep up, shot a quick glance back before leaning in. “Okay, seriously, what was that? Bangchan looked like he was about to start breathing fire.”

You flicked your hair over your shoulder, your smirk widening.

“Revenge, Hyun. Just a little harmless revenge.”

The house was packed.

Neon lights flickered wildly, splashing the room in chaotic waves of electric blue and fiery red, pulsing in sync with the bass. The air was thick—heat, sweat, cheap cologne, and the sharp sting of alcohol weaving together into something intoxicating. The floor thrummed beneath your boots, bodies moving in effortless rhythm, a silent agreement to just let go.

Jisung was at the DJ booth, throwing in ad-libs between transitions, hyping up the crowd like he was born for this. A remix dropped, shaking the walls, and the entire party roared in approval. Off-campus ragers had a way of making reality blur, like stepping into a fever dream.

Perfect.

Eunji and Sohee spotted you first, their eyes going comically wide, like they’d just witnessed the second coming of Christ.

“Jesus, look at you,” Sohee gasped, gripping your arm for dear life.

Eunji gave a solemn nod. “This outfit should be illegal.”

You twirled, just enough to let your skirt flare out, a little reminder of why you picked it.

“Drinks first, right?” you pointed at Hyunjin, who gave you an approving nod.

You peeled away from the group, squeezing through the sweaty crowd toward a corner where a massive keg stood like a beacon of bad decisions. There were stronger drinks, but you decided to take it easy—for now.

Then, in half a second, you felt it. Like your body already knew, like a moth drawn to a flame.

Under the pulsing red lights, he looked dangerous. A predator in slow motion, moving through the crowd with that effortless, lazy confidence that made people either run toward him or clear a path. Flashes of white and blue caught the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. A contrast—razor-edged and infuriatingly soft all at once.

And yet. You couldn’t focus on any of that.

Because Yeojin was practically clinging to him.

Talking—laughing, leaning, performing—but Bangchan barely seemed to notice. If anything, he looked somewhere else entirely. Somewhere you were. Because the second your eyes met, his focus locked in.

And he started moving. One step. Then another.

But before he could take a third, an arm slid around your waist.

Mingyu.

His touch was warm, firm—a perfectly timed lifeline. His lips brushed against your ear, voice low and deliberate. “Have I mentioned you look insane tonight?”

A slow, satisfied smile curled on your lips. Perfect.

Through the neon haze, you caught Bangchan’s reaction over Mingyu’s shoulder. Electric blue light flickered across his face like something straight out of a movie scene.

Oh, he was pissed. Not just annoyed. Not just irritated. Seething.

Jaw clenched. Shoulders tight. Eyes locked onto you with an intensity that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

Good.

Mingyu pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Dance with me?”

You let the question hang, stretching the moment just because you could—fully aware of your audience. Then, with a casual flick of your fingers, you grabbed Mingyu’s wrist and turned back to your friends.

And that’s when the remix hit.

The song of the summer. A full-blown club anthem blasted through the house, lights flashing in sync with the bass, and suddenly Eunji and Sohee were dragging you onto the dance floor. You barely had time to toss Mingyu a look before pulling him into the crowd with you.

Sohee was already wrapped around her boyfriend’s neck, hair flying as she danced like she was possessed, while Minho just laughed at her antics. Jisung was losing his mind behind the DJ booth, hyping up the party like a man on a mission.

And Bangchan? He didn’t move. He just watched.

Watched as you danced. Watched as Mingyu’s hands found your waist. Watched as you threw your head back, laughing, moving with the beat like you had nothing to prove.

And under the pulsing red lights, with silver glitter catching on your cheekbones, you didn’t just look good. You looked untouchable.

And he looked like a man about to start a war.

You spun around, arms draped over Mingyu’s shoulders as his hands trailed down to your waist, pulling you into the rhythm. To anyone watching, you two looked dangerously close—every move synced, every touch easy, like this was something more than just a party moment. But in the back of your mind, a small, annoying voice reminded you that this wasn’t about Mingyu at all.

Still, too late now.

The strobe lights flashed in bursts, making everything feel like a glitch in time—jumping, dancing, bodies moving like there was no tomorrow. You lost sight of Bangchan for a while, which was probably for the best. So, you let go. Had fun. Actually enjoyed yourself with your friends.

Until someone slammed into you, knocking the air right out of your lungs.

One second, Mingyu was right there. The next, he was gone, practically launched across the floor. “What the—” you barely got the words out before you saw the damage.

Changbin stood there, wide-eyed, drenched in a suspiciously pink drink, looking like he just survived a battlefield. And Mingyu? Equally soaked, equally stunned, like he was still processing what the hell just happened.

“Dude, shit—sorry!” Changbin shouted, voice barely cutting through the music.

You blinked, taking in the absolute mess before turning back to him. “Are you good?”

Changbin nodded rapidly, looking between you and Mingyu like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or start running. “Yeah, yeah, my bad!”

Then he turned back to Mingyu, hands up like a man pleading for his life.

Mingyu just let out a sigh, lifting the hem of his now ruined white T-shirt like he was mourning a fallen soldier. “Alright. I’ll be right back,” he said, shaking his head before disappearing into the crowd.

Meanwhile, Changbin grabbed your arm, his expression serious—well, as serious as someone drenched in a neon-pink drink could look. He gestured for you to follow, weaving through the bodies until you reached the foot of the stairs.

“What?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Can you grab me a shirt? I left one in Jisung’s backpack.”

You took a second to assess the situation. Changbin, slightly tipsy, covered in pink, blinking at you like a lost puppy. He looked ridiculous.

With a dramatic sigh, you caved. “Fine.”

“You’re the best,” he said, clasping his hands like he was praising the heavens. “It’s in the room on the right, upstairs.”

You turned, climbing the stairs while dodging couples making out on the steps like it was some kind of kissing marathon. Once you reached the hallway, you scanned the doors—long corridor, a few rooms—until you spotted one slightly open on the right.

Alright. In and out. Quick mission.

Stepping inside, you started searching for Jisung’s bag—first the floor, then the bed. Nothing.

And then—

Movement.

From the corner of your eye, a figure emerged from behind the bed, rising like a shadow from the dark.

Your breath caught. Bangchan. Standing there. Watching you.

A black cable twirled between his fingers, slow and deliberate, his gaze unreadable under the dim glow of the hallway lights.

“What?” you were the first to break the silence, arms crossing instinctively. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Bangchan gave you a flat look, holding up the black cable like it was evidence in court. “I should be asking you that. I came to get Han’s charger.” he raised an eyebrow, gaze sharp, like he wasn’t entirely convinced.

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to deliver something scathing—but before you could get a word out, the door swung open again.

“Sorry, kids! Not opening this door until you sort yourselves out!”

You barely had time to process Changbin’s smug, drunken grin before the door slammed shut.

For half a second, you froze.

Then you launched at the door, fists pounding like you could open it through sheer rage. “Changbin, open this fucking door right now!”

No answer. Just the distant thrum of music, too muffled for anyone outside to hear you scream bloody murder.

You yanked at the handle—definitely locked.

With a sharp inhale, you turned, glaring daggers at Bangchan, who was just… standing there. Watching. Amused.

“Are you just gonna stand there? Do something!”

His lips twitched, like he was this close to laughing. “Pretty sure this is your problem, not mine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, so now you don’t wanna get involved?”

Bangchan sighed—slow, exaggerated—before strolling up to the door, resting a lazy hand on the knob, and giving it a completely useless jiggle. Then he turned back to you with a straight face.

“Yeah. It’s locked.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then scoffed so hard you nearly choked.

“No shit, Sherlock. Are you serious?”

Bangchan couldn’t help it—he laughed. Because you were spiraling, and honestly? It was funny as hell.

“I’ll call him,” he said, still smirking.

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly left your skull and made your way over to the double bed in the corner. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, collapsing onto the edge like this was some Shakespearean tragedy.

Then a thought clicked, and suddenly, everything made sense.

Your head snapped up. “Wait—” you shot to your feet, eyes narrowing. “He knows. You told him.”

Bangchan barely looked fazed. “He kinda figured it out on his own, if that makes you feel any better.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Bangchan was so into you, stealing glances constantly, and Changbin wasn’t stupid. The man could read a room like it was his job.

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling sharply. “This is a nightmare.”

Bangchan tilted his head, amused. “Jesus, is it really that bad being stuck in here with me? Last time, you weren’t exactly complaining.”

The second those words left his mouth, you hit him with a look so deadly he immediately shut up.

“Just get Changbin to open the damn door, Bangchan,” you said flatly, plopping back down onto the bed, dead center, legs crossed like you were settling in for a long, miserable wait.

You pulled out your phone, thumbs flying across the screen as you sent a message to Hyunjin—the only person who knew about the whole situation. You could have asked Sohee, Eunji, or even Mingyu, but that would just open a very annoying can of worms.

And you were not in the mood for questions.

This couldn’t be real. No way. The second you got out of here, Changbin was getting his ass handed to him. And Mingyu was probably already wondering where the hell you’d disappeared to. Just like Yeojin was probably searching for Bangchan.

Perfect.

“He’s not answering,” Bangchan announced, completely unfazed. “Which means he’s ignoring me on purpose. So, we wait.” he sat by the window like it was just another Tuesday, leaning back on his palms.

“This is your fault.”

That earned you a scoff. “How the hell is this my fault?”

You shot him a glare. “If you hadn’t spilled everything to him, none of this would be happening.”

Bangchan let out a dry laugh, tilting his head like you were so predictable. “Right. And if you hadn’t jumped to conclusions without actually listening to me—like you always do—none of this would be happening either.”

Oof. Direct hit. You hated when he had a point.

“I have nothing to hear from you,” you muttered, crossing your arms and staring at literally anything else in the room.

Silence.

Annoyingly, maddeningly, deafeningly loud silence.

Bangchan rested his arms on his knees, watching you like he had all the time in the world. And pretending he wasn’t there, yeah, that was a joke. His presence was like gravity—pulling, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Less than ten minutes passed before the anger started simmering down. Because that’s how it always went with him. Like a fire that burned too hot, too fast.

“You seriously thought she was my girlfriend?”

You turned, locking eyes with him. “What else was I supposed to think? She said it herself.”

Bangchan hummed, tapping his fingers against his knee. “She’s not. Yeojin’s an ex—from high school. Ancient history.” he exhaled sharply through his teeth. “She’s just… a little clueless.”

“A little?” you let out a sharp laugh. “She was wearing your clothes when I showed up at your dorm.” you rolled your eyes, but Bangchan only smiled. Because, yeah, that sounded a whole lot like jealousy.

Then something clicked. “Wait—what were you doing there that night?”

“Nothing.” you looked away, ignoring the sudden heat crawling up your neck.

His laugh was soft, almost teasing. But the way he was looking at you? Like you were the only thing worth seeing? That was dangerous.

“C’mon. Seriously.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes, because he was so annoyingly persistent. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Doesn’t it?” Bangchan tilted his head, lips curving in that cocky little smirk. “I doubt that.”

“Well, I don’t care,” you shot back, folding your arms in defiance.

Bangchan pushed himself off the floor, moving to sit on the edge of the bed—close, but not too close. Still, he was big. Broad. Built like a problem. And despite the space between you, he somehow took up all of it.

Worse? He smelled stupidly good.

“What do you want?” you asked, bracing yourself for the answer—because Bangchan was stupidly honest, and you weren’t sure you were ready for whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

But he didn’t say a word. Just kept looking at you, pupils blown wide, gaze slow as it dragged over your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

Then, finally— “Why’d you come that night?”

You swallowed. “I went because… I wanted to talk. And… I wanted things to be okay between us.”

For a second, he just stared at you like you’d punched the air out of his lungs. Because you had gone after him. To fix things. To close the distance.

“You wanted to?” you barely nodded before he let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Well, we’re two idiots, then.” his lips curled slightly, his whole energy shifting. “Because that’s all I want.”

Your eyes locked, and something about the way he was looking at you made your chest tighten. He had this insane ability to make you feel completely seen, like he could pick apart every thought in your head just by watching you.

“Why?”

Bangchan was never one to hold back, never afraid to be himself—especially when it came to being honest about what he wanted. And right now, he was this close to just laying it all out. Because the truth? He was ridiculously into you. More and more, every damn day.

“You’re stubborn, and I’m an idiot,” he muttered, lips pressing into a thin line before he let out a short laugh. The kind that made you laugh, too, before you even realized it. And honestly it pissed you off a little how easily he could do that—swing you from one extreme to another like it was nothing.

“Look,” he sighed. “I’m just gonna be straight with you, like I always am. I’m not playing games. I didn’t mean it when I said we were nothing.”

“But we are,” you mumbled, even though the words tasted like a lie. You weren’t anything. No labels, no relationship. Just a mess of late nights and tangled sheets—until things got way too complicated.

“I don’t want us to be nothing,” he said, shrugging, like he was just casually throwing his cards on the table. “Because ever since that first time, I haven’t wanted anyone else.”

Your breath caught, and suddenly, the bed felt too small, the room too warm. What the hell? You hadn’t expected this conversation to go there.

Bangchan? Not with anyone else? That was news. The guy was basically campus royalty when it came to hookups. Half the girls in your year had probably been in his dorm at some point.

And now he was sitting here, telling you this?

But now he was standing there, saying it out loud—no one else. Just you. And it sent your stomach into a tailspin.

“I shouldn’t have given you shit for it,” you muttered, nodding like that would somehow make the awkwardness go away. “I mean, since we’re not… you know.”

Bangchan lifted an eyebrow, clearly amused by how flustered you were.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “But you don’t get it. I don’t want anyone else.”

Your pulse spiked. Too fast. Too loud. What the hell was he trying to say?

“No, you’re just—” you let out a breathy, nervous laugh, stepping back like that would help. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bangchan didn’t let you go far. His hand caught yours, warm and steady, fingers wrapping around your wrist before he pulled you closer—right between his legs.

And then his hands were on your waist, fitting there like they belonged.

Your breath hitched.

His voice, suddenly lower, smoother, like silk wrapped in heat. “I know exactly what I want.”

Your eyes met his, and damn it, he was beautiful. That kind of beauty that wasn’t just about sharp jawlines and perfect features—it was something deeper, something that burned. The way his eyes locked onto you, glowing under the dim light. The way his expression was serious, but there was still softness lingering beneath it.

You knew what you wanted too. You just weren’t ready to admit it.

Your hands moved before your mind could catch up, tracing the curve of his brow, the sharp edge of his cheekbone—slow, like you were trying to memorize him by touch. Then, without thinking, you cupped his face, thumbs brushing over his skin.

Bangchan didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch. He just leaned into your touch, like this was normal, like you did this all the time. But you didn’t. Not like this.

Then he kissed the back of your hand, soft and slow, and damn it, you smiled.

“Say what you want,” he murmured.

“I…”

“I don’t care if I’m your dirty little secret,” he cut in, voice rough, low, burning at the edges. “I don’t care about any of it. As long as you’re mine, I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.”

Something shifted inside you—hot, sharp, irreversible. Like a match hitting gasoline.

Bangchan tilted his head, pushing a strand of hair from your face. “What are you so afraid of?” his lips curled into a half-smirk. “You hate me that much?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. “I don’t hate you.” your fingers tightened against his jaw. “Not even close.”

Bangchan pulled you in, arms locking tight around your waist, pressing you so close you could feel every breath he took against your skin. A shiver shot down your spine, anticipation curling in your stomach. You were teetering on the edge, seconds away from giving in—giving him everything. And if he was willing to take whatever you had to offer… What was stopping you?

With one swift move, his hands traced up the back of your thighs, fingers pressing into the sensitive skin behind your knees, guiding you onto the bed and onto his lap. The air between you shifted, crackling, something unspoken but heavy settling in the space only you two could understand.

It was automatic—this need, this burn. Like gravity, like the sky being blue, like the way your chemistry was always one spark away from setting the whole place on fire.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, yanking back just enough to force his eyes on you. And God, he looked wrecked—vulnerable in a way that made your stomach flip, pupils blown wide like he’d already lost the battle.

That’s when you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate—a clash of want, frustration, and every second of tension that had built between you. Like a wave crashing against the shore, wild and uncontrollable. You rocked against him, fingers tightening in his hair, barely biting back a moan when his hands gripped your ass, lifting you further into him.

Your skirt had already ridden up, but Bangchan wasn’t complaining.

He knew exactly what he was doing—kissing, nipping at your skin, hitting every spot that made you gasp. But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. More contact, more of him.

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up with shaky hands. Bangchan barely hesitated, lifting his arms, muscles flexing as he pulled the fabric over his head. The low, guttural sound that left his lips sent a shiver through you—deep, raw, almost primal. And God, he looked unreal.

“You want me to stop?” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with restraint.

You shook your head immediately, body betraying you with the way it trembled against him.

“I can stop,” he teased, but this time, the possibility made your stomach flip. Your eyes snapped to his, filled with something dangerously close to panic.

Stepping back, just for a second, you took him in. And no matter how many times you’d seen him like this, you never quite got used to it. All of him. Broad, sculpted shoulders, solid arms, every inch of him screaming strength. And all of that was yours.

Bangchan smirked, eyes narrowing with smug satisfaction. “You look like you want something.”

You huffed a laugh, shoving him back. “Shut up.”

But before you could move away, his hands gripped your waist, pulling you down with him. You landed against his chest with a startled yelp, his warmth pressing into you.

Then he kissed you—slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every second, every breath, as if the night stretched endless before you, mapping every inch of your lips with his own. Your laughter faded, swallowed by him.

Pinned against him, you could feel the effect you had on him, the heat of him beneath dark denim. And if there was one thing you knew, it was how to push him over the edge.

So you kissed him harder, rolling your hips against his.

His hands flew to your ass, squeezing before delivering a sharp slap that had you moaning into his mouth. That was just how it was with you two—obscene, messy, utterly shameless. And nothing turned you on more.

Your fingers found the zipper of his jeans, finally breaking away from his lips to look down at him. Bangchan pushed up on his elbows, watching you through half-lidded eyes, his breath ragged as he fought to stay still. His fingers twitched, desperate to put an end to the torturous wait. He was so hard it was unbearable—just seeing you like this had him on the edge.

He didn’t hesitate to help, making quick work of what little fabric still separated you. And fuck, you were drenched. Just the sight of him like this—wrecked for you—had your whole body tightening in anticipation.

There were so many ways this could go, and you wanted them all. One night would never be enough.

Your hand wrapped around him, firm, deliberate. A shaky curse tumbled from his lips, his head tipping back as he melted into your touch. He was barely holding it together when you lifted your hips, and for a second, he thought you were going to sink down onto him. Instead, you slid against him, rolling your hips so he could feel everything—dragging over your entrance, teasing up to your clit before sliding back down.

“Holy shit,” Bangchan groaned, voice strangled.

His hands twitched, reaching for you, aching to do something. But before he could, you leaned in, pinning his wrists down against the mattress.

He was at your mercy now. Completely helpless. And he fucking loved it.

Meanwhile, your hips kept moving, sliding over him, teasing but never giving in. The sheer size of him, the way he dragged against your clit with every slick roll of your hips—it was maddening. You lost all sense of rhythm, chasing pleasure in short, frantic motions, needing more, always more.

Bangchan was wrecked beneath you. His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling as he groaned through clenched teeth, letting you take what you wanted. And the sight of him like this completely undone because of you? It was enough to make your head spin.

Your wetness mixed with his pre-cum, making a mess between you, the heat of it dizzying. Another deep grunt tore from his throat, and fuck—his orgasm was creeping up way too fast. He wasn’t about to let that happen. Not yet.

Your grip on his wrists loosened, your body trembling above him, so damn close—

“Want me to fuck you?” the words were a rasp, low and filthy against your skin.

And God, hearing him say it like that, made you feel absolutely ruined.

You were right there, wavering on the edge, but then—Bangchan’s hands gripped your waist, flipping you with ease. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he pulled away, standing at the edge of the bed.

For a second, frustration flared hot in your chest—he’d just ripped away a mind-numbing orgasm—but the way he looked at you, eyes dark and full of promise, made it clear.

He wasn’t done. Not even close.

With impressive speed, Bangchan yanked your panties down, leaving you in nothing but that tiny skirt. You reached for your blouse, tearing it off without a second thought. Meanwhile, he fished a condom from his pocket, standing at the foot of the bed like he owned the place.

You bit your lip, taking in the sight of him—so big, so stupidly gorgeous.

Bangchan climbed onto the bed, his strong hands wrapping around your thighs, keeping them pressed together. His voice was low, commanding. "Spread your legs."

Your breath hitched, but you obeyed, parting them slowly. The skirt inched higher, higher, until it was bunched up around your waist.

He muttered something under his breath, gaze locked on how wet you were—for him. Almost dripping. You bit your lip, the weight of the moment thick in the air. "Please..."

Bangchan leaned in, kissing your stomach, then up to your chest. One arm braced against the bed, the other gripping himself as he brushed his cock against your cunt. The slow drag, the teasing, was cruel, and he knew it. He was watching you unravel—your body torn between frustration and aching need.

You were this close to grabbing him, to taking what you needed, but before you could, he caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them down.

"I'll let you..." his voice was a husky whisper, dark and full of promise. He kept that agonizing friction going, dragging against you, just enough to drive you insane. "But you have to tell me."

You were burning up, mind hazy, barely able to process his words. "Bangchan," you tried for something firm, but the second the tip of his cock rubbed against your clit—just the right mix of pleasure and frustration—a strangled moan slipped out instead.

"Tell me what you want, and it's yours," he murmured against your lips, smug as ever.

Your gaze met his, dark and needy. He picked up the pace, teasing you mercilessly—only to stop again. You let out a desperate whimper. This was torture.

"Just say it, love."

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, frustration bubbling over. "Your ego is too big."

Bangchan chuckled against your skin, stealing a quick kiss. "You know what else is big?"

You hooked a leg around his waist, pulling him in close. His breath caught, and for a second, he just looked at you—lips parted, eyes searching yours, ready to dive in.

"Guess you'll have to show me."

And Bangchan never turned down a challenge.

The moment he let you go, he was all action—rolling on the condom with practiced ease before yanking you flush against him. "Gonna fuck you so good you'll take it all back."

Then he slammed into you, deep, all at once, knocking the breath from your lungs. Stars burst behind your eyelids. Fuck, you’d never get used to the stretch. And neither would he, not with how tight you clenched around him, inch by inch.

Bangchan started slow, deliberate, watching every little reaction like he was committing it to memory.

"More," you gasped, nails dragging down his back.

And who was he to deny you?

A low, guttural curse slipped from his lips as he gripped the back of your leg, struggling to keep himself in check. But even he was failing. That dark, insatiable hunger inside him wanted to ruin you, break you apart piece by piece, and devour whatever was left.

"Yeah..." his hand found the back of your neck, and in one brutal motion, he buried himself to the hilt. Your eyes rolled back as a cry of pure pleasure ripped from your throat. "Fuck."

He did it again. And again. Testing you. Seeing just how much you could take. And then restraint snapped—his rhythm shifted from slow, deliberate thrusts to deep, relentless strokes that had you gasping, moaning, melting beneath him.

Your lungs fought for air, your body wrecked by the force of him. A tangled mess of curses and broken sounds spilled from your lips.

Bangchan leaned down, catching your mouth in a searing kiss, fucking you through every ragged breath. The filthy, desperate moans leaving his lips had you clinging to him, desperate to consume every last one.

"Bangchan—my God!" your fingers dug into his back like an anchor, but you were weightless, floating, dissolving into nothing.

You tried to pull him closer, but he straightened, still gripping your throat, keeping you right where he wanted.

"Say it." his thrusts were brutal, hitting so deep you thought you’d break apart. Faster. Harder. You cried out, a mess of pleasure and desperation, dizzy on the edge of something devastating."Tell me— you want me? Wanna cum on my cock?"

Your vision blurred, the sheer intensity forcing a tear to the corner of your eye. It was too much, but not enough, never enough.

"I want you," you choked out, voice ragged, shaking. "Fuck—" you barely finished the sentence before your body gave in, collapsing into pure, obliterating pleasure.

Bangchan caught your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on it before murmuring against your mouth, “Good girl.”

Then his hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit as he thrust into you, his fingers moving in tandem with his strokes. And that was it. The tipping point. Your back arched, but he pressed a firm hand to your stomach, pinning you down as pleasure overtook you. The last few thrusts sent you spiraling, your body clenching tight around him as you came hard, waves crashing over you.

Bangchan cursed under his breath, his grip tightening as his own release hit him like a freight train. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—" his whole body tensed, abs flexing as he emptied himself, barely managing to keep from collapsing on top of you.

Your chest rose and fell in sync with his, both of you wrecked, tangled, completely undone. He was so close, his forehead pressing against yours, damp hair sticking to his skin. And just like that, you kissed him—slow, deep, something unspoken passing between you. A shift.

Something had changed, and you both felt it.

"We need to stop doing this," you muttered against his lips.

Bangchan pulled back slightly, his brows knitting together. "What...?"

"Having sex in strangers’ rooms," you teased, the corner of your mouth quirking up. "Bad habit."

Relief flickered across his face before it was replaced by something far more dangerous. "Then let’s go to mine," he said smoothly, his voice thick with intent. "I’m not done with you."

You just laughed, shaking your head as you reached for your clothes. No argument, no teasing comeback—just that breathless, satisfied chuckle that told him you were just as wrecked as he was. And God, he admired you. The way you moved, the way you carried herself, as if what just happened was the most natural thing in the world. Like you hadn’t just left him completely undone.

He leaned back against the bed, watching as you slipped your blouse on, covering up inch by inch what he had just memorized with his hands, his lips, his tongue. A damn shame.

“I could go like this all night,” he murmured, voice thick with lust. His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate. “I’d never get tired of you.”

You paused for half a second, then, with a smirk, you glanced at him over your shoulder.

“Sweet talk won’t get you another round.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Who said I was asking?”

"Alright, lover boy," you sighed, straightening your skirt. "Call Changbin so we can get out of here before we end up adding ‘breaking and entering’ to our list of bad decisions."

But Bangchan just huffed out a laugh, reaching into his back pocket. You frowned, watching as he pulled out something small, something metallic—

And then he dangled a tiny key in front of your face.

Your breath caught. "You absolute—"

"Had the key the whole time?" he finished for you, grinning like the unapologetic menace he was.

You just stared at him, utterly gagged. "Are you telling me we could’ve left at any time—and you let me believe we were locked in here?!"

Bangchan had the audacity to laugh, and before you could get a single word of protest out, he grabbed your wrist, yanking you against him and crashing his lips onto yours. You let him. You melted into it, kissed him back like you weren’t even a little mad.

When he finally pulled away, his breath ghosted over your lips as he murmured, "I’m sorry, baby." But he was still laughing. Not sorry at all.

"No, you’re not," you shot back, trying—and failing—to sound pissed.

"You’re right," he admitted without shame, pressing another kiss to your mouth, slower this time, smug and indulgent. "But, in my defense… I knew you wanted me just as bad as I wanted you."

You narrowed your eyes, heat licking at your spine because—damn it—he wasn’t wrong.

Cocky bastard.

Still, you snatched the key from his fingers and shoved him toward the door. "Move before I leave your ass locked in here and tell everyone you cried for help."

Bangchan just smirked, twisting the doorknob with infuriating ease. "Joke’s on you—I’d make it sound sexy."

Bangchan slipped out first, leaving you alone in the dimly lit bedroom, the air still thick with everything that just happened. You took a breath, running a hand through your hair and letting out a low, incredulous laugh. Insane. That was the only word for it. Completely, absolutely, batshit insane.

You took your time freshening up before heading downstairs, blending back into the party like nothing happened—like your whole world hadn’t just been flipped on its head by a cocky bastard with unfairly good hands.

You found the drinks and poured yourself a beer, the cold liquid grounding you, when Hyunjin appeared at your side, eyeing you suspiciously.

“Mingyu was looking for you,” he said, tilting his head. “For a while. Then he gave up and left.”

You took a slow sip of your beer, carefully masking any reaction. “Huh. Tragic.”

Hyunjin squinted. “Okay, where the hell have you been?”

You shot him an easy smirk. “In the bathroom, Hyunjin. I have bodily functions like every other human being.”

His eyes narrowed further. “For that long?”

“Maybe I got lost,” you said with a shrug, taking another sip. “Or maybe I was reevaluating all my life choices.”

Hyunjin was still staring at you, unconvinced. “You were with someone.”

You huffed. “Stop being nosy and dance with me.”

Before he could pry any further, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him onto the dance floor. The bass thumped through your veins as you moved to the beat, thankful for the temporary distraction. But Hyunjin was sharp—too sharp. His gaze flickered to something over your shoulder, and then his lips parted in realization.

You didn’t have to turn around to know. You felt it.

Bangchan was across the room, talking to Changbin and Seungmin like he hadn’t just been inside you not too long ago. But the way he looked at you—steady, knowing, like he was still feeling every second of what just happened—Hyunjin caught it immediately.

“No way.” he gaped at you. “You didn’t.”

You met his stare, unfazed. “I did.”

Hyunjin groaned, rubbing his face like this was his personal crisis. “You two are so fucking messy.”

You just laughed, finishing the rest of your beer. “And yet, I’m having a great time.”

A while later, when you finally decided you’d had enough social interaction for one night, you nudged Hyunjin. “I’m heading out.”

He nodded. “Cool, I’ll get you an Uber. I’ll go with Lix.”

Before you could even reach for your phone, a familiar voice interrupted. “No need.”

Bangchan. Standing way too close, hands in his pockets, looking like the devil who got exactly what he wanted.

“I’m driving back,” he said smoothly. “I’ll take you.”

Your mouth opened, but Hyunjin’s eyebrow was already rising, looking between the two of you like he had front-row seats to a drama he needed to see play out.

“I can go alone,” you said, keeping your voice level.

Bangchan smirked. “I insist.”

You sighed, side-eyeing Hyunjin. His expression was nothing short of feral with interest.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But no funny business.”

Bangchan only chuckled, walking off first. You lingered behind for a few beats before following, slipping out quietly, only Hyunjin watching your exit with a smug, entertained look.

He was never letting you live this down.

The night air was sharp against your flushed skin, a cruel contrast to the heat still licking at your nerves. Bangchan stood by his car—a sleek, black beauty that suited him too well. Under the dim glow of the streetlights, he looked almost unreal, all sharp lines and confidence as he pulled the passenger door open, his gaze never leaving yours.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to get in. But because you knew—the second you did, there’d be no turning back from whatever the hell this was becoming.

Bangchan saw right through you. He always did.

His voice dipped low, rough with amusement. “Get in, baby. Or I’ll put you in myself.”

Your stomach flipped. You rolled your eyes, masking the way his words sent a pulse of heat straight through you. “Such a gentleman,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, betraying you.

Still, you slid into the seat, the cool leather kissing your bare thighs. He followed, reaching over—closer, closer—until his fingers brushed the seatbelt, tugging it across you.

And suddenly, the air inside the car felt thick. Heavy.

His breath ghosted over your collarbone, close enough that his lips could’ve skimmed your skin if you so much as moved. You could feel the warmth of him, the way his fingers lingered just a second too long before clicking the buckle into place.

Your throat went dry.

You cleared it quickly, forcing out something—anything—to cut through the tension threatening to swallow you whole. “I’m exhausted.”

He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Sure you are.”

The car hummed to life, but your brain? It was shot to hell.

Because now you had to sit there and endure the sight of him driving one-handed, muscles flexing, veins peeking through his skin like temptation itself. It was obscene, the way he handled the car—like he did everything else. With control. With ease.

You swallowed, shifting in your seat, pressing your legs together.

Bangchan noticed. Of course, he did.

His smirk deepened, eyes flicking toward you before drifting back to the road. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lied, voice far too even to be convincing.

He made a sound, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, like he lived to ruin you, his hand dropped to your thigh—warm, steady, fingers pressing just enough to make you feel it.

Your breath hitched. “Bangchan.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to let you catch the edge of his scent—clean, intoxicating, laced with something that made your pulse stutter. His thumb stroked slow, lazy circles against your skin.

“You’re always ready for me, aren’t you?” his voice was nothing but a taunt, silk-wrapped sin.

A shiver licked down your spine. The worst part? He was right. And he fucking knew it.

His fingers crept higher, brushing against the inside of your thigh, deliberate and slow. “I could fuck you right here,” he murmured, his breath feather-light against your ear. “No one would see. No one would know.”

Your body responded before your brain did, every nerve alight, screaming at you to let this happen.

But you had to be smart. For once.

With every ounce of restraint you had left, you grabbed his wrist, halting his movements before they ruined you completely. “I have to go.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes dark, unreadable. Then, his lips curled—not in disappointment, but something far more dangerous.

“Fine.”

But before you could breathe, before you could move, he reached for you, tilting your chin up with maddening ease. His gaze locked onto yours, deep and knowing, before his tongue swept over your bottom lip, slow, deliberate, claiming.

Then he kissed you. Deep. Slow. Devastating.

By the time he pulled away, you were wrecked. Breathless.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured, unlocking the door like he hadn’t just unraveled you in a single move.

You barely remembered getting out, legs weaker than they had any right to be. As you walked back to your dorm, dazed and burning, one thought rattled through your skull like a warning you’d never heed:

He’s gonna be the death of me.

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[capquinn]

Just thinking about how Quinn said he was on a health kick two summers ago and didn’t drink at all then admitted he was the snappiest guy to be around so imagine how moody bf!quinn must be right now with that split lip, stitches tugging every time he so much as opens his mouth — it's not pretty.

He’d be so quiet, and not in the reserved, introspective way you’re used to, but in a brooding, simmering frustration kind of way that seems to pull the air out of the room. Like he’s retreating into himself because everything hurts. The stitches pulling with every word he says, and bruising that makes even the smallest movement a sore reminder. He's frustrated and just done with the week.

It’s the little things that pile up, the ones that are so routine, so instinctive, that they feel impossible to escape. First world problems, sure, but they grind him down all the same. Like how brushing his teeth feels like a battle — every bristle scraping against raw skin, the sharp sting of mint hitting the split in his lip. Or how he can’t kiss you without the stitches tugging, the area far too tender for any sort of outside contact, forcing him to pull back with a wince.

Smiling is a chore, laughing is unthinkable, and the absence of both casts a shadow over the entire week. He’s stuck in this cycle of discomfort, where even the smallest attempt at normalcy — something as simple as grinning at one of your dumb jokes — turns into a reminder of just how far from normal he feels. It’s maddening, this constant push and pull of wanting to feel like himself but being held back by the pain that seems to weave its way into everything.

Clipped answers become his norm: “yeah,” “no,” and “I don’t mind.” Even a simple, “what do you want for dinner?” gets met with a grumbled, “doesn’t matter,” because he knows whatever it is, it’s going to hurt to eat and he won't be able to finish it anyway. And the thought of wasting more food makes him even angrier at the whole situation.

“This sucks,” he mutters under his breath one night, poking at the soup you made him, the corner of his mouth twitching every time the spoon scrapes the bowl. Not that it actually sucked — it was good soup, great even, but everything else sucked, and the soup was just collateral damage in his war against the universe.

You bite back a smile, brushing your hand over his arm. “Want me to make something else?”

“No,” he mutters, leaning back against the dining chair. His hand drags through his hair in frustration before he props his elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his palm like he's truly defeated. His shoulders sagging as though the weight of the week is pressing down harder than ever. “It’s fine.”

Except it’s not fine. He’s not fine. He hasn’t been since that high stick knocked the wind out of him and it’s bleeding into everything.

Thinking of leaving the apartment? Forget it. Unless it’s absolutely necessary — practice, the gym, or a doctor’s appointment — he’s planted firmly on the couch, arms crossed, brows furrowed like he’s in a standoff with the world. If you try suggesting a walk, maybe some fresh air to help him reset, he just shakes his head, muttering, “don’t feel like it,” voice flat, eyes trained on the TV, and the conversation dies there.

Even in the middle of the night, he's moody. He shifts endlessly in bed, trying to find a position that doesn’t make his mouth throb. He rolls onto his back, then onto his side, then back again, each movement accompanied by a quiet sigh of frustration. When he tries to rest his cheek against your shoulder, seeking comfort in the usual closeness, it only makes the pain worse. He pulls back with a wince, muttering under his breath, his brows furrowing deeper as he resettles with a sharp exhale.

“Are you okay?” you murmur softly in the dark, your voice thick with sleep. “Anything I can do?”

“No,” he mutters, and there’s enough of an edge to it that you can tell he’s at the end of his patience. And then he sighs heavily. “Just… go back to sleep.” His voice softens, but only slightly, the strain still unmistakable. It’s clear he’s trying to hold back the weight of his frustration from spilling over entirely.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you shift closer, your hand brushing over his chest as you nestle into his side, your warmth folding into him like second nature. Half-asleep and instinctive, you press a kiss to his shoulder, the faintest, softest reassurance, as if to say I'm here, and you feel him exhale steadily, the tension in his body easing just just that little bit under your touch. His hand moves to rest on your back, his fingers tracing a slow, absentminded path across the fabric of your shirt, and i’s the kind of gesture he doesn’t even about, but it grounds him all the same, letting him focus on something other than the ache in his mouth or the restless churn of his thoughts.

The worst part? The guilt. It gnaws at him in the quiet moments, filling the spaces where his usual softness should be. Every sharp answer, every impatient huff, every time he brushes you off — it all piles up in the back of his mind, heavy and relentless. He doesn’t mean to take it out on you. You know that, and he knows you know that, but it doesn’t stop the weight of it from pressing down on him, tightening his chest with a frustration that feels as much internal as it does external.

There are times when he hears the bite in his own words before you do, the way they come out too quick, too rough, and the regret is immediate.

“Sorry,” he mumbles after one particularly clipped response earlier in the day, when your only reply is raised eyebrows, the universal look of really? His lips barely move when he says it, like even the act of apologising feels like its own brand of punishment — sharp, stinging, and a little too close to the guilt already swirling in his chest.

Sometimes, there’s no apology at all — just a quiet brush of his fingers over yours, or the weight of his palm resting on your leg when you sit beside him on the couch. His thumb moves in small, absent minded circles on your knee, a silent gesture of contrition and love. It’s not grand, it’s not elaborate, but it’s everything — his way of saying I’m sorry, I love you when the words won’t come, when he feels like his brooding might swallow him whole.

And yet, even in the middle of all of his frustration and discomfort, even when he feels like he’s at his worst, there’s still a part of him that tries. He catches himself before he can say something too sharp, lets his hand linger a little longer when he reaches for yours, or pulls you into his side on the couch even when it’s the last thing he feels like doing. It’s quiet, subtle effort, but it’s there — a reminder that no matter how bad the week has been, no matter how much he’s hurting or how heavy the guilt feels, his love for you is always louder than the noise in his head. It’s in the way his fingers thread through your hair later that evening, gentle and steady, as you rest your head in his lap. He leans down, presses the faintest kiss to your temple, even if it's a struggle, and whispers, “thanks for putting up with me.”

And of course you’re putting up with him. Because no matter how snappy or brooding or quiet he gets, he deserves all the love and patience he can’t quite muster for himself right now. He deserves the steady reassurance of your presence, the way you smooth your hand over his arm, or nuzzle closer into his side, silently reminding him that he’s allowed to have bad days, bad weeks even, and it doesn’t change a thing. But really, it's not about putting up with him; it’s about being there for him — fully, unconditionally, because if the roles were reversed, you know he’d do the same for you without question.

[d-z20]

The Witch's Plaything (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You come home from work late and your girlfriend, Agatha Harkness, doesn't take kindly to being kept waiting, so tonight she makes sure you understand exactly what that means, and she’s not stopping until you’re completely undone.

-OR-

Agatha punishes you for being late and then fucks you with her fingers (Darkhold edition).

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut with basically no plot, dom Agatha and her darkhold hands, humiliation/degradation, magical restraint, magical leashing if you squint, oral, fingering, choking. spitting, smidge of praise

Words: 5.2k

A/N: Listen mean!Agatha makes me weak and those fingers, ugh those fingers. Fic inspo

AO3 | Masterlist

You don’t even make it past the entryway before she catches your eye. Agatha is leaning against the wall, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in wild waves. Her robe clings to her in all the right places, the floral pattern on the fabric shimmering under the low lamplight. But it’s her fingers that draw you in, delicate yet commanding, wrapped in layers of dark magic. The way they curl, the way they twitch slightly, almost as if they’re yearning for something—or someone.

“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

Her tone sends a shiver down your spine, and the way she tilts her head, slow and deliberate, has your stomach twisting. Her smirk grows as she pushes off the wall, sauntering toward you. The robe sways with her movements, teasing flashes of her bare skin underneath.

Her voice drops, her fingers trailing through the air like they could wrap themselves around you without ever touching. When she stops just shy of you, her hand lifts. The black nails gleam as they hover near your cheek, teasing, before they begin their slow descent down your neck, brushing against your skin with the gentleness of a whisper.

“I—I didn’t mean to be so late,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Shh,” she cuts you off, her finger pressing softly to your lips. “Excuses won’t save you, my darling. Not tonight.”

She lowers her hand, and you feel the weight of her fingers as they curl into a firm grip around your wrist. The pressure sends a shock of heat through your body as she pulls you closer, her magic thrumming in the air. The door behind you clicks shut, and you feel the full force of her presence closing in.

“You’ve kept me waiting,” she says, her voice lower now, almost a growl. “Do you know how frustrating it’s been? No one here to help me... unwind.” She slides her hand from your wrist to your waist, her fingers splaying across your skin, dragging softly as though testing your response. Her touch is a promise, a warning—her hands possessive, but with the delicate precision of a conductor guiding an orchestra.

You swallow hard, your pulse quickening as she presses you against the wall, the heat from her body radiating against yours as her hands roam with purpose, fingers skating down your sides, lightly scraping the fabric of your clothes. The sensation leaves goosebumps in their wake, her touch just enough to have you holding your breath. Her fingertips dance over your waist, tugging at your top with an almost teasing slowness.

“Look at you,” she says, her tone shifting to something almost tender, though the edge of her frustration remains. “So sweet, so perfect. You drive me absolutely mad.” She traces the outline of your collarbone before slipping down, her touch maddening, never quite satisfying, as though it always promises more but never gives enough.

Her lips meet your neck, her teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver through your body. Her hands move downwards, the path of her fingers deliberate, as if they could sense every flutter of your heartbeat beneath your skin. She tugs at your clothes, and every brush of her hands feels amplified by the tension coiled between you, leaving you trembling as she works her way closer to the heat of your skin.

“Such a good little pet,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice laced with affection. “Always trying to please me. But tonight, my love, you’re going to take everything I give you.”

She pulls you tighter against her, her body pressing flush against yours. Her knee slides between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. The pressure of her body against yours feels almost overwhelming, her fingers flexing around your waist as she forces you to submit to her.

Her smirk returns, sharp and triumphant, as she tilts your chin to meet her gaze. “Oh, sweetheart,” she purrs, her blue eyes blazing with intent. “We’re just getting started.”

She takes her time, being deliberately slow, letting her frustration fuel every touch and each kiss. Her magic dances along your skin, heightening every sensation until you’re trembling beneath her. She’s unrelenting, her dominance absolute, and yet there’s an undercurrent of care in everything she does—the way she murmurs soft praises, the way her hands never stray too far from your body.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, her voice like a promise, her lips ghosting over yours. “Every inch of you.”

She captures your lips in a searing kiss, her frustration finally giving way to something softer, though no less intense. Her hands trail lower, and the rest of the world melts away until there’s only her—the weight of her body, the heat of her touch, and the undeniable power she holds over you.

Before you can catch your breath, Agatha’s hands grip your wrist again, pulling you away from the wall. Her touch is commanding, and you don’t dare resist. She leads you into the living room, her pace unhurried but purposeful, and you know better than to speak. The air feels heavier with each step, her magic thrumming faintly around you like a leash as she drags you towards the couch.

She spins you around, pressing lightly on your shoulders, and you fall back onto the plush cushions with a soft gasp. Agatha stands over you, her figure framed by the flickering candlelight. The robe slips further off her shoulders, revealing more of the smooth skin and intricate purple lace beneath. Her smirk is wicked; her eyes darkened with hunger.

“Stay right there,” she commands, her voice a silky blend of sweetness and steel. She slides her hands to the belt of her robe, untying it with deliberate slowness, her movements agonisingly graceful. The fabric falls open, pooling at her elbows as she lets you drink in the sight of her.

“Like what you see, darling?” she teases, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she steps closer. You nod, unable to find the words, and her smile widens in satisfaction. “Good. Because I’ve been aching for you all day.”

Agatha straddles your lap without hesitation, her knees bracketing your thighs. The sheer weight of her against you sends a spark racing up your spine, and when her hands slide up your chest, her nails scraping just lightly enough to tease, you shudder beneath her.

“You’ve kept me waiting,” she says softly, her tone almost scolding, though her lips curl into a playful pout. “Do you have any idea how frustrating that is for me? To sit here, imagining all the ways I was going to make you pay for leaving me alone for so long?”

“I—I couldn’t help it,” you stammer, your voice shaky.

“Oh, I know, my sweet thing,” she interrupts, cupping your face in both hands. Her thumbs brush over your cheeks, a fleeting moment of tenderness before she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear. “But I think you want to make it up to me, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, a soft whimper escaping your throat. She chuckles, low and throaty, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Good,” she whispers, her breath hot against your ear. “Because you’re going to. And you’re going to be so, so good for me.”

Her lips crash onto yours, silencing any reply you might have had. The kiss is searing, almost punishing, and you feel yourself melting into her touch. She presses closer, her hands sliding under your top, nails trailing over bare skin. When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and desire.

Her hands make quick work of your remaining clothes, and the heat in her gaze is almost overwhelming as she takes you in. She doesn’t waste a moment, shifting her weight as her magic flares faintly in the room. You feel it ripple across your skin, amplifying every sensation until you’re trembling beneath her.

“Let’s see if you can keep up,” she murmurs, her lips quirking into a smirk as she begins to move, her hips rolling against yours with agonising slowness. Her hands grip your wrists, pinning them to the couch, and she leans down, her lips brushing over your collarbone.

You’re gasping now; every movement, every touch sending shocks through your system. Agatha’s magic lingers in the air, amplifying everything—each brush of her fingertips, each shift of her body against yours, every low, breathy moan that slips past her lips. Her frustration is palpable, woven into every deliberate motion as she moves against you, her dominance absolute.

But just as your body begins to rise to meet hers, desperate for more, she suddenly stops. Her hips still, her hands pulling away, leaving you trembling beneath her.

“Ah, ah,” she tuts, her voice low and teasing as her magic pulses faintly, holding you firmly in place. Her smirk is wicked as she sits back, the sheer lace of her lingerie leaving nothing to the imagination. The floral patterns barely cover her skin, and the flickering candlelight dances across her curves. She looks like a vision—powerful, untouchable, and entirely in control.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you off that easily, did you?” she asks, tilting her head as her fingers trail along your jaw, a deceptively soft gesture. “You made me wait for so long, leaving me here all alone, knowing how badly I needed you.”

“It—it was my boss, he—" you stammer, your voice weak and trembling, but her sharp gaze cuts you off before you can finish.

“Excuses,” she says simply, shaking her head. Her hand moves to your throat, her grip firm yet careful, her thumb pressing gently against your pulse. “No. You don’t get to explain yourself tonight. Tonight, I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

Her magic sparks faintly around her, a shimmering, tangible presence that tightens the air in the room. She leans down, her lips brushing over the shell of your ear as she whispers, “And you’re going to learn that lateness has consequences.”

Before you can respond, she pulls away, her absence a cruel tease as she rises to her feet. Her magic holds you still, your body humming with unfulfilled need, as she takes a step back, surveying you with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

“Sit there,” she commands, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “And watch.”

She doesn’t wait for your response. Her hands slide over her own body, tracing the delicate lace of her lingerie as her eyes stay locked on yours. Every movement is deliberate—the shift of her hips, the toss of her hair—all designed to draw you further into her web. You feel your breathing quicken, your body aching to reach for her, but the invisible bonds of her magic keep your hands firmly at your sides.

“You want to touch me, don’t you?” she asks, her lips curling into a smirk as she reads the desperation in your gaze. “Poor thing. So eager, so needy. But no. Not yet.”

She struts closer, her fingers ghosting over your cheek before trailing down your chest. The light scrape of her nails against your skin sends a shiver racing through you, and she chuckles softly, the sound both amused and wicked.

“This is what happens when you make me wait,” she says, her tone almost playful, though her intent is anything but. “You get to sit there, helpless, watching me pleasure myself. And you don’t get to touch, not until I say so.”

Her hands glide over her own curves, her touch slow and teasing as her magic keeps you pinned in place. Your breath hitches as she leans in, her lips hovering just inches from yours. You can feel her breath, warm and tantalising, but she doesn’t close the distance.

“Does it frustrate you?” she whispers, her voice soft but laced with power. “To be so close yet so far? To want me so badly and know that you’re entirely at my mercy?”

You nod frantically, your pulse racing as you try to lean forward, to close even the smallest bit of distance between you. But her magic holds you steady, and she laughs softly, her eyes glinting with satisfaction.

“Good,” she purrs, her voice dripping with delight. “I want you frustrated. I want you to feel just a fraction of what I felt, waiting for you all day.”

Her fingers trail along your collarbone, then down to your waist before stopping abruptly. Her smirk deepens as she pulls away again, her hands resting on her hips as she tilts her head.

“Do you think you deserve to be rewarded after coming back so late?” She asks, her tone mockingly sweet. “Do you think you’ve earned the right to touch me, to even breathe the same air as me after today?”

You shake your head, your voice catching in your throat as you whisper, “No.”

“That’s right,” she says, her smile sharpening. “You haven’t. And you won’t—not until I’ve decided you’ve learnt your lesson.”

Agatha’s smirk sharpens as she shifts, moving with a predator’s grace. In one smooth motion, she straddles you again, settling into your lap. The weight of her against you is dizzying, and her magic thrums faintly in the air, heightening the tension that crackles between you.

She slips her robe off completely, leaving her completely bare except for her lingerie—delicate and sheer. Her hands capture your attention once more—the long, delicate fingers stained faintly black by the Darkhold’s corruption, the inky tendrils curling along her skin like forbidden whispers.

She notices your gaze, her smirk widening as she raises one hand, turning it slowly, the candlelight catching on the glossy black stains. “Ah, these,” she murmurs, flexing her fingers, the dark marks seeming to ripple faintly, almost alive. “A reminder of everything I’ve done. Of everything I’m capable of.”

Her voice lowers, rich and honeyed, as she leans closer, her lips brushing against yours. “And tonight, my sweet, you’re going to feel every bit of that power.”

Without breaking eye contact, her hand trails downward, slipping between her legs. Your breath catches as her fingers disappear beneath the sheer lace. She exhales softly, her head tipping back just slightly, the tiniest shiver running through her as her fingers begin to move. She shifts her hips slightly, pressing herself closer to your lap as her other hand grips your shoulder for balance.

You’re completely trapped beneath her, unable to look anywhere but at her—her sharp, hungry gaze, the subtle flush blooming across her chest, the way her fingers work against herself.

The air is filled with the sounds of her pleasure: the soft, slick noise of her movements, the quiet hitch of her breath, the rustle of lace against her skin. Her magic buzzes faintly around her, a hum of energy that seems to make everything sharper and more intense.

“Look at you,” she purrs, her voice thick with amusement as her eyes flick down to meet yours. “So eager. So desperate. And yet, all you can do is watch.”

Her words are a taunt, but you don’t dare look away. The sight of her—the way her body moves against her own hand, the way her lips part with quiet, breathy moans—is almost too much to bear.

Her movements become more urgent, her breath hitching as the tension builds within her. Agatha's back arches slightly, her head tipping back as a low, guttural moan escapes her lips. Her hips jerk forward involuntarily, and she shudders, her body trembling as the wave of her orgasm overtakes her, her fingers stilling against herself as she rides out the peak of her pleasure.

She withdraws her hand, her movements slow and deliberate. The inky hue of her fingers catches the light, glistening with the unmistakable sheen of her cum. She holds them up between you, her smirk widening as she tilts her hand just slightly, letting you see every detail.

“Open,” she commands, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Your lips part automatically, and she leans in, her free hand gripping the back of your neck as her fingers press against your bottom lip before sliding into your mouth. The taste of her is intoxicating, and it sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through your body.

Her eyes stay locked on yours, blazing with satisfaction as her fingers press against your tongue. She moves them slowly, deliberately, making sure you take in every drop. “That’s it,” she murmurs, her voice a mix of praise and dominance. “Such an obedient little pet. Taking exactly what I give you.”

Her fingers slide free, leaving a trail of warmth across your lips. She traces them with the pad of her thumb, her movements slow and teasing, before pulling back slightly. Her posture remains dominant, her knees digging into the couch on either side of you, her body still heavy against yours.

She watches you for a moment longer, her expression softening just enough to show a flicker of approval beneath her smirk. “Do you understand now, my darling?” she asks, her voice low and commanding. “This is what happens when you make me wait.”

You nod wordlessly, your body trembling beneath her, the weight of her gaze pressing down on you as her words sink in. The heat of her body against yours, the intoxicating mix of cruelty and approval in her voice, and the way her touch lingers like a spark—it all floods your senses, leaving you reeling. You can’t stop the rush of arousal pooling low in your core; the ache is almost unbearable. Every nerve in your body screams for her; the shame of how utterly turned on you are only fuelling the fire.

She chuckles softly, the sound dripping with amusement, her fingers brushing against your jaw as she tilts your chin up. Her blue eyes blaze with satisfaction, taking in every twitch of your trembling body as if you’re a masterpiece she’s sculpted herself.

Agatha’s smirk deepens as she slides off your lap with a fluid grace, her fingers wrapping firmly around your forearms tuggin you up. But then her eyes flick down to the cushion beneath you, and her grin turns wicked. “Oh, look at this,” she purrs, her voice dripping with mock concern as she traces a finger along the damp spot. “You’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you?” She tilts her head, her eyes full of amusement and something sharper.

Your breath catches, and you squirm under her gaze, the heat rushing to your face as your pulse pounds in your ears. The embarrassment mingles with the relentless arousal coursing through you, leaving your knees weak and trembling. The blood rushes from your head straight to your core, leaving you light-headed and dizzy with need.

Before you can even attempt to stammer out an excuse, she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear. “Pathetic,” she murmurs, her tone deliciously cruel. “That’s another thing I’m going to have to punish you for.”

Her grip tightens, and she steps back just enough to draw you toward the hallway. “Bedroom. Now,” she commands, her voice soft but laced with steel. She doesn’t wait for a response—she never does. Instead, she turns sharply, dragging you along behind her. The cool air of the hallway contrasts sharply with the heat still radiating from your skin, and the sound of your footsteps echoes faintly as she leads you to the bedroom. The hum of her magic lingers in the air, almost tangible, wrapping around you like a leash, unrelenting and intoxicating.

When the door swings open, it reveals the space bathed in the soft, flickering glow of more candles. Shadows dance along the walls, the air thick with the scent of amber and something darker—something distinctly Agatha. The bed dominates the room, its dark, silken sheets looking both inviting and foreboding.

Agatha releases your wrist, but before you can process the change, she’s behind you, her hands sliding down your arms, her breath warm against your neck. “Do you see that?” she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear as she gestures to the bed. “That’s where you’ll be begging me before the night is through.”

She steps back just enough to nudge you forward, her hand pressing firmly against the small of your back. You stumble toward the bed, your legs weak beneath you, but she doesn’t let you fall. Her magic wraps around you like an invisible leash, holding you steady as she circles you like a predator.

Her fingers trail along your spine, her touch light and maddeningly slow. “Kneel,” she commands, her voice low and commanding. You drop to your knees instinctively, the plush rug beneath you soft against your skin. Agatha steps in front of you, her body framed by the flickering candlelight, and you can feel the weight of her gaze as she looks down at you.

“You look so good on your knees,” she says, her tone shifting slightly, though the edge of her dominance remains. Her hand moves to your cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “But good isn’t enough. I want you perfect. I want you wrecked.”

Her thumb brushes against your lips, coaxing them apart, and without a second thought, your mouth opens for her. The instinct to obey is so ingrained now that you don’t hesitate, and when she presses her thumb past your lips, you suck on it greedily, the taste of her skin grounding you in the moment.

“Good,” she purrs, her voice laced with approval as she watches you. Her eyes glint with satisfaction, but there’s a sharper, hungrier edge beneath her praise. She tilts your chin up, holding your gaze as she pulls her thumb free and lets her other hand cup your jaw.

“Open wider,” she commands, and you comply, parting your lips as far as they’ll go. Without breaking eye contact, she spits into your mouth, the action deliberate and unhurried. “Swallow,” she says, and the heat in her tone leaves no room for disobedience. When you do, her smirk deepens.

“Stick out your tongue,” she orders next, and again, you obey, the vulnerability of the act making your pulse race. Agatha hums in approval, leaning her body in close enough that your breath fans over her clit, eliciting a small moan from the witch. With a slow, deliberate motion, she shifts forward, using your outstretched tongue to fuck herself. Her soft, teasing moans fill the room, mingling with the sound of your own ragged breaths as you watch her climax once again.

“Such a good pet,” she murmurs, the praise warm and biting all at once. “You know exactly how to please me.”

When she pulls away, you barely have time to miss her before she’s behind you, her hands finding their way to your throat. Her grip is firm—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of who’s in control. “Look,” she whispers, her breath hot against your ear as her free hand gestures toward the mirror in front of you. “Watch yourself. Watch what you become for me.”

Your eyes dart to the reflection, catching sight of your flushed face covered in her arousal and her poised figure behind you; the contrast is stark and undeniable. Her fingers tighten around your neck as her other hand slides down, slipping between your thighs without hesitation. You gasp at the intrusion, her fingers pressing into you with deliberate precision, but her grip on your throat holds you in place.

“Move,” she orders, her voice a low growl. “I want to feel how much you want this.”

Your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more of the maddening sensation, but it remains just shy of what you need to fall over the edge. Each thrust of your body meets the resistance of her touch, the pleasure building but refusing to crest.

“Don’t close your eyes,” she snaps, her tone cutting through the haze threatening to consume you. “Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, finding hers in the mirror. The intensity of her gaze is overwhelming, her blue eyes boring into you like a commandment. The sight of her blackened fingers against your skin in the reflection sends another surge of heat through your body. “Forget yourself,” she whispers, her fingers pressing deeper, her magic pulsing faintly against your skin. “Surrender to me.”

Her grip on your throat tightens just enough to draw your attention back to the moment, her lips curling into a possessive smile as you meet her eyes again. “Right now,” she murmurs, her voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate whisper. “You’re mine.”

She thrusts her fingers deeper, her movements calculated and unrelenting as she continues, her voice soft and commanding all at once. The faint tendrils of dark power emanating from her seem to twist with your pulse, tying you to her inescapably.

“Give in,” she urges, her grip on your throat holding you steady. “You’re mine. All mine.”

The pressure building inside you becomes unbearable, your hips bucking against her touch in a desperate rhythm. Agatha’s fingers press deeper, and her smirk widens as she senses you nearing the edge.

“Don’t you dare look away,” she murmurs, her voice like velvet laced with steel. “I want to see it. How you are completely and utterly mine.”

The command drives you over the brink, the tension snapping as pleasure crashes through you in an uncontrollable wave. Your body trembles, every muscle straining as your release washes over you, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. In the mirror, you catch the faint, glowing edge of her power pulsing faintly against your skin, binding the moment to her inescapable control.

Agatha watches intently, her eyes burning with satisfaction. She doesn’t give you a moment to recover before her fingers pull away, leaving you trembling and weak. The absence is sharp and cruel, a reminder of how entirely at her mercy you are.

“You’ve made such a mess of yourself,” she says with a mocking tilt of her head, her tone cutting in a way that only deepens your submission. “Pathetic.”

Before you can catch your breath or attempt to steady your shaking legs, she’s gripping your arm with bruising firmness and spinning you around to face her. Her strength is almost startling as she effortlessly manoeuvres your unsteady body, pushing you until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Lie down,” she orders, her voice carrying the same undeniable authority that made you orgasm moments ago. She doesn’t wait for you to comply, instead shoving you down with a force that leaves no room for resistance. The mattress dips beneath your weight as you land, your body pliant and still humming with aftershocks of pleasure.

Her smirk deepens as she climbs onto the bed, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. Your cum still clings to her fingers, glinting faintly as she presses them against your chest, pinning you in place.

“Don’t think for a second that we’re done,” she murmurs, her voice low and threatening in the most thrilling way. “I’ve barely begun with you.”

Her hands slide up as she leans in, her breath ghosting against your lips. “Stay still,” she commands, her tone brooking no argument. “You don’t move unless I tell you to. Understood?”

You nod weakly, your body completely at her mercy as she looms over you, her power and presence overwhelming. The bed beneath you feels vast, but all you can focus on is her—the way her eyes devour you, the faint shimmer of her magic against her fingers, and the promise of what’s to come.

She moves down your body, her hands bracketing your hips, fingers firm against your skin as she holds you in place. Her lips ghost against your inner thigh, her breath hot and teasing. “You’ve made such a mess,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with mock pity. “It’s only fair I clean you up, don’t you think?”

Her tongue flicks out, dragging deliberately against the sensitive skin of your thigh, closer and closer to where you ache for her. Her fingers tighten their grip as she presses your legs wider, exposing everything to her hungry gaze.

Without warning, her tongue finds you, lapping up the evidence of your recent orgasm with a deliberate, agonising slowness. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, her expression smug and possessive as she savours every drop. The contrast of her cold magic pulsing faintly from her fingers and the wet heat of her tongue sends shivers coursing through your body.

Her tongue works with maddening precision, collecting every trace of your release as if savouring a rare delicacy. Each movement is deliberate, calculated to keep you on edge, your body twitching and squirming beneath her.

Agatha’s tongue lingers, deliberate and unrelenting, the wicked precision of her movements leaving you a quivering, incoherent mess. Just when you think you might come again, she pulls back with a hum of satisfaction, her lips glistening as she looks up at you.

“I’ve been thinking about the taste of you all day,” she says, her voice a low purr that sends a shiver through you. Her hand remains firm on your thigh, her magic’s faint, chilling pulse grounding you even as your head swims.

Then her smirk deepens as she leans back down, licking and sucking more of your cum (and at this point, fresh arousal) into her mouth. Her eyes lock with yours, blazing with a cruel, teasing glee as she spits it back onto you, the warm, viscous wetness landing squarely against your aching heat. The sound you make—a strangled moan somewhere between embarrassment and arousal—only fuels her wicked grin.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, her fingers spreading the mess across your skin with deliberate cruelty, mixing her magic into the slick heat of your body. “Absolutely filthy.”

Your hips jerk involuntarily, your body reacting to the overwhelming humiliation and the fire it stokes deep within you. Agatha’s grip tightens again, her nails pressing painfully into your thighs as she holds you still. “Did I say you could move?” she growls, her tone a warning that sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

Her fingers dip lower, teasing but not giving you what you crave, as she leans in, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of your thigh. “You’re mine,” she whispers, her voice dark and possessive. “Every part of you. Don’t ever forget it. And don’t ever make me wait again.”

She draws back slightly, her thumb brushing over your sensitive clit, spreading the mixture of her spit and your cum as she watches your every reaction. Her expression is a mix of amusement and triumph; her power over you absolute. “Now,” she says, her voice soft but brimming with command. “Let’s see how much more of a mess I can make of you.”

-----

please like and reblog if you enjoyed I'll love you forever <3

[23victoria]

slow motion

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: smut (wrap it before you tap it), cussing, fluff, i think that’s it

authors note: it’s been a min so i need to get something out to you guys!! hope it’s not bad and ignore any typos! ALSO SO PROUD OF OSCAR!!! HE DESERVED THATS WIN!! LOVE HIM SM!! any feedback is appreciated and please like, comment, and reblog!! hope you enjoy!!

wanna be tagged in my works?! CLICK HERE!

f1 masterlist 1k celebration

“What the fuck, why would they do that?!”

The frustration coursed through you as McLaren’s decision to box Lando first flashed across the screen. Oscar was leading the race, on the brink of his first victory, and yet they chose to pit Lando first. It didn’t make any sense. Every nerve in your body was on edge as you watched the race unfold. The radio messages about switching positions were maddening. It felt like McLaren was orchestrating the race rather than letting it happen naturally.

Finally, when the order came for Lando to let Oscar through, you felt a mixture of relief and lingering irritation. This was Oscar’s moment, his hard-fought victory, but the team’s strategy had cast a shadow over it, making it seem as if it was a gift rather than something he had earned.

When it was time for the podium celebration, your heart swelled with pride. Watching Oscar spray the champagne, his face illuminated with joy, was everything you had dreamed of. The crowd’s cheers echoed in your ears, and you could hardly contain your excitement. He had done it. He had won his first F1 race, and you were bursting with happiness for him.

After the celebrations, you and Oscar are on the way to the hotel. "McLaren needs to get their stuff together," you told him, shaking your head. "They almost ruined it with their strategy. But you, babe, you were amazing out there. You earned that victory."

Oscar smiled, a tired but satisfied look on his face. "Thank you. I can't wait to go home and sleep."

You shook your head playfully. "Oh no, we have dinner tonight. We're celebrating, sorry not sorry."

He groaned, half-jokingly. "Can't we just stay in?"

"Absolutely not," you insisted, laughing. "We're going to have a nice dinner, drink, dance, and celebrate your victory properly."

The dinner party was a nice turnout. Friends and fellow racers gathered around, the atmosphere buzzing with excitement and congratulations. You and Oscar mingled, shared drinks, and danced, reveling in the celebratory mood. Laughter and cheers filled the air, making the night unforgettable.

On the way to the hotel in the car, you couldn’t keep your hands off Oscar. The excitment from the victory was still coursing through both of you, and your desire for him was at an all-time high. You leaned in, kissing his neck softly at first, then more urgently, as your hands roamed over his chest. He tilted his head back, giving you better access as you whispered dirty words into his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

"You're so amazing, Oscar," you murmured, your voice low and seductive. "I can't wait to get you back to the hotel."

He groaned softly, his eyes darkening with desire. "You're driving me crazy, Y/N."

"Sit on the bed," you instructed him, a mischievous glint in your eye.

As soon as you reached the hotel room, you pushed him inside, locking the door behind you. "Sit on the bed," you instructed, your voice commanding yet playful.

Oscar obeyed, his gaze never leaving yours. You slowly began to undress, swaying your hips seductively as you removed each piece of clothing. His eyes followed every movement, his breath hitching as you revealed more of your skin.

Clad only in your lingerie, you straddled his lap, feeling his arousal pressing against you. You ground your hips against him, eliciting a deep moan from his lips. Your hands roamed over his chest, teasing and caressing as you kissed him deeply, your tongue exploring his mouth.

He reached out to touch you, but you pushed his hands away playfully. "Not yet," you teased, moving his hands to his sides as you continued to dance for him. You could feel his arousal growing beneath you, adding to the heat between you.

Finally, you couldn't take it any longer. You pushed him onto the bed and climbed over him, your hands deftly unzipping his pants. You kissed his neck, nibbling on his skin as your hands roamed his body, teasing and tantalizing.

You pushed him back onto the bed, crawling over him with a mischievous glint in your eye. Your fingers deftly unzipped his pants, freeing his erection. You kissed down his chest, trailing your lips lower and lower until you reached his hard length. You took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before taking him deeper, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn't reach.

Oscar's hands tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as he groaned with pleasure. "Fuck baby, that feels so good," he breathed, his voice husky with desire.

You slowly sucked his cock, taking your time to pleasure him until he was teetering on the edge. Then, you pulled back kissing his tip, climbing back up to straddle his hips. You guided him inside you, both of you gasping at the sensation. You moved slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you completely. Then, you began to ride him harder, your movements becoming more urgent as the pleasure built between you.

Oscar's hands gripped your hips firmly, his fingers digging into your skin as he helped guide your movements. You rode him slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you completely. The room was filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing, your moans mingling with the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. Every movement sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

You leaned down to kiss him, your lips meeting his in a passionate embrace. Your tongues danced together, the kiss deepening as your bodies moved in perfect harmony. You felt his muscles tense beneath you, his breath hot against your mouth as he groaned with pleasure.

"God, you feel so good," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire. His hands roamed up your back, pulling you closer as you continued to move together.

You began to ride him harder, your hips moving with increasing urgency. The friction between your bodies was intoxicating, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge. Oscar's hands moved to your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, Oscar suddenly flipped you onto your back, taking control. He thrust into you with a new intensity, his movements faster and harder than before. The change in angle sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, making you cry out his name.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss as he drove into you. "You're mine," he growled against your mouth, his voice raw with passion. "Every inch of you."

"Yes, Osc," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm yours. Always."

His pace quickened, his hips slamming into yours with a relentless rhythm. The room was filled with the sounds of your moans and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin. His name fell from your lips in a litany of pleasure as he brought you closer and closer to the brink.

"Come for me, Y/N," he commanded, his voice a low, sexy growl in your ear.

His words sent you over the edge. Your body tensed, a powerful orgasm ripping through you. You cried out, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him. Oscar followed soon after, his own release hitting him hard. He buried his face in your neck, groaning your name as he filled you with his warmth.

You lay there together, your bodies entwined, both of you breathing heavily as you came down from the high. Oscar gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, his eyes filled with love and satisfaction.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice tender.

"I love you too, baby," you replied, pulling him into a soft, lingering kiss.

✿ .° • everything taglist • °. ✿ : @ham1lton @ietss @animeandf1lover @nelly187 @heartsfromtaeyong @bloodyymaryyy @nor-4 @zacian117 @mel164 @uhhvictoria @hadidsworld @zabwlky1999 @sya-skies @lillysbigwilly @avengers-assemble123456 @santanasaintmendes @km-23mr @hookhausenschips @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @Ronpho @minekarina @formula1-motogpfa @slagclarens

✿ .° • oscar taglist • °. ✿ : @tellybearryyyy @exotic-iris13 @magixpracticality @eoduuung @eternoangel l @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @flowerpetalk @oledoledoffen

© 23victoria 2023-24 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate or claim my work as your own

[pippin-katz]

Why Did Charles Keep Asking About Edwin's Conversation With The Cat King?

I was reading a fic where Edwin agrees to the Cat King's initial offer, but because time passes differently in whatever room that is, he's gone for six weeks even though it was a couple hours for him, and it got me thinking. I worked out why Charles was so pushy about that conversation.

Charles and Edwin have been together for 30 years. The way they act gives me the feeling that they spent very little time apart, and wherever one went, the other went too. In the fic, Edwin's inner monologue refers to it as "shared memories"; they experience everything together.

But now, there's this.

Edwin disappeared for hours on Charles' side of things. He had this conversation with a magical being, a stranger that sets off warning bells in Charles' head. He came back with a magical bracelet that trapped him in Port Townsend, that he couldn't remove, and something about his behavior was off.

Charles is not stupid or oblivious. He reads Edwin like a book, albeit with blurry text. He knows something is not quite right, but doesn't know what. And he knows it's because of whatever happened in the few hours that he wasn't with him.

For what is likely the first time in 30 years, Edwin has experienced/done something significant without him. Charles is in the dark; he wasn't there to see or hear what happened for himself. All he has to go on is what Edwin tells him, and he gets the immediate feeling that he's not saying everything.

When talking about it in front of Crystal, he just asks if he said anything else, but once they're alone in their office, he's direct.

Charles is absolutely (and correctly) sure that Edwin hasn't told him the real/full truth about his meeting with the Cat King, and tells him as much.

The way he asks feels... calm? Crystal's not there, they're alone, they're in their safe space, why wouldn't Edwin tell him? He probably thinks he would, but obviously, he doesn't. He lets a detail slip that confuses and concerns him even more; the Cat King whispering in his ear. That confirms very close proximity between them, something that's potentially dangerous and something he knows Edwin doesn't particularly like, and Charles is just... lost, uncomfortable, and frustrated.

Can you imagine how maddening that must have been? To not know what really happened? To only have vague descriptions of the events from his friend? To see and know that something is wrong with him, but being unable to truly help because he's clueless as to what the actual problem is?

It's highly likely that this is the first time Charles has ever encountered this.

As Edwin says, he's "fixated" on this. It's like there's a page missing in his copy of the script of events. He's never had to worry about it before; he was always there with him. Edwin says it's not a big deal, but Charles can't make that call himself. It's not that he doesn't trust Edwin; it's his protectiveness of him. He wants to see and assess the situation for himself. He wants to be positive there's no danger, that it meets his standards. He needs to know everything about where Edwin is, what he's doing, who he's with, at all times, so he can be ready to protect him.

As Jayden put it, Charles has given himself the mantle of Edwin's guardian. Edwin dedicates all his time and energy into helping others, to the point of neglecting himself. In response, Charles dedicates himself to Edwin. If he won't take care of himself, if no one else is going to help him, Charles will. As he says in Hell when he's rescuing Edwin, "Someone's gotta do it."

(ko-fi)

[mollysunder]

Sky and Viktor's relationship is such a horror movie to me. You've got a man who was frustrated by the limitations placed on his life that were out of his control, like his class, mobility, and general health. Despite everything, he manages to rise beyond his station and avoid being an assistant for the rest of his life.

Then you've got a woman from the same background who admires him and all that he's accomplished in spite of the similar class based prejudices they faced all the while she's his assistant. She works up the courage to take leap of faith and reach out to him with her own research to show what's possible if they worked together as equals. And then he gets her killed!

Sky's death isn't the end of it because while it affects Viktor it is in no way meaningful to Sky's life or value as a person whatsoever. Even the pendant he wears in her memory is based on the design of her notebook, but that was just her notebook's cover, she probably bought it from a store and the design itself is probably mass produced. Why not use Sky's signature that was in her letter and in the notebook, the thing part if the notebook with real value?

Then Sky's brought back in s2 and she really only exists to be Viktor's assistant again, who he kills, again! But this time it's different because this time Viktor's making a conscious decision to look Sky in the eye and kill her... to prove he's changed.

In the middle of all this, in no way has Sky's death been mourned by her family or anyone else who could have known her. Jayce wasn't affected by the reveal, he didn't think it was important to tell Heimerdinger, or anyone who knew her. Nothing about her life, death, or disappearance has spurred any emotional reaction or even curiosity about what happened to her.

Sky's new life was also extremely isolated because she became further tied to him (in some ways you could say she was defined by him). Viktor never mentioned Sky to anyone in the material plane during his commune arc, so she only exists to him and she has no way to communicate with others, she's just there for Viktor's sake.

Then in the finale we learn this all a part of a big time loop where Viktor actively set the wheels in motion to have him and Jayce create hextech together, but if everything follows as is, that means Sky is violently killed in those timelines too. That means Viktor weighed the costs and decided over and over and over again that Sky was expendable enough to let her die for his plan to work eventually. How is that not murder at this point?

What's worse is that post-finale Sky's humanity is a point of dispute amongst the fandom, the VAs, and the writers themselves. Sky's the hexcore manipulating Viktor. No, Sky's a manifestion of Viktor's guilt. No, she's actually supposed to represent his humanity/conscious made physical. And in none of these arguments do they discuss Sky as a person, she's just an object meant to serve Viktor both in the narrative sense and literal sense as his assistant.

The most absolutely maddening part is that with Viktor's new bio on the League site, not only have most traces of Viktor had been scrubbed by Piltover's archive, but Sky's life has been completely wiped. Her death was implied to have been swept under the rug, and only described as the "loss of life" consequence from his Hexcore experiment.

Viktor was afraid of dying a senseless death (created by the conditions Piltover condemned his birth to) in obscurity and then he turned it into Sky's destiny.

[fangswbenefits]

Sweet Girl

Summary: Miguel isn’t all that excited about you joining spider society, so why and how does he enter a spiral of maddening obsession?

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

Miguel POV. Obsessed Miguel. Soft/inexperienced reader. Pining.

This is more an of an introduction to my current series Frustration. You don’t have to read the first 3 parts to enjoy this.

Miguel crossed his arms as he stood on the lowered platform.

He was waiting.

And he hated being kept waiting.

Tense minutes went by until a swirling flash of light tore through the space continuum right in front of him.

Jessica Drew stepped out first, followed closely by Peter B. Parker.

And you.

You seemed so out of it, that Miguel wondered how a spider person could have been this badly affected by a mere dimensional travel.

As you tumbled out of the portal, you immediately lurched forward. “Oh, I’m going to be sick.”

Without further warning, you emptied the content of your stomach onto the floor.

Amazing.

Arching an eyebrow, he glared at Jess who was patting your back reassuringly.

“It’s her first time, Miguel,” she frowned lightly, helping you straighten up.

Peter offered you a tissue. “Oh, I remember my first time. My intestines were not the same for a week, and I do-”

Miguel immediately cut him off, not at all interested in hearing about Peter Parker’s bowl movements. “Welcome to Nueva York,” he stepped out of the platform, extending his hand to you. “I’m Miguel O’Hara.”

You cleared your throat and shook his hand. “So… you’re the boss.”

“I’m the boss.”

Miguel saw your eyes scanning him him up and down, widening slightly. “You’re… big.”

Peter snorted and Jessica chuckled.

But he could only roll his eyes. “You’ll eventually get used to your portal jumps.”

You scanned the room with curious eyes. “That portal really needs stabilisation,” you then mumbled, adjusting your suit. “The motion sickness…”

He scoffed. “You’re a spider-woman. I’m sure you can manage motion sickness.”

“Well… it’s not the same as swinging around in your web,” you retorted with a light shrug.

Jessica patted your shoulder. “That’s why we recruited you. Your intel might be able to helps us with some of these… instabilities.”

You immediately smiled brightly. “Oh, sure! I can’t wait to get started. This place looks so cool.”

Miguel groaned inwardly. Amateurs.

He had scanned your file thoroughly and had been against your recruitment initially, but Jess had brought up valid points in your favour, despite the fact that you had only been bitten less than six months ago.

Inexperienced and ambitious.

These two hardly ever worked together, but your vast knowledge in tech compounds had made him give Jess the benefit of the doubt.

“Follow me. I’ll have to draw blood to run some tests and Lyla here will fill you in later on other procedures.”

The hologram popped in obnoxiously by your shoulder. “If he asks nicely, that is.”

Your mouth dropped open in absolute bewilderment. “Woah! AI? That is really, really awesome!”

“Thank you, pumpkin,” she grinned with a wink.

Miguel paced through the long halled that stretched out towards Lab 1, with you following close by, as Peter and Jess flanked you.

From the corner of his eye, he saw you glaring out of the tall windows, completely transfixed by the the countless skyscrapers that sprawled out as far as the eye could see.

“You built this?” your voice echoed in sheer wonder.

“Yes.”

“All of this?”

“Miguel is really gifted with technology,” Peter chimed in proudly.

“Woah…”

That tingled his ego nicely.

As the four of you walked inside the lab, the surrounding spiders at work glanced over, voicing their greetings.

“Take a seat.”

You immediately did as he said with Jessica standing next to you, hand on your shoulder.

Miguel put his gloves on and readied the material for the blood testing.

“Give me your arm.”

“So you’re a tech guy…” you started, and he gripped your forearm, rolled the sleeve of your suit up with fingers probing for a vein. “What else?”

“A geneticist.”

“Nice! So you’re like a two for one type of deal?”

Once he found what he was looking for, he aligned the tube with your skin. “This will sting a bit.”

Before you could reply, you let out a gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“And you work at the lab, too?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?” Miguel said, waiting for the tube to fill in.

You nodded with a warm smile. “I just like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

You had no idea, but Miguel was testing you, trying to gather as much of your personality as he could. He enjoyed piecing people together like puzzles. It stroked his sense of control.

“I thought Jessica had briefed you.”

“I did,” she immediately said.

“Yet you’re the one drawing my blood,” you chirped happily, your eyes fixed on his.

Well, maybe you had an idea.

Miguel felt the corner of his lips turn into a faint smile.

Good.

He needed perceptive people around.

He pulled away from from you slightly and pressed a cotton pad to the small puncture.

Sliding open one of the drawers nearby, he grabbed a watch, never letting go of your arm.

“This is a dimensional travel watch,” he explain, snapping it snugly around your wrist. “Keep it with you at all times.”

He let go of you and you seized the moment to inspect it closer, fascination never leaving your face.

“Let me guess… you also built this,” you said with a chuckle, pressing on the screen a few times.

He reached out his hand to stop you. “This is not a toy. Lyla will inform you on how to properly use it.”

You nodded firmly.

“Welcome to spider society.”

It didn’t take long for Miguel to start walking in on you sleeping in the lab.

For the fourth time.

He was all too familiar with the riveting excitement that came with scientific progress that often led to many sleepless nights.

But he still couldn’t allow this to keep happening.

Halting a few inches away from you, he took a moment to access the situation: you sat hunched over the lab table, head resting on folded arms and a string of drool dangling from the corner of your mouth.

A heavy sigh parted his lips.

He tapped his foot once on the leg of your chair, causing you to jolt upright with a yelp, nearly falling back from the loss of balance as the chair swayed dangerously.

But Miguel was fast enough to prevent that by steadying you with a firm grip on your shoulder. You then leaned forward, panting and clutching at your chest.

“Good morning.”

You turned your head to stare at him, deep bags under your eyes and sleep lines covering your face. “Miguel! Oh — hi! I’m… oh my… that was such a scare!”

His crimson eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s the fourth time this week.”

Trying to regain some composure, you straightened your clothes and wiped the string of drool trailing down your chin with the back of your hand.

“Right. I was… uh…” you paused abruptly and looked around, as if momentarily disoriented. “Oh. Yeah! I am — was working on running some diagnostics and must have dozed off waiting for the results… and-”

He clicked his tongue and spun your chair around, effectively silencing you, his eyes boring into yours. “This isn’t going to happen again. You need to rest.”

You swallowed. “I was resting…”

Miguel didn’t have neither the patience nor the time for this.

“You need proper rest,” he pressed on with a scowl. “Jessica scouted you for a reason, and if you’re too sleep-deprived to work, you’re of no use to us.”

You broke eye contact with him, lowering your head. “I’m sorry…”

The sincerity in your voice took him slightly aback, and he relaxed his face, wondering if he had perhaps been too harsh.

You were chewing on your lip, staring down at your entwined hands.

He had no idea why, but his heart skipped a beat.

Probably stress.

“Look,” he tried again, softer this time. “I know what it’s like to want more. To do more. I’ve been there,” he then crouched, so he could eye-level with you. “But you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. We have time to figure this out.”

You looked to the side, hesitating at first. “I… was talking to other spiders and some mentioned they feel the side effects of motion sickness if they use the portal more than twice a day,” you went on with newfound confidence, gripping the pad on the table and lighting up the screen. “I’m close to getting the chips to work and ther-”

Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop. Stop.”

You did.

“What part of me saying you need to sleep didn’t you understand?”

“I don’t mind sacrificing a few nights of sleep if it means I can help other spiders,” you said, a flash of defiance crossing your eyes. “Seriously, Miguel. I need to get this done… I need it.”

Miguel’s strictness shattered.

He then saw a reflection of himself staring right at him.

So much of your determination and persistence reminded him of his early days as a scientist. The struggle, the hunger for results, the need to achieve something that could help so many…

“I know you’re looking out for me,” you went on, placing one hand on his shoulder and giving it a soft squeeze. “And I’m grateful, but science and progress don’t wait. I know I can be helpful, so let me.”

For the first time in a very long time, Miguel O’Hara was left speechless.

“Please don’t fire me,” you laughed nervously.

He blinked a couple of times and stared down at his watch.

6:14AM

“You can come back in twelve hours.”

Your eyes widened in sheer excitement, lips parting into a wide smile.

He quicky lifted one finger. “If you try to sneak in, I’ll know.”

Your smile faltered, as he saw right through your intentions.

“And I’ll have you sent back to your dimension faster than you can say Nueva York. Got it?”

You lifted one hand in a salute and nodded.

He scowled. “And… stop hanging around Hobie.”

Dropping your hand, you bolted forward from your chair to hug him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The sudden motion nearly caused him to topple over and you immediately let go of him, as he rose to his full height again.

“Oh! Sorry!” you stepped away, patting his arm apologetically.

He blinked.

Then, grabbing your pad, you began tapping rapidly. “I’m uploading all the data to your watch, so please take a look.”

He blinked again.

You gathered your backpack and threw him a final warm smile. “If you find anything important, please let me know!”

Miguel nodded curtly, but remained rooted in place, as you hurried across the lab and past the sliding door.

His heart skipped a beat for the second time that day.

Then it dawned on him: the last person who had hugged him had been Gabriella.

Miguel should probably call himself a hypocrite.

He was heavily against you or any other spider dozing off in the lab, but he had been indulging in this quite often as of late.

By the time he rose from his slumber, and sat back on his padded chair, he realised something soft had been placed around his shoulders.

He tugged on it and was met with a blanket covered in tiny prints of Peter B. Parker’s face.

This was definitely Mayday’s.

“What…” he drawled out, blinking a few times to adjust his eyes to the brightness that poured in from the windows.

The clock on the wall marked nine in the morning.

He stared down at his desk to find a handwritten note next to a plate of… empanadas?

“Hi~

wanted to wake you up, but you were sleeping so soundly and I didn’t want to disturb you. I found Mayday’s blankie on my lab desk — I suspect Hobie is sneaking her around to pull a prank on me hehe xOx

P.S. Jess told me you like empanadas, so I tried making some for you. Hope you like them~ (I’m crossing my fingers)

P.S. 2 You need proper rest :)”

You.

It had been you.

He glared at the plate containing the pastries, and grabbed one.

His heightened senses allowed him to immediately get flooded with an overwhelming delicious smell.

Taking a bite, he fluttered his eyes shut, allowing the overwhelming combination of flavours to take over.

It tasted so, so good.

It tasted like home.

He rose to his feet and walked out, scanning the lab for traces of you.

But he was met with Jessica instead who had just walked in.

“Oh, you look terrible.”

He swallowed what was left in his mouth. “Thanks.”

Her gaze dropped to your hand. “Oh! Did she make those for you?”

“Uh… yes.”

He felt ridiculous for having mumbled it like that.

The two of them paced along the corridors and into Lab 2, where you were sitting, back turned to them, visibly engrossed in your tasks.

“How’s she been doing?”

He took another bite. “Good. She’s persistent and focused. Those are good traits to have in this field.”

“She reminds me of yourself.”

Miguel wasn’t surprised in the slightest, because it was an undeniable fact.

“Hopefully, she won’t make the same mistakes I did.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll make some along the way,” she shrugged casually. “And she’ll learn from them, as you did.”

Miguel kept his gaze fixed on you and felt a strange need arise in him.

To look after you.

He took the last bite and savoured it in silence, as Jessica eyed him curiously.

“She really is a sweet girl,” she ended up saying lovingly. “She asked me what your comfort food was.”

Sweet girl.

He let the name replay in his head, and determined he liked the sound of it. It was fitting.

“Go on. Say it.”

Miguel arched an eyebrow at this. “Say what?”

Jess threw him a smug look. “That I was right for recruiting her. That you were wrong.”

In truth, Miguel hated having to admit to his mistakes, and it wasn’t even related to his ego or inability to take criticism.

As he had come to learn the hard way, his mistakes would usually lead to catastrophic consequences.

But when it came to you, he had no problem admitting he had been in the wrong. You had proved to be quite capable of handling a multitude of tasks.

… and now you were starting to grow on him.

“Yes. You were right, Jessica,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on you. “She really is… something.”

She patted his back a few times. “Are you turning into a softie, Miguel?”

He scowled. “No.”

“Go ahead and thank her, then,” she said with a smile.

Miguel didn’t like being told what to do. He had every intention of letting you know he was grateful for your efforts.

But it had to be in his own way.

He parted ways with Jess and mad his way to you.

“Hey.”

You turned in your chair, bearing that kind smile he had grown so accustomed to. “Hi! You’re awake.”

“Cearly,” he grumbled with a shrug.

“Did you like the empanadas?”

He nodded. “They tasted amazing. Thank you.”

Like home.

“Great!” you beamed, your smile never wavering. “You looked really adorable while sleeping. Sorry for not waking you up.”

Adorable…?

He felt a lump form in his throat. Your energy was contagious, and he considered embracing it.

But he didn’t want to cave in…

He was a stubborn man by nature.

But he also didn’t want you to think he was too cold and distant like many in Nueva York thought.

“I want to show you something,” he said, tapping on his watch.

You waited expectantly and the screen in front of your flickered momentarily before a video started playing.

File: Gabriella.006

He didn’t even bother staring at the screen. He already knew by heart its content, and he didn’t want to revist the pain today.

No.

His eyes were fixed on you, instead.

He knew Lyla had already mentioned the event that led to him deciding to protect the multiverse.

He knew you knew of Gabriella.

Of what he had done.

Your smile dropped as the video went on, even though the sound of giggles and splashing water echoed around you.

“I’m not showing you this for you to feel bad for me.”

You shook your head, parting your eyes from the screen. “That didn’t even cross my mind.”

He paused the video.

“Right.”

Your eyes held kindness and your voice became softer. “I know why you’re showing this to me.”

He highly doubted it, but he waited for you to go on.

“We take care of each other here,” you began, twirling your chair to fully face bim. “And that means being open to showing vulnerabilities.”

He remained silent, digesting your words.

“Am I wrong?”

Partially, but he wouldn’t tell you that. The justification he had settled for in his head didn’t come close to your own.

And his heart skipped a beat.

He grown used to it happening whenever around you, but this time it felt more alarming.

More urgent.

“Miguel?”

You were eyeing him with concern, your hand reaching out to touch his arm.

He snapped out of his thoughts, and took a step back. “Send me the files you were working on yesterday. I need to check the coding.”

You gave him a nod, and he saw understanding soften your expression. He had expected you to press him on for an answer, but he was grateful you hadn’t.

“Oh, and… thank you, again. For… you know…” he drawled out as he ran a hand through his hair.

“You got it, Miguel,” you said, smiling sweetly.

Sweet girl.

His sweet girl.

It took Miguel one week to start dreaming about you.

At first, it would be a conglomerate of nonsensical blobs with your face or voice here and there. But as days went by, some began to take shape.

Your shape.

Nowadays, it would be your face and voice that would keep him company after tiring missions.

He had gotten quite fond of it.

Until things took a turn.

And he would wake up with a throbbing ache in between his legs, begging for relief.

That was when he knew he was letting his admiration for you get the best of him.

As he rose from his bed and walked to the tall window in his bedroom, he saw the sun lighting up the horizon line, bathing Nueva York in rays of orange and yellow.

He had built all of this in the hopes of a better future.

But now he started longing for one that had you in it somehow.

As a fellow spider.

A fellow scientist.

A friend, even.

He squinted as his sensitive eyes became increasingly sore from the intense light, so he moved to his bedside table and grabbed the peace of paper you had left him days ago.

Your handwriting mirrored your personality: graceful and captivating.

Maybe he should have tossed it away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Walking into his living room, he booted up the screens on the wall.

There was this crescendo inside him that urged him to look for you.

He tapped through various sections of the lan, but he found you near the refrigeration area, tapping on your chin with a pencil, as you glared at the screens in front of you.

He wanted to call you.

To hear your voice first thing in the morning.

To commend you for being up so early already and committing to your duties.

Suddenly, he saw your lips turn into a soft knowing smile, and he knew you must have figured something out.

Of course you had.

Your perception and tenacity were unmatched.

As much as he wanted to talk to you, he decided against it.

In his mind, he was too undeserving of anything more than a friendship with you.

He convinced himself that he was not good enough, and that he was meant to watch you from afar.

You were just like a flame. Too close and it burns. Too far away and it freezes.

He grazed his thumb across the screen, close to you.

His sweet, sweet girl.

It would be better off this way. Not for him, of course. He was already in too deep. But it would be better for you.

You deserved better.

But he still craved you.

Miguel recognised the feeling that was started to seep into his heart and mind. He had almost forgotten how suffocating that felt.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from your face.

He couldn’t tear his heart from your hold.

The level of despair was unmistakable and he knew exactly what this feeling was.

Frustration.

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