#you don't need to be perfect you just need to try

[mychaosflowers]

Batboys and Cockwarming

Dick's cockwarming technique is all about sensuality and intimacy. As he pulls you onto his lap, strong arms wrap around you, pulling you close. You feel enveloped in his embrace, cocooned in the warmth of his body. A soft, sensual kiss begins trailing along your neck, his lips brushing teasingly over your sensitive skin. His hands roam your curves, slipping under your shirt to caress the bare skin beneath.

"You feel incredible." Dick murmurs against your throat, his voice low and husky with desire."So beautiful and perfect nestled against me like this." He punctuates his words with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, letting you feel the hard length of his erection pressing insistently against you.

Dick holds you there, savoring the contact and closeness. But when you start squirming unintentionally, seeking friction from somewhere else, Dick just chuckles softly. "Struggling already?" His hand slips lower, cupping your inner thigh possessively."I think we both know what really needs attention right now..." His other hand continues to massage your shoulder, fingertips tracing circles that gradually become more aggressive.

Jason feigns impatience but secretly thrives on the power he feels during cockwarming. He pulls you onto his lap roughly, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he sheathes himself inside you in one swift motion. The air is charged with tension as he remains still, letting you adjust to his size and heat.

"Stay put." he commands, voice low and gravelly with restrained desire. His breath is hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine as he whispers, "I want to feel every inch of you, all wrapped around my cock."

When you try to move, Jason's response is immediate. He growls, fingers digging into your flesh as he holds you firmly in place."Don't even think about it." he warns, his hard length throbbing inside you. "You're mine now, and I'm not done with you yet."

Tim approaches cockwarming with a serene intensity, his actions deliberate and intimate. As he sits you in his lap, his hands guide yours to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Then, with a tenderness that borders on reverence, he begins to ease himself inside you.

"You feel so perfect like this." Tim breathes, his words a soft murmur against your temple. "So warm and welcoming, like you were made for me." His arms encircle you, pulling you flush against him until there's no space left between your bodies.

Tim takes his time settling deep inside you, savoring each increment of closeness. When finally seated fully, he exhales a long, contented sigh, as if he's found his way home after a long journey. One hand slides up your back to cup the nape of your neck, while the other rests on your hip, applying the slightest pressure to keep you still.

"How are you feeling?" Tim asks quietly, always attentive to your needs above his own. But there's an undercurrent of tension in his body, a coiled energy waiting to be unleashed. The way he grips you says he's barely holding back from taking what he wants, what you both crave. And when you shift minutely, the low groan that rumbles in his chest suggests how close he is to losing control completely.

Sorry for the mistakes, English is not my native language.

[szatears]

t.l.c., smoke.

summary: thinking about smoke coming home to you after pulling off a job with his brother...

pairing: smoke x blackfem!reader

warnings: slight description of reader, some details of injury and stitching and injury, mainly fluff, hint of suggestive tones, smoke being smoke.

notes: resisting the urge to go see sinners yet again is so hard 😖 also i'm posting this quite late it's literally 2am ?!

You heard his footsteps first. Quiet yet heavy, slow yet you could imagine him hurrying to take off his coat. He closed the door behind him firmly, the sound echoing throughout your shared home.

You carried on folding the pile of clothes that had finished drying, sat on the small, cosy sofa smoke had bought.

He let out a sigh when he laid his eyes on you, a relaxed one or a content one, you couldn't quite tell. You turned your face to look at him, a soft smile on your lips.

Strands of your curly hair were a little out of place from the tight pulled back bun you put it into, and you were sure you looked even more tired than you actually were. But to Smoke, you looked perfect. And he always told you that, he never failed to.

You stood up, as he walked towards you, hanging his coat up by the door. Placing the basket of clothes down by the leg of the sofa, you welcomed your husband back into your arms after a long three days.

Sure you had company, that company being your siblings and Mary coming over unannounced as she usually did, but it didn't compare to the company Smoke provided for you.

"Hi, baby," He mumbled into the crook of your neck as he hugged you back, his arms gently squeezing you into him as if you'd slip away from him if he didn't.

You leaned back to get a good look at his face, your hand caressing over his cheeks with so much care. "You take care of yourself out there?"

You always asked the same question in a different form, making sure he actually listened to you and came back to you in one piece like he always said he would.

But instead of kissing your worries away and telling you he was fine, Smoke winced a little as he pulled his undershirt up a little, revealing a graze that needed tending to.

You gasped a little, holding his shirt up higher so you could see better. "It's not too bad, mama," he tried to tell you. If it wasn't for you, he'd probably attempt to sleep it off or smoke a cigarette to ease the pain, most definitely leaving it to get infected.

"Stop, don't do that. C'mon." You didn't give him room to argue, pulling him to the bathroom where you had everything you needed to stitch him back up.

The wound wasn't too bad, it looked like a graze from a bullet but he definitely needed stitching to close it up properly.

"Baby, you ain't gotta worry yourself with all that, just leave it, I'ma be fine," Smoke sighed, seeing you get out all your supplies.

You scoffed, ignoring his pleas. "What, you scared of a lil' needle?" you held it up near his face as if trying to prove your point.

Smoke laughed a little, clutching at his side. "Girl, ain't no one scared of yo' lil' ass needle, move." He kissed his teeth, but leaned back against the bathroom counter when you pushed at his chest.

"Take it off," you tugged at his undershirt, which you could see was soaked in blood under the light.

"Ooh, you a fast one," he joked, chuckling when you straight faced him. Nonetheless he took off his tank top, throwing it in the basket of dirty laundry.

"You want a drink? This is gonna hurt."

"... Yeah."

He didn't need to hesitate because you both knew he was gonna have a drink regardless, that's just what a rough day did to him.

You left the bathroom and came back with a bottle of whiskey, handing it to him. You waited for him to take a swig of it before kissing his lips briefly.

"I'm sorry?"

Smoke furrowed his brows a little. "For what─── God damn," he groaned when you thread the needle into his skin, immediately drinking the whiskey again.

It went on like that for a few more moments, Smoke cursing and huffing. He didn't drink too much of the whiskey because he didn't want to get flat out drunk when what he really wanted was to be close to you, what he had been looking forward to all day.

When you finished the stitch, you wrapped it up in a bandage carefully. You let him take a shower whilst you finished putting away the laundry, getting into your nightdress while he did so.

When he came out, you went back into the bathroom to put away what you used to stitch him up. "Here, go sit down while I clean up."

"You gon' come to bed when you done?" He asked, not meeting your eyes as he looked at your handiwork on his body.

You smiled at the way he was still shy to show you that affectionate side of him, that he was still a needy guy underneath that mean and tough exterior he had.

"Yeah, baby, I'll be just a minute."

He nodded, taking himself to your bedroom. You knew he wouldn't be sitting up when you found him but instead lying down, which he was.

He'd put on the shkrts he always wore to bed, this time abandoning a tank top incase the stitches bled through it, which he was sure they wouldn't, you were really good at what you did.

You crawled into bed beside your husband, his warm hands waiting for you. He immediately went to pull you close to his chest but you tutted. "What?" he looked between you two, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"You forgetting you're hurt? Or do you wanna bust open them stitches?" you laughed when the realisation sunk on his face. He was so used to sleeping with you like that, that it had become a natural sleeping position for him.

He grumbled, confused on how to proceed given the circumstances. You took the lead, pulling him over your body so that his head rested on your chest. You knew you wouldn't wake up in the same position but it was still nice to fall asleep close to him like that.

One of your hands gently stroked over his neck, lulling him towards his sleep. Smoke couldn't describe to you just how much he needed moments like this, needed you. There was a specific type of comfort that you brought him, and he longed for it every time he was away from you.

You could feel him relax in your hold, finally being able to let his guard down even if it was just four a couple of hours.

You bent your head down, kissing his cheek softly before you nestled in beside him.

"I love you," he whispered it so faintly, you thought you heard his voice waver at the end. You could never doubt the love that Smoke had for you; he loved you fiercely and he loved you proudly.

"I love you, too."

taglist.

@childishgambinaax @abriefnirvana @blackisy2k @chrisevansmentee @siasoup @amethyst09 @heauxtales @skywalker0809 @thelightknight21 @klssngss @atomicearthquakemusic7 @oc3anbxbyxoxo @honestlyurslol @simpingfor-wakasa

[dirtylilspawn]

hi, i recently discovered your account, and now i'm just in love with your fics, i really liked the headcanons about reader manhandling lads boys. Can you do a reverse version? like, if they wanted to take revenge.

ᴍᴀɴʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇᴅ ᴘᴛ. 2

Summary: The lads boys manhandle you right back.

Fandom: Love & Deepspace

Parings: [Rafayel x Fem!Reader, Sylus x Fem!Reader, Caleb x Fem!Reader, Xavier x Fem!Reader, Zayne x Fem!Reader]

A/N: Hi!!! I'm so happy you like my fics especially the manhandling one, I had fun writing it. And it seems like a lot of people love it haha! Pls don't be afraid to ask anything else you want me to write next. Give me some more good inspiration yall, for me to work on lol. Manhandled pt. 1

Warnings: Fluff & humor, some suggestive stuff, cursing, jealousy, drunk reader

════════════════════════════

RAFAYEL

You and Rafayel frequently visit the beach whenever you can.

A was special place for the both of you.

It was summer break, a good excuse to once again visit the ocean together. Staying away from the heat, enjoying each other's company, eating great food, and walking along the sandy beach. That was your typical outing with Rafayel. And if you were feeling more adventurous, Rafayel would take you deep diving along the ocean floors. The two of you swimming along the currents, seeing the beauty of every coral reef or fish, and many other sea life.

Right now, your whole body was floating along the calm waters.

Your back and legs carried by the cool ocean, cradling you with ease. Your eyes were connected with the bright blue sky above you; a few small clouds pass by but otherwise it was a clear sky today. You smiled while letting out a chilled sigh.

You came over to Rafayel's place, wanting to use his private beach to relax and have fun. It has been a suffering hot for the last two weeks, and you needed a break. You didn't even ask him, the moment you showed up to his home, you were already in your two-piece swimsuit. A pretty white bikini with pink shell tracings along the edges, strings wrapping around your neck and upper torso, while the bottoms had string bows on the side of your waist. You also wore a pink see-through coverup with sandals. And to top it off, you held a basket filled with sandwiches, drinks, snack, desserts, that the two of you enjoyed.

This was a surprise of course, but a very openly welcomed surprise to Rafayel none-the-less. Seeing you in such a visually pleasing bikini was nothing but perfection in Rafayel's world, plus there was food, so really, he couldn't deny you. If he could, he'd tell you to dress like that all the time, 24/7. The only problem would be the onlookers gawking over your beauty, plus he knew you'd be against it anyways. A man can only dream.

Anyway, your thoughts soon came to a halt as you suddenly wondered to yourself, where the heck was your boyfriend? He was here with you during the early day, bathing in the sun, playing few games, swimming together. But as you look to both your sides seeing empty water, and Rafayel's beach cabana empty. You can't even hear him, and you were starting to get a bit anxious.

The last time you heard his voice before relaxing on top of the ocean, was that he'll be right back. That he was going to get something before returning to you. That was seven minutes ago

You didn't know what he was trying to do or get at, but it shouldn't take that long...right?

"Rafayel!?"

You called out as your body was still floating above the water. You hear nothing, no reply back. The only sounds were the wind blowing through some trees, and the swishing of the ocean underneath you.

"Where is he? He didn't ditch me...did he?"

You bite your lip, eyes staring up at the sky with a narrowed glare. Your throat emitting an annoyed groan as another minute passes on.

"He wouldn't...I bet he's scheming something...I can feel it..."

You quiet yourself to hear anything, anything at all. You didn't know why but you had a gut feeling that something was not up. You heart starts to pick up, making you feel on edge. Another minute of calm silence stresses you out as you shake your head.

"Okay that's it! I'm done waiting around, where the hell-AAH!!"

Before you could even get up and search for Rafayel, a strong hand starts to wrap around your legs, while the other hand made its way to your back. The mysterious person picked up from the water, holding you close. You're still screaming in horror at the sudden action, squirming in this person's arms, wondering how a stranger wandered into Rafayel's beach. But all those screams die down as you see your mischievous boyfriend with that annoying grin of his as he stared down at you. His whole-body drench with water, droplets from his hair landing onto your chest.

Rafayel then leans into your neck with rampant amounts of kisses. You sputter out nonsense as he continues to do this before leaning away to give you a sly wink.

"Hey princess, didn't miss me too much did ya~?"

"R-Rafayel! What! Why! You...jerk!"

Your terror went to confusion, which went to anger as you grabbed at his cheeks. Shaking his head with so much frustration causing the man to yelp himself getting away from your attack.

"Okay okay! I'm sorry, stop shaking me! You don't want me to drop you, do ya?"

You stop shaking him, but your pout still remains of your face as your arms were crossed against your chest.

"Where were you?"

"I wasn't that far away, just down below the reefs to find this."

Rafayel hand that was on your back reveals on your side a beautiful conch seashell. The outside a shiny iridescent silver refection, with the sun's rays, you could see the tiny rainbows reflected around the surface. On the inside material was a light violet color, its smooth base glittering, drops of water tracing the shell as if they were pearls. This was indeed beautiful shell, one that Rafayel motioned for you to take into your hands which you did. Your fingertips trace the patterns of the conch shell; it was the size of your palm.

"Isn't it beautiful, thought I find the most extravagant shell I can find, for the most extravagant woman here.

You didn't say anything, as you could feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling a bit silly for worrying so much. Feeling embarrassed how the thought of him being underwater was a possibility. You look away from him, clutching the shell close to your chest.

"...it's pretty..."

Rafayel chuckles leaning in to give you a sweet kiss to your cheek. He starts to walk his way back to the shore.

"I'm sorry for scaring you princess, are you mad at me?"

You sigh, eyes returning to his as you smiled back at him.

"No, just next time bring me with you, I like it when we do things together."

Rafayel kisses your cheeks again, his nose brushing with yours.

"Fully noted. Though, I have to admit, hearing your screams was a lot funnier than I expected, cute even. I might want to hear it again~"

Rafayel stops, the ocean water only encompassing his whole waist. His arms start to get lose around your legs and back. He then teases by swaying you around in his arms, as if he has the nerve to throw you out of his embrace, and into the water harshly. You give him a glare, as you wrapped one arm around his neck securely.

"Don't even try fish boy."

Rafayel could only shiver at your threat, a playful yet nervous grin, as he continues to walk out of the ocean and onto the sandy shore.

════════════════════════════

SYLUS

You got into a fight.

No, not a serious fight where tensions rise in one's relationship that causes problems, no. I mean a petty silly fight that started out as a small disagreement, only to result in the both of you - mostly you - giving each other the silent treatment. Honestly you forgotten what the argument as about. Maybe it was about work life, or maybe it was that you had a bad day, whatever it was it made you pretty stubborn to talk to him. Always avoiding him, giving him sarcastic huffs, turning your head upward like some snotty rich girl. Refusing to acknowledge his presence in a very playful yet still mad stubborn kind of way.

He knows this, and he finds it adorable.

How his kitten is refusing any sort of affection due to one silly argument. Playing hard to get as he tries lure you in with apologies and love, while all you do is turn your head the other way. Like a stranger pushing a bowl of milk to a stray cat as it hisses in retaliation. He found it absolutely cute, but the cuteness soon died down into a slight irritation.

"My you sure are a sight for the eyes girly~"

"Aw thank you."

Sylus scoffed watching the sleezy older man compliment you like some common whore for him to take. He could overhear the whole conversation between you and him through an earpiece the two of you shared. And the more that bastard talk to you, the more upset Sylus got.

You were undercover obviously, gathering personal intel from a powerful criminal the frequented this nightclub in the N109 zone. You told Sylus about it in a very brief manner, expecting to go alone on this but the Onychinus leader came along with you. Because he'll be damned if he didn't, and he was right. He knows that this little argument between you and him was just no more than playful banter between you both, there was no actual problem. He knows inside you had already forgiven him, even though you won't admit it. He liked that aspect of your stubbornness, but now he didn't, because now he has to watch another man talk to you while you laugh and smile at his words - not actually - and he can't even get two words in before you turn away.

It bothered him.

And it bothered him even more when he sees this old man start to get fresh. His dirty hands making their way to your exposed thigh. Making his way up your thigh, a goal to get underneath your short red dress. A dress he had bought for you one time, a dress that he can only undress and feel up underneath.

Yeah, he's had enough of this.

Time to put an end to your game.

You on the other hand were trying so hard not to punch the man in the face. Your face twitching in anger but still acting coy and sweet, swatting the old man 's hand playfully off, giggling, but deep down you were seething. You just wanted to go home with Sylus and end this night quickly. Just a little more info, then you can finally go.

Your thoughts were soon interrupted when you can see your intimidating boyfriend waltz right up to the private corner where you and your suspect were sitting. He parted the crowd of dancers with ease, his face stone cold and serious, as his red eyes glowered at the scene in front of him. You cursed inside, as Sylus is now right in front of you. His big body looming over yours as you sat nervously.

"Time to go dove."

It was all he said, you were happy he's here. Happy that he came to get you. But at the same time the stubbornness from before rises, now upset at him for blowing your mission. You sat up hands pushing at his chest gently to make him go back, but the man does not bulge an inch.

"What are yo-"

"Hey, were busy here pal."

The elder man then suddenly gets up; he glares at Sylus while bringing you back close to him. His arm and hand wrapped around your waist, making you cringe not liking being this close to the guy. Before you could even say anything, or push this man away, you saw the familiar dark red and black mist of Sylus evol activating around the old man. He grunts in pain, his whole body capsulated by the powerful evol making his hand come off your waist. It crushed him a bit all before he was suddenly thrown back against the leather couch. He let's out a painful groan, as his body sags pathetically.

You watch this, only to gasp loudly yourself as you had found yourself being picked up by Sylus. Your whole body thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ass sticking out and your dress ridding up your thighs making you blush heavily.

"Sylus!"

"We're going now."

He simply says before making his way out of the club, parting the shocked crowded of people that witness the embarrassing scene. As if that wasn't enough, Sylus gave your ass a sharp spank to your cheek making you cry out with shock. Your butt wiggling at the stinging - but very pleasurable - slap to your ass. You whine as you cover your face from the lingering eyes, you did this until Sylus makes his way outside the club. His feet stop as he made it to his motorcycle where he had parked it.

"Sylus put me down!"

"I don't think so kitten you're in time out."

"Time out!?"

"Well, until you apologize and say that you won't ignore me. Otherwise, you'll be staying up here for a while~"

Is your boyfriend seriously putting you in air jail until you apologize for ignoring him. You sigh, rubbing your hand on your forehead, cheeks puff out as you try to wiggle out of this. But it was no use, as he held a firm grip on you. His hand running up and down your smooth back thigh, teasing yet comforting. Honestly it felt so much better having his hand on your thigh than that old man's hand. So much better.

"Mmm...sorry..."

"What was that kitten I couldn't hear you."

You can just hear the smirk on his face stretching. It made grumble more, arms crossed as you looked at the ground in defeat.

"I sorry, I won't ignore you anymore...now can you put me down! I'm starting to get dizzy here."

"Seems you have forgotten the magic words that go to that sentence."

You let out a long groan, your body slumping his his hold. You can hear his signature laugh which made you want to just hide away and curl up into a little ball. With man was going to be the death of you with his endless teasing.

"Please put me down."

Sylus lets out a hum of approval before setting you back down on the cement ground. You stumble a bit on your heels before looking up at him flustered. He grins down at you, eyes racking every part of your body making you feel so small. He raises a hand to caress your cheek affectionately. Sylus then leans down to give your lips a brief but passionate kiss on your glossed lips. You close your eyes leaning in gor more. All those times ignoring his advances made you realize just how touched starved you are with this man.

He pulls away, which made you whine - he definitely heard - moving to near towards your ear. Making you shiver feeling his breath against your skin lightly.

"Good girl, now let's get back home so we can make up properly. You kept avoiding me for so long, it's about time I take my well-deserved fill~"

════════════════════════════

CALEB

"Hmm...where are you pipsqueak?!"

A goofy smile made it to your face as you hide behind a tree from Caleb. Your back against the wide tree, looking over to see Caleb walking along the glassy fields slowly with a grin stretching his lips. Heart pounding in your chest at the prospect of getting caught by him. You try as much to stifle your own laugher or breaths as he inches closer to where you were.

It was a very bright warm day today, Caleb suggested going out and taking a nice walk around the park meadows nearby. You agreed to this and spent your whole day with Caleb as you walked around the park. Passing by kids who run along the sidewalk or hanged around the jungle gym. Food venders who you defiantly stop by, grabbing something to eat with their delicious food. And couples ranging from your age to elderly ones that sat on benches complimenting you and Caleb and your youth.

It was a very peaceful day.

Once you guys made it to the widespread meadow, you couldn't help but feel a bit playful with him. Before he could even say anything, you start to run away from him, taunting about how he couldn't catch you. Making Caleb grin with amusement and run right after you. The both of you laughing and giggling like little kids. It felt so cliche yet wholesome at the same time running after each other in a field of flowers. It was moments like these that Caleb treasures the most, just having so much fun with you, seeing the look of happiness on your face.

"[Y/N]! You can't hide forever."

You hear Caleb call out, but you didn't respond, as you were still hiding behind the tree you picked out. You slid down the tree into a kneeling crouch, staying as quiet as you could so he couldn't hear. You can hear the faint steps of shoes crunching on the grassy ground come closer and closer. Your heart pounding heavily inside your chest, until suddenly you couldn't hear his footsteps anymore.

You wait a few moments and still you couldn't hear Caleb, nor did he call out again. It was silent, too silent.

You got up from crouching and turn yourself around to look around the tree, seeing no trace of where Caleb was. This caused your heart to skip in fear. You curse inside your head before backing away, knowing Caleb probably would jump out and likely find where you are. You had to get out of there quickly.

And so you do back away.

Right into Calebs chest.

His lips right next your ear, with and evil smirk stretching across his lips.

"Gotcha~"

"Aah!"

Before you know it, his hands grappled your waist, immediately going into a full-on tickle fight. His fingers digging into your sides, tickling you with no mercy whatsoever. You laugh, tears pricking your eyes as you try to move away from his assault. But no, this boy had an iron hold on you.

"Caleb! Haha...w-wait nooo~!"

"After running from me, this is your punishment pipsqueak~"

You whine and moan trying to find a way to get out of this situation. It wasn't until you both found yourself on the ground where you had found an opportunity. His body towered over yours as he stops tickling you for a moment, watching as you trying to catch your breath. The moment you do was the moment you striked, as your hands were placed upon his shoulders. Pushing him over onto the grass with you straddling his waist.

"Ha! Take that!"

Caleb laughs grinning with playful mischief.

"The games not over yet babe!"

His hands are on your waist again as he then tackles you back down, rolling you onto the grass while he was right above you again. Your shock face turns into determination, taking that as a challenge. You roll over him again to pin him down, and he does the same. The both of you laughing about as the two of your rolled along the meadow, trying to pin one another.

It wasn't until Calbe gets dizzy that he stops this. Forcefully manhandling you down with much ease. His hands now pinning your wrists above your head. He pants heavily, looking down at you with his own victorious smile; his looming presence shadows your own body. You try to wiggle away with no avail, Caleb having too much of a hold on you. No match for his ridiculous amount of strength.

"Give up?"

You grunt before letting out a long sigh, head dropping on ground hair messy as well as your clothes. It was a simple pair of jean shorts and [F/C] shirt. He was messy as well, you can see a few grass strands cling to his body, shirt, and pants. A few specks of dirt here and there. His hair was messy, his dog tag necklace dangling above you. You can feel your cheeks heat up, defeated and embarrassed.

You grumble to yourself, looking away from his lingering gaze which made him chuckle. Thinking just how cute you were pinned beneath him, it made his heart flutter.

"Fine, I give up.

Caleb hums, "Good."

He leans down to kiss your lips making your eyes widen but lean into the kiss anyway. He pulls away only to cover your entire face with kisses, causing you to giggle from his cute actions. He continues to do this, even going down to your neck which made you chuckle even more.

Caleb then sighs blissfully in between you neck and shoulder.

He stops and let's go of your wrists, only for him to put his full body weight on top of you. His head laying on your chest nuzzling you, his eyes closed as he basks in this moment the two of you shared.

"Agh, Caleb your heavy...get off~"

"Hmm...nah, let's stay like this for a little while more..."

He says this holding you close like you were so teddy bear. You sigh as you look up at the clear blue sky, feeling the cool wind on your face making you feel a bit drowsy yourself. Your hands wrapped around his head, hands threading through his dark brown locks. Nails scratching his scalp making him groan, burring his head more into your chest.

Everything felt so peaceful and calm in that very moment.

That is until something shifts and prods against your mid-thigh.

"Uh...Caleb?"

"Sorry squeaks, you can't really blame me here."

════════════════════════════

XAVIER

He got a call from Tara.

Saying something about helping her with you in the mix of things, it sounded urgent. So of course, Xavier immediately got up to go over to where you were. You told Xavier that you were going out with Tara and Simone for a girl's night out. Just a simple date with the crew, drinking and some karaoke. He smiles to this, saying to be careful and have fun, giving you a kiss as he watched you head out.

And now he watches as you were singing your heart out to some random song, standing on top of a table, microphone in hand, as you slur the lyrics to the song badly. He watched this drunk you in action with amusement but worry. Tara was also there watching the hilarious scene, but she was sat next to Simone who was also heavily drunk, cheering you on with slurred "Whoos", her eyes barely open. Tara was holding her up as she was slumped against the couch, trying to get her to drink water.

"It's been like this for an hour; can you take care of [Y/N]. I have to get Simone back to her place; it's a bit far."

Xavier nods his head, "Yeah, I'll take care of her. You go on ahead."

Tara nods and she gets up bring Simone on her feet. She wobbles and whines about how she wants to stay more, but Tara declines that. She had already called a taxi to come pick them up. Both exit the room, leaving just you and Xavier. You didn't even know Xavier was in the room, to focused on the song at hand.

That was until Xavier grabbed the remote and paused the karaoke game on the tv, the room now silent, making you groan and turn to him. There was a pout on your face, but it soon turned to a goofy smile as you saw your boyfriend was here.

"Xaaavier, your here!"

You lifted up your arms joyfully making Xavier chuckle.

"[Y/N] what are you doing?"

You laugh.

"I'm singing obviously, duuh, c-come on up...and sing with meee~"

You start to dance on top of the table, making it wobble. And Xavier catches this, worried about your well-being.

"I think you done enough singing for today angel, how about we go home."

You turn to him with a sad pout.

"What? Nooo...the night is young just one more song pleeeease~"

"You're drunk [Y/N], you have to come home."

Your head shakes, as you crossed your arms like a child.

"How dare you good sir, I'm not drunk...can a drunk person dance like this!"

You then dance terribly on top of the table, limbs moving carelessly in the air, your skirt flowing with every movement of your hips. Xavier sees this and shakes his head with a laugh exiting his lips. He found this adorable; you completely wasted dancing like nobody watching. It almost made him wish he had his phone to record this silly moment of you.

But his amusement turned into worry as he saw the table wobbling again, this time more frequently.

"[Y/N], how about we get down-"

"No way party pooper, I'm not fini-"

The table buckled violently underneath you, causing you to stumble and fall. The microphone in your hand falling out and onto the floor with a loud thud. You gasp, heart pounding in your chest as you felt the scary sensation of falling. But Xavier being the quick person he is caught you just in time. His arms wrapped around your waist securely, as you had wrapped your arms around his neck. Xavier made your legs wrap around his waist, his hands holding your thighs so you wouldn't go anywhere. Your body was shaking from the frightening fall, sobering you up just a bit.

"Uhm...you know what...your right...I should probably get home...yeah."

You said as you try to calm your frantic heart, clinging onto Xavier like a life preserver. You can hear him chuckle at your words in your ear, his hand rubbing your back soothingly. He doesn't say anything but walk over to grab an un-open bottled water for you and your purse. His one hand still carrying you with no struggle. You can feel your heats heat up in embarrassment, as you and Xavier walked out of the karaoke room. A few passersby's watching confused at the situation.

You moan, hiding your face in his neck, you can feel the chill air of the night as Xavier walks out the building.

"Here, drink."

Xavier orders you to drink the water, presenting it to you. You grab the bottle, unscrewing the cap before taking a nice swig of water down your throat. One hand was wrapped around his neck while the other clutched the bottle, groaning at the cool refreshing water. Xavier continued to walk down the sidewalk, his hands clutching underneath your thighs that still was wrapped around his waist. You stop drinking the water when done, the liquid reaching the bottom of the bottle, as it was almost finished. You let out a long sigh, resting your head on Xavier's shoulder.

"Feeling a bit better?"

"Mhm..."

You mumbled with a yawn. There was silence between you two as Xavier continued to walk with you still in his arms. You can still feel the embarrassment still lingering in your cheeks. Your boyfriend seeing your dance ridiculously while also carrying you like a child. You can see a few more people walk along the sidewalk seeing this embarrassing situation you've gotten yourself in. You wiggle in Xavier's tight grasp he has on you. His manhandling on you getting to your head, but he doesn't care as he holds on to you tightly not wanting to let you go.

"Y-You know you can set me down now, I can walk."

Xavier smiles shaking his head. He leans into your neck giving you sweet butterfly kisses all before he nips at your neck with his teeth. Causing you to gasp and whine more, face hotter than before.

"No, I think I'll hold you till we get back. Who knows what will happen if I let you go. You might just climb up one of these lamp posts and start dancing~"

"Xaaavier.."

Yeah, you had a feeling he'd hold this over you for a while.

════════════════════════════

ZAYNE

"Are you going to wear those?"

That's the question Zayne asked you firsthand. Seeing you place on a pair of nice heels on. Heels that were a little higher than the normal pair of heels you would usually wear to a formal event. The two of you were going out to a fancy gathering with some of Zayne's collogues. There was a plus one, and Zayne asked if you had wanted to accompany him to which you had said yes. Knowing that he finds you company to these certain event barrable then if he had gone alone.

You looked up at him with a coy smile stretched across your lips. You hand leaving your feet as you just finished placing the second heel on your right foot. You stand up giving him a good spin around, showcasing your beautiful outfit to him. A long silver dress, your hair up in a tight bun, earrings, a necklace, and those high heels.

"What? The heels? You don't like them?"

Zayne doesn't say anything, only starting down at the shiny silver heels you wore. He adjusts his tie on his tux, as his body was facing a bedroom mirror.

"They're a bit higher than what you normally wear my love."

You get what he was saying to you, that these heels were too much. How he was worried you'd be too uncomfortable all throughout the evening wearing them. Getting yourself hurt making it unbearable to walk. But you were too confident and stubborn, thinking nothing of it when putting on these heels. You looked too good in your outfit, and these heels topped it off, you figured you could handle them.

"Yeah, but I can handle them perfectly see."

You walked like a model on a runway, showing him how you were comfortable with these heels on your feet. You then turn to him with a playful smirk, a hand on your hips.

"See, easy no need to worry I'm fine."

Zayne cocks a brow up as he looks at you for a moment, as if scanning your expressions. He then sighs rolling his eyes back over to the mirror he was facing, checking out his appearance for the final time.

"Alright then, don't come complaining to me when your feet are in agony."

You puff your cheeks at him, sticking your tongue out playfully.

"Oh please! I'm stronger than I look, I bet I can even last the whole night!"

Zayne lets out a small huff of a laugh, while shaking his head, a small but all-knowing grin curling the corner of his lips.

"I know you're strong honey, c'mon it's about time we head out."

And that's where are story leads us, to you sitting on an expensive couch in a private room with Zayne. Your legs and feet propped up on Zayne's lap as his rough hands massaged the soles of your feet. His suit jacket was off, as the sleeves of his black dress blazer was rolled up to his elbows showing his scars. You were dramatically laying back against the couch's armrest, letting out pitiful groans and whines. Your head was tilt back to the decorative ceiling; the feeling of Zayne's hands massage you making you sigh with relief.

Thirty minutes.

Once you reached the thirty-minute mark of wearing those heels, began the intense pain that came after it. You tried your best to stifle the pain away, tried to grin your best smile while taking to many of Zanye's collogues. But the searing pain of those damn heels digging into your skin, making your feet sore with every second. The constant ache with every step you took. Hell, you even stumbled a bit which made people question if you're okay which was embarrassing. It wasn't until you actually stumble and fall into you boyfriend's arms that you knew you were done.

Here was your boyfriend, guiding you to a private room away from the massive party of onlookers. Guiding you gently to the couch so you can sit. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to say anything because you already know what's going through his mind.

"I guessing this is the part where you say I told you so."

Zayne chuckles at your pouty tone. Even with your disgruntled appearance he still finds you absolutely gorgeous. One of his hands ran up and down your legs, your dress ridding up a bit, as his hands made contact with your thigh causing you to shiver. He gives you thigh a good squeeze before lifting your right foot up, making you quirk an eyebrow at him. But it soon went away when his lips pressed a chaste kiss against your ankle. Giving you a good number of kisses till he reached about twelve.

"I wouldn't stoop to such lows my beloved."

He speaks sending a painfully blissful pressure point to your bottom foot causing you to whimper. God, when it came to massages, he was so great at them, always manhandling your body, subduing you into a messy puddle.

"But I will say next time please don't compromise your own health just because of some fashionable clothes, okay?"

You look up at him, seeing his gentle expression towards you. Your heart flickers, giving him small smile back.

"Okay...sorry for cutting the party short."

"No apologies needed, I wasn't really focused on it anyway...now-"

Zayne had placed your legs and feet aside before standing up from the couch. He then gets his suit jacket and places it along your shoulders. He gets your heels in one hand, before wrapping his left arm around you to pick you up. You gasp in shock, wrapping your arms around your neck as he picks you up, one hand with ease. He gives you a smirk, making your cheeks flush and stomach twist.

"-Let's get you back home so I can take care of you."

"B-But wait! What about the others? Seeing me like this in your arms?"

Zayne only walks back to the door that led you to the private room, his right hand the held your heels operating to twist the door handle.

"I'll just say I'm tending to my dear patient who's in need of my assistance~"

And that's exactly what he said, though a big portion of embarrassment still resided inside you as you were carried away. All because a pair of some stupid heels.

════════════════════════════

[haneys]

if you're struggling with the need for constant stimuli and feel like reading isn't stimulating enough anymore (you have the need to reach for ur phone to scroll or play a video in the bg or you can't focus etc) try out putting brown noise/ your chosen hz in thr background and get a sensory stim toy you can fidget with. another thing that helped me to go back to reading more was spending the time during my commute to work and college reading. turns out the constant movement and hustle and bustle of trams and busses + white noise or lofi in earbuds was the perfect amount of "stuff happening" to let me lock in without feeling like I'm about to wither and die, even tho I never would've assumed I'd be able to concentrate on a book in such a place. remember, even reading just for 10minutes a day is great, and most of the time after you get over the hurdle of Starting you'll get into the zone and easily spend even more time than you planned. you've got this! also I'm sorry because this probably sucks to hear over and over again but also considering a detox from apps/bombarding yourself with information might be beneficial!

p.s. I menaged to get myself an old used Kindle for around 20$ I think. i know for many this isn't affordable, but if you're able to spare something and you really wanna read up, you can often find old kindles in good conditions listed on sites and REALLY you don't need anything fancier. I keep mine completly off wifi, I don't have an Amazon account or anything connected to it, I pirate download everything I want from the net and throw it from my computer to the device via a USB cable and viola! you can read anything ever. and everywhere!

my best tip for anyone trying to get back into reading is to remember that you can read books to avoid other responsibilities in ur life and it can become a vice if you play your cards right

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗠𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗬 𝗠𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗬 lando norris x girlfriend! reader ( smut ) fic summary . . . having Lando tied up in a coquette pink bow under you truly is an experience (416 words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, pnv, cowgirl, riding teasind, d/s, dom reader, d/s, smut w no plot, unprotected sex [VERY BAD, wrap it before you tap it], sub/power bottom lando, Mommy kink )

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Comfortable?” you ask, settling over his hips, your hands splayed on his chest.

Lando’s wrists are tied up nice and snug in that same soft pink ribbon, but unlike someone who might fight it, he grins up at you like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

He nods eagerly, curls messy against your pillow, pupils blown wide. “Yes, Mommy.”

Your lips quirk. “You’re such a good boy.”

That gets a dreamy little sigh out of him, like he’s practically purring from praise. You lean down and trail your tongue over his chest — slow and wet and intentional — and he arches into it, already whimpering.

“More?” you ask.

“Yes please,” he says, soft and sweet and desperate. “Whatever you want, Mommy.”

You straddle his stomach, just out of reach of his aching cock, and watch him try so hard to stay still even though he’s absolutely dripping for it.

“Look at you,” you murmur, dragging your fingers down the slope of his abdomen. “Hard already. Are you that needy for me?”

He nods fast. “I’ve been needy for hours, Mommy,” he admits shamelessly. “I saw you in that dress and I almost came in my pants.”

You hum, shifting your hips lower until your slick folds drag over him — just enough to make him whine.

“Pathetic,” you say lovingly.

He moans. “Thank you, Mommy.”

You guide him to your entrance and sink down slowly, watching his mouth fall open, that high little gasp escaping his lips. His head thuds against the pillow as you start to move, slow and deliberate.

“Gonna be good for me?” you ask, rolling your hips just right.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Gonna let me use you?”

“Please,” he whimpers, voice cracking. “Use me, take what you want, I’m yours, I’ll be so good—”

You ride him deeper, faster, just a little more, and he loses it completely, breathless and babbling beneath you.

“I love your cock, baby,” you whisper in his ear.

“Oh fuck—Mommy—” he moans, the ribbon straining as he fists his hands in the air. “Say it again—please—”

You fuck him harder, watching him fall apart just from your voice and your pace and the filthy praise he lives for. He’s soaking it up like it’s air, like he needs it to breathe.

“You’re my good boy,” you say, panting now. “My perfect toy.”

“Yes—yes, Mommy—yours—always yours—”

And when you finally let him come? He’s sobbing, full-body shaking, saying “thank you” over and over like you just handed him heaven.

voice notes 🔊. . . ( don't hate me for this )

[fixated-cookies]

Hi again i don't any wild ideias for now but let just say this Y/N in a maid dress or something like that and let shadow milk cookie and pure vanilla rate It because why not :)

Why am I just now realizing this ask in my inbox oh my goshh PURE VANILLA

Gentle gasp, hand pressed to his mouth, eyes widening behind soft lashes.

“Oh witches… You look… divine.” His voice is hushed, reverent, like he just saw an angel descend in silk and lace. He’s not thinking filthy—yet. He’s overwhelmed by how adorable you look.

He blushes immediately. Bright. Peachy pink.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach out and smooth the hem, but doesn’t dare.

He stammers, “I—I think it suits you very well… but are you comfortable? Is it too tight?” (He’s so worried you’re cold and shy and needs you to sit down immediately.)

Rates it: 10/10. You’re perfection. Though he might suggest a longer version… for “modesty.”

(Bonus): When you lean forward to set down tea and your skirt hikes up slightly? He chokes on his own tea. Coughs. Apologizes. Avoids eye contact for hours.

SHADOW MILK COOKIE

Smirk slowly crawling across his lips, legs spreading wider in the chair like he’s enjoying a private show.

“Mm-mm-mm… Oh, Sugar, you’ve outdone yourself.” His tone is dripping with amusement. And lust. And scheming. He’s licking his teeth, admiring every inch. Doesn’t even pretend to be polite.

Rates it: 12/10. Would ruin you in it. Will ruin you in it. He’s already unbuttoning his suit (does he have buttons?). You better run.

(Bonus): When you try to act serious and serve him tea, he takes your wrist and whispers into your ear: “Does your uniform come with rules, little maid? Like how long you’re allowed to keep it on?”

TOGETHER

Pure Vanilla: “Please don’t tease them so much… They’re obviously nervous.” Shadow Milk: “Oh come now. Nervous is the spice of life. Aren’t they just darling when they tremble?”

And you? Standing there between light and shadow, red-faced, flustered, and unable to decide which is worse: —The way Pure Vanilla looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen… —or the way Shadow Milk looks at you like he’s already imagining you crawling on all fours.

[babiicatt]

nsfw! remmick + f!preachers daughter!reader, rem is a total soft, needy dom, totally awkward, totally loser-y, extremely dubious consent in the beginning, never ever proofread, oral on fem.

I don't think that remmy ever got any pretty little maidens back in his day, subsequently because of his nervous, eager nature that he has carried through his vampire years.

that being said, it doesn't seem to stop him from tripping over himself when you sees you go by, making you feel awfully sorry for guy. just some new guy in town and he's already making a fool of himself for you - which makes you pretend not to notice the way he's everywhere you are, like a persistent shadow dogging at the heels of your feet.

you've been taught to be sympathetic to those in need, which only feeds into remmick's hopes when you return his stumbling words with your own soft n sweet ones. even just a hello from the preachers daughter and the Irish man felt like you had saved his soul.

and maybe remmick liked you (too much), not that he would ever say it. and you had to go and invite him to church and bring him home-baked pastries - things you did for everyone, though he would think otherwise - hell, you even had him even believing that you were wearing your skirts just a tad shorter for him.

so why are you surprised when he offers to walk around the forest trails with you that he's trying to kiss you?

"you're- you're just being too touchy, I think, is all," your voice like a bible hymn as you try to tell him off as politely as your daddy raised you too, head lilting far to evade his lips. "why, sweetheart," he's cooing to you in that southern drawl, "it ain't sex," he lets out with a chuckle as if you needed teachings in the way of god.

as he gets closer and closer, you put your hands to his chest, not pushing him away, but not bringing him any closer, either. "I know-" you stop, lowering your voice despite having nothing around you two for a few miles except the whispering of the wind, "I know that, but I'm just not ready-"

"oh, please baby, shh," he's shushing you, "you don't know what you want," and he believes what he says. why, he's a few hundred year old vampire, and you're just a little dolly thing. "I-i know you need this as much as I do," his statement upheld as his lips find yours, shutting you up even more effectively than before, ignoring the way your hands try to push him off.

"you don't know what you need," his voice promising you this as his lips slam against yours as his hands go and fumble to bunch up your skirt.

"no, no, none of that," he condescends you as you gasp and muscles make your arms move to go and push your skirt back down. "you'll see, sweet thing," his voice rasping a bit more as his nails take a dig at your panties, pulling them down, "you'll feel it, too. see n feel how you need me, how good I can be to you."

before you know it, his lips are suckling on your clit and fingers in your cunt as he looks up at you with those puppy dog eyes, everything about him feeling disgustingly good. "oh, you're just perfect. taste like peaches n cream," his speech muffled as he makes out with your pussy, voice barely making it up to your ears over your little moans you try so desperately to cage in your throat.

still, you can't help that when he gives your cunt a particularly perfect thrust of his fingers that you get louder and your hands go to his hair, tousling it to an even messier state than it had been in before. "o-ohhh, rem," you cry softly, tears that had been clinging to your bottom lashes drop.

"I know baby, I know," his other hand patting your thigh as his tongue works over your clit, "you gonna come for me baby? gonna be a good girl n finish?" his coaxing words making your pussy flutter, which made him smile against your soaking slit.

"yeah, you are," said before finishing you off with a particularly harsh suck to your clit, making your knees buckle, threatening your balance.

never a neglectful lover, remmick licks up the rest of your slick, cleaning you with his tongue before placing a lasting kiss on your slit before retracting himself from you. sitting back on his knees, his hands work up and down your thighs as he looks up at you with that adoring expression. "did you feel good, doll?"

[frankherbertsdune]

I know this isn't the point of the post but this is happening anyway

The monster is explicitly uncanny and different. That's why people run away when they see him. That's the entire point of like, half the story, that he's just as capable and intelligent as anyone else, but he looks different. The scene where he talks to the blind man and they have a normal conversation until the blind man's family comes home and attacks the monster is a perfect example of this.

Gatsby couldn't move on, that's why it's tragic.

Romeo and Juliet is about two teenagers falling in love despite a hatred that they don't understand or agree with. They are forced into this difficult situation because their families hate each other, but they love each other.

I haven't read Of Mice and Men but I can tell you this - it's a tragedy

I also haven't read Wuthering Heights

Lord of the Flies is about the trauma of war and the actions of privileged private school boys. There's a reason William Golding made the characters rich little boys. If he was trying to make a point about humanity as a whole, then he probably would've made the characters actually reflect humanity and not just a small sample of humanity

Holden Caulfield is a traumatized victim of abuse dealing with the depression of his brother's death and his own fear of growing up. He is utterly miserable. Need I remind you all that he is literally sent to a mental institution at the end of the book.

Orpheus was always going to turn around. That's the entire point of the story. Hades knew that, that's why he gave Orpheus this test, it was always rigged against him, but had the illusion of fairness. Orpheus was always going to turn around because it's who he is - a man who turns around. It's a tragedy.

“the monster is supposed to be good-looking” “why didn’t gatsby just move on” “romeo and juliet is about two teenagers being stupid” “of mice and men is ableist” “wuthering heights romanticizes incest” “lord of the flies is about the innate evil in human nature” “holden caulfield is a whiny brat” “if i was orpheus i wouldn’t have turned around”

[levanterhaze]

SUPERNATURAL, BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬producer!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, possessiveness, creampie, mention of anxiety, slightly toxic relationship, phone sex, dirty talk, fingering, thigh riding, overstimulation, masturbation (both receiving), angst and a bit of fluff bc why not?

♡ synopsis ― You left Bangchan to protect your heart. He waited, hoping you'd come back. A silent month, one crowded room, and the gravity between you never left. Some loves don’t vanish—they haunt, they ache, and if you’re lucky, they bloom again.

[14.3k words ]♡― guys, it was supposed to be a one-shot, but tumblr wouldn't let me post it all at once? rude. so i decided to split it in half and tomorrow i'll post the second part!

This love's possessin' me, but I don't mind at all It's like supernatural It's takin' over me, don't wanna fight the fall It's like supernatural

Bangchan never thought you’d actually dump him. Not him. Not when he spoiled you rotten, kissed every bratty little pout off your lips, and let you steal the covers every damn night without a single complaint.

But you did.

You broke up with him on a random Tuesday, mascara clinging to your lashes, pout on your lips, arms crossed tight like you were trying to hold yourself together. You didn’t want to leave — he could see it all over your face — but you did it anyway. Because apparently "love isn't enough when all we do is fight," or some other dramatic bullshit you said while he sat there blinking at you like you’d just grown two heads.

He laughed. Actually laughed.

"You're breaking up with me?" he repeated, like the words didn’t even make sense in the same sentence. You? Leaving him? The girl he practically worshiped? His spoiled pretty girl who threw a fit when he forgot to buy her favorite snack, but still made his whole damn world brighter?

Yeah, no. He wasn't letting you just walk away like it was some casual Tuesday errand.

But you were stubborn. Always had been. You slammed the door to his apartment like you meant it, like you weren't about to miss the way he pulled you onto his lap every time you argue just to shut you up with his mouth.

Spoiler alert: you missed it.

And Chan? Chan was a fucking mess. 

Studio sessions got longer. Songs got sadder. His friends started looking at him like he was one bad day away from showing up at your place with a giant boombox over his head. And honestly? He almost did.

You were still everywhere — in the worn hoodie you stole, in the coffee order he still got wrong because you weren’t there to fix it, in the damn songs he tried and failed to write without thinking of you first. You were the muse he never asked for but needed like oxygen. The bratty, perfect princess who ruined him for anyone else.

So yeah. You thought you could just walk out of his life? Cute.

Because Bangchan had a plan now: He was going to get you back — messy, dirty, stubborn and completely in love with you.

No matter what it took.

Luckily for him — or maybe unluckily, depending on how you looked at it — you had way friends in common. Which meant every time there was a party, Bangchan knew you'd show up. And he used every damn opportunity to haunt your space like a lovesick idiot with a cocky smile.

And fuck, did he miss you.

He missed your laugh, your stupid eye-rolls, the way you stole his hoodies and looked ten times better in them. He missed your mouth — talking shit, teasing him, gasping for him. He missed how you’d curl up against him at night and pretend you weren’t clingy. He missed how you were a pain in the ass and his favorite thing in the world at the same time.

He could make a fucking list. It would take him until sunrise. 

His spoiled little brat. His princess. His goddamn downfall.

One of those nights, after a brutal day at the studio, Bangchan stumbled home at nearly three in the morning, muscles aching, brain fried. He should've passed out the second his head hit the pillow.

But no. His brain decided to go into hyperdrive, and every single fucking thought led right back to you.

After a hot shower, he sat on the edge of his bed, hair dripping, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. He grabbed his phone like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He stared at your contact. The one still saved under that stupid nickname he used to whisper in your ear when you got bratty just to hear you whine. The one no one else would ever understand — your secret language.

He should’ve gone to sleep. He really should’ve. 

Instead, he muttered "fuck it" under his breath and pressed call.

Impulse. Stupidity. Loneliness. Love. Maybe all of the above.

But he just needed to hear your voice. Even if you hated him for it.

Bangchan honestly didn’t expect you to pick up. Especially not at ass-o’clock in the morning. But the second your voice floated into his ear — sleepy, annoyed, real — his heart damn near jumped out of his chest.

"Still awake?" he asked, voice low, rough with exhaustion and something else he didn’t dare name.

You sighed like he was the biggest inconvenience in the world. "What do you want?"

He leaned back against the headboard, squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to say the first hundred filthy, desperate things that came to mind.

"I miss you," he said instead, voice soft, almost boyish.

You didn’t answer right away. He heard the faint rustle of your bedsheets, imagined you curled up with your laptop, rolling your eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

"And how exactly," you said sweetly, "is that my problem?"

Chan winced, grinning despite himself. Damn, he missed that mouth of yours. The way you could make him want to kiss you and bend you over in the same breath.

"Ouch. Don’t be snippy, princess," he teased, letting the nickname slip, letting it cut you both a little. "We both know you don't actually want to be."

You bristled. He could practically feel it through the line. You didn’t want to be rude. You wanted to be angry. There was a difference and you were losing the fight fast.

"Are you done?" you snapped, fake-sweet. "I'm hanging up."

"Wait! Wait, princess, c'mon..." he rushed, sitting up straighter, hand dragging through his damp hair in frustration. "You really don’t miss me?"

Silence.

It was deafening. Torturous. Delicious.

He let it stretch just long enough before letting his voice drop, dirty and coaxing.

"Don't lie to me," he said slowly. "I bet you're sitting there all pretty in bed, pouting at your screen, squeezing your thighs together because you can't even think about me without getting worked up."

"You sound drunk," you hissed, but your voice was shaking.

"Believe me, I’m not," he chuckled darkly. "I just know exactly what you need, even better than you do."

You hated him. You hated how good he was at getting under your skin.

You hated that your body responded before your brain even caught up.

"Go to sleep, Chan," you muttered, but it sounded weak, pathetic even to your own ears.

"Not until you say you miss me," he pushed, voice downright sinful now. "Or better yet... say my name like you used to when I had you squirming under me."

Your whole body burned.

Bangchan grinned into the silence. He could wait all night if he had to. After all... when it came to you, he never fucking gave up.

"Bangchan, we're done. It doesn't matter," you said, trying — and failing — to keep your voice flat.

Your eyes flicked back to your laptop, pretending you could still focus on the blurry article in front of you. But all you could actually hear was him — that stupid voice, low and raspy and somehow everywhere.

"It matters to me," he said, softer now, almost cocky. "I miss you, you know. All fucking day."

It wasn’t what he said — it was how he said it. That wrecked, teasing tone like he was right there, mouth at your ear, smirking when he saw the goosebumps rise on your skin.

"Stop saying bullshit like that," you snapped, but it was weak. Pathetic. You hated how easily he could undo you with nothing but his voice.

Bangchan has always been your greatest weakness. And he knew it.

"I wish you were here," he rasped. Silence fell. Thick. Heavy.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding way too fast. You slammed your laptop shut with a frustrated groan, tossing it to the side.

Studying was officially over.

"It's almost three," you hissed, hugging your knees to your chest like it would somehow protect you from how stupidly warm you felt.

"Exactly," he said, that cocky smile dripping through the phone.

Bangchan was sprawled out in bed, back against the headboard, sweatpants slung low. Eyes closed, hand fisting the sheets because just thinking about you — your bratty little voice, your body, your mouth — had him half-hard already.

"What were you even doing at this hour, huh?" His voice dropped, that slow, lazy slur that always meant trouble.

You rolled your eyes even though you knew he couldn’t see. "Studying. I have an exam next week."

Bangchan let out a low grunt of approval that vibrated straight down your spine. It made you shift uncomfortably, thighs pressing together on instinct.

"That’s my brilliant girl," he murmured, voice thick with awe.

Your stomach flipped. Your whole body burned. And you hated yourself for the way you smiled into the darkness like an idiot.

The words caused irreversible damage to your mind. Bangchan knew exactly what he was doing — that wicked, cocky little smirk playing on his lips like he could already feel your walls crumbling.

He knew how you loved being praised. How dirty words slid under your skin and stayed there, rotting you sweet.

"I'm not your girl," you shot back, weak, stupidly defensive.

He chuckled, low and dirty. "You’ll always be mine, princess."

God, that voice. That fucking voice.

It made your thighs press tight without permission, heat blooming under your skin like wildfire. The room suddenly felt suffocating.

"Bangchan, I'm fucking serious," you said through gritted teeth, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to will him  and yourself  into behaving.

"Yeah, same," he muttered, so casually it made you want to throw your phone across the room. Then he paused — and the silence wrapped around your throat like a velvet rope. "Do you still wear my clothes?" he asked, almost smug.

Your whole body jolted like you’d been caught red-handed.

Because yes, you were still curled up in his old T-shirt right now, drowning in it, still obsessed with how it smelled like him. Still stupidly aching for a boy you pretended to hate.

"No," you lied, instantly hating yourself for how fake it sounded.

Bangchan let out a lazy, knowing laugh. "Liar."

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly fell out. "Actually, I burned everything," you snarked, sarcasm dripping off every word.

"Mhm," he hummed, voice thick and teasing. "I bet you’re wearing it now. Nothing else underneath."

He shifted on his bed, the mic picking up the delicious rumple of sheets.

"Fuck, just thinking about it..." His breath hitched. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me, princess."

You clenched the phone so tight your knuckles turned white, heat pooling low in your belly, unbearable and sweet. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath.

"Want me to tell you what I’m picturing right now?" he asked, voice filthy, honey-thick. 

Like a devil whispering in your ear.

You should have said no. You didn’t.

"In my shirt. No panties," he murmured. "Squeezing those pretty thighs together 'cause you’re aching so bad for me." He chuckled darkly when you didn’t respond — didn’t have words anymore — like he could see straight through the phone how wrecked you were becoming. "I know you, baby. I know you’re wet just hearing my voice."

You whimpered before you could catch yourself, face burning. You buried your face in the pillow, mortified.

"I can almost feel it, you know," Bangchan rasped. "How tight you always get for me. Fuck. The way you used to whine when I fucked you slow, made you cry for it."

Your whole body trembled.

The desperate, humiliating slickness between your legs soaked through your panties, leaving you throbbing, aching for relief.

"Don't..." you gasped, so weak, so embarrassingly close to shoving your hand under the waistband and finishing yourself off to nothing but his voice.

"Don't what?" he taunted, smug as hell now. "Don't make you cum without even touching you? Shit, princess, you’re so easy for me. You always were."

You bit your lip so hard it hurt, a desperate little noise catching in your throat.

"If you were here," he groaned, the sound making you whimper, "you’d see the mess you made of me. Hard as a fucking rock for you. Only you."

You closed your eyes — and that was your first mistake.

Because the second you imagined him, sprawled out lazy and wrecked on his bed, cock tenting his sweatpants, leaking just from thinking about you, you were done for.

"I could fuck my hand," he rasped, voice thick and ragged, "but it wouldn't be the same without you. Should be your pretty little mouth drooling on my cock right now."

"Chan..." you gasped, helpless, your free hand already sliding into your panties like it had a mind of its own.

Fuck him. Fuck him for making you this way. Horny. Hopeless. So easy.

If that was his plan all along, he’d won.

Bangchan groaned softly at the sound of your breath hitching. He could feel you through the phone — could see you in his mind, legs spread wide, fingers playing with your dripping cunt, just the way he liked it.

Fuck. It should be his fingers knuckle-deep inside you, his cock stretching you open until you forgot your own name.

He reached into his boxers, hissing through his teeth as he wrapped his palm around his aching cock, smearing the leaking pre-cum around the tip with a slow, dirty twist of his wrist.

"Angel," he growled, voice ruined and low, "stick those fingers in your pussy. Let me hear you fuck yourself for me. Is that what you want? My fingers in your tight little pussy, making you drip all over my hand?"

A moan tore itself from your lips — raw and real — and his cock twitched at the sound.

"Yeah, fuck. Whine for me," he urged. "Say my name like I'm there, fucking you so slow it drives you crazy."

"That's wrong..." you whimpered, but your voice betrayed you — soft, needy, trembling.

And worse, he could hear the obscene slickness of your fingers moving between your folds. He could hear how wet you were.

"Fuck," he groaned. He squeezed the base of his cock, fucking up into his fist, pre-cum slicking him up, panting like he was already right on the edge. "Wish you were here, princess... wish you were on your knees, swallowing every inch like the good girl you are."

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled, hips rocking desperately into your own touch, mind blank except for him him him —

"How's it feel, baby?" he taunted, voice molten. "How's it feel to fuck yourself thinking about my cock splitting you open?"

"So good," you choked out, pathetic and ruined.

"Stick another finger in," he commanded, and you obeyed blindly, whimpering at the stretch, at the shame of how much you needed it. "Think of my fingers making you drip down your thighs. Making a fucking mess of you."

You rubbed frantic circles over your clit, needy noises spilling from your lips without permission, fingers pumping in and out of your tight, soaking hole.

It wasn’t enough. You needed him. Needed his weight crushing you into the mattress, his teeth against your throat, his cock inside you, claiming every inch.

"I'm so fucking hard, shit baby," Bangchan growled, breathing like he was seconds away from snapping. "Wanna fuck that snippy mouth until you couldn’t speak."

You whimpered, high and broken, hand moving faster and faster, chasing the blinding, hot rush pooling low in your belly.

"Fuck, I'm gonna—" you gasped, hips stuttering. "I'm gonna—Chan—"

Bangchan didn't stop, didn't let up.

"My pretty girl, cumming on her fingers like a desperate little whore for me," he moaned, voice all grit and pleasure. "Cum for me. Fucking cum all over yourself thinking about my cock fucking you dumb.”

A ragged cry ripped from your throat  “Oh fuck, yes!” as you felt hot slickness gush from your pussy, spilling over your fingers, making a filthy mess.

Bangchan’s mind spiraled, picturing you like this: spread open and desperate, cumming hard with his cock buried ass-deep inside you, slamming into you over and over, stuffing you full of his cum, ruining you exactly the way you needed — sloppy, dripping, and his.

The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, brutal and mind-shattering. You cried out, his name ripped from your throat, body convulsing around your fingers as wetness gushed out, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Somewhere through the haze, you heard him groan raggedly — the unmistakable sound of him cumming too, thick ropes splashing across his stomach. You could practically see it — Bangchan flushed, sweaty, wrecked — all for you.

When you finally caught your breath, shame and heat tangled together in your gut. You snatched the phone from the bed, heart pounding.

"You're an asshole," you snapped, your voice still shaky and fucked-out. "Don't ever—" you gasped for air, "don't ever fucking call me again."

And then you hung up on him — before you could do something even stupider — like beg him to come over.

The next day was a full-blown disaster — because all you could think about was him. Not your to-do list. Not your deadlines. Not the fact that you were supposed to be a responsible adult with goals and ambitions. No.

 Just Bangchan — and the memory of last night, which was exactly what you didn’t need right now.

You had promised yourself you’d be serious this time. Work. Study. Prioritize yourself. Not get dragged back into Bangchan's orbit like some hopeless idiot with no self-preservation instincts.

What happened last night was a slip-up. A pathetically delicious, toe-curling, dignity-shattering slip-up.

Still, you got dressed like it was just another Tuesday. Skirt. Heels. Lip gloss. Maybe you spent a little more time in front of the mirror. Maybe your skirt was a little shorter. Maybe you were absolutely ridiculous. 

Who could blame you? Inspiration was a bitch.

Bangchan had always spoiled you rotten. He got off on it, honestly. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, lingerie, makeup, salon appointments — if it sparkled or looked good on you, he bought it.

You never even had to ask. You were his favorite luxury item. All he wanted in return was your heart, served on a silver platter, the way you used to give it to him without thinking twice.

And God, did he love fucking you after a long day. You, dripping in brand-new lace he had picked out himself — letting him ruin you in it.

He was simple like that. Didn't need much. Just you. Always you.

You were his girl. You always have been. And if he had to move heaven, earth, and your stubborn ass to make you admit it again, he would.

The day dragged on, but the routine was good for you. Work, study, grind — all the mindless stuff that keeps your heart on mute. And when it was finally over, when you powered down all your screens and the office emptied out, you just sat there — in the quiet, in the dark — pretending you weren't still thinking about him.

After wrapping up, you powered down your equipment and stretched, only to realize you weren’t as alone as you thought. Mingi was still there, jacket slung casually over his arm like some corporate heartthrob out of a drama.

“Hey, you heading out?” he asked, falling into step toward you.

“Yeah. I think I’ve hit my limit for today.” You smiled, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“Mind if I walk with you?” Mingi asked, giving you a lopsided half-smile that, unfortunately, was very effective.

You couldn’t exactly say no. Not to Mingi — handsome, polite, alarmingly smart Mingi — who had always been a quiet sort of presence on the team. You worked well together, but you’d never really crossed into friend territory.

Which made this... surprising.

You ended up walking together toward the elevators, his stride easy next to yours.

“There’s a happy hour tomorrow,” he said, pushing up his glasses, brown hair falling slightly into his eyes. “Are you going?”

You hesitated. Exams were coming up. You really should prioritize studying over cheap drinks and questionable decisions. But also? You desperately needed to hit the mental reset button before you spiraled.

"Sure," you said, surprising yourself. "I’ll be there."

The cold slapped you the second you hit the building’s exit. You cursed under your breath for skipping the coat this morning — your legs bare and goosebumped, the cold air feeling a little too personal against your skin.

Going back home to grab a jacket and then heading straight to college? Yeah, that was going to be hell.

You bit your lip, stuck in a ridiculous debate with yourself over what to do next. That's when your phone buzzed.

Bangchan: Who the fuck was that?

You frowned, confused and immediately suspicious.

You: First of all, what the fuck are you talking about? Second, who said you could text me?

A pause. Then two rapid-fire replies:

Bangchan: So mouthy. Missed that.

Bangchan: The guy you left with. Don’t play dumb, angel.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. He was insufferable.

You: Newsflash: not your business anymore.

A beat.

Bangchan: Cute. You almost sound like you believe that.

You swore under your breath, fingers flying over the screen.

You: I don't have time for your little tantrums.

Bangchan: Tantrum?

Bangchan: You looked real cozy with him. Thought maybe you needed a reminder.

Your stomach twisted, infuriatingly, traitorously.

You: Reminder of what? That you're insane? Pass.

Bangchan: Reminder of who makes you cum so hard you forget your own name.

You squeezed your phone like it personally offended you. God, he was infuriating.

You: Go fuck yourself.

Bangchan: Would rather fuck you, babe. You free?

You groaned, stuffing your phone into your bag like that could muffle your rising pulse. You told yourself you were done. Totally, absolutely done with him.

And yet... as you walked down the main avenue, your eyes scanned the crowd, the streetlights, the parked cars — searching for him.

You pretended the night air didn’t feel like knives against your bare skin. You pretended your phone hadn’t gone silent. You pretended you weren't half-hoping it would buzz again.

And then — because the universe hated you personally — a black sports car prowled up to the curb beside you, slow and steady.

You didn’t even have to look. 

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The window whirred down and there he was, grinning like the devil himself. “Get in the car," he said, casual, like he hadn’t been stalking you from the shadows two minutes ago.

“No.” You kept walking, clutching your skirt before the wind could flash half the city.

Horns started screaming behind him. Someone yelled something. Bangchan didn’t so much as flinch.

"Get in the fucking car," he repeated, inching along beside you. "You're gonna turn into a popsicle."

You whipped around, teeth chattering. "I would rather die of hypothermia than get in your stupid fucking car."

Another volley of honking. A guy behind him leaned out the window and made an obscene gesture that probably wasn’t in any official driving manual.

"You’re blocking traffic, you maniac!" you hissed, arms folded tight over yourself.

Bangchan just shrugged, infuriatingly unbothered. "Not my problem. My problem’s standing out here being stubborn and freezing."

He leaned in, smirking slowly and mercilessly. "I'll leave... if you get in."

You glared at him so hard your vision blurred, and for one perfect, freezing second, you honestly believed you might resist.

Then another gust of wind hit, cutting straight through your willpower. You muttered something that could generously be called a curse, yanked open the door, and threw yourself into the passenger seat.

"Happy?" you snapped, slamming it shut.

Bangchan just smiled. Slow, victorious and pulled back into traffic like he hadn’t just held half the city hostage for you.

"Ecstatic," he said.

The second you slammed the door, Bangchan hit the gas like he was escaping a crime scene. He kept his eyes locked on the road, which was impressive, considering your skirt had ridden halfway up your thighs — one of his favorite skirts, by the way.

He’d definitely fucked you in it. Several times.

“You’re so stupid,” you muttered, arms crossed like a bratty little princess.

Bangchan just laughed — that low, rough laugh that made your pulse misbehave — because of course he loved you like this. He loved all the versions of you.

“‘Thank you, Bangchan. If it weren’t for you, I’d freeze my ass off,’” he teased, pitching his voice higher in a brutal imitation of you. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” you snapped.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, veins flexing under golden skin, and you hated yourself a little for noticing.

Self-control, girl. Pull it together.

“You don’t have to owe me, princess," he said, voice casual but his knuckles whitening on the wheel. "You just have to get in the fucking car when I tell you."

You glared at him, arms still folded like a shield across your chest.

A beat. Then he said, way too casually: “That guy. Gonna tell me who he was?”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh and whipped your head toward him. “Seriously? Who the hell do you think you are, Bangchan?”

He said nothing, just drove — jaw locked tight, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in that way he always did when he was about two seconds from losing it.

Good. Let him simmer.

“You don’t get to stalk me and interrogate me like some jealous ex-boyfriend,” you snapped. “You don’t even get to ask.”

Still silent. Still fuming. Still looking better than any man had a right to look while being told off.

You shifted in your seat, the silence between you thick and hot and dangerous, and for a wild second you wondered what it would take for him to pull the car over and remind you exactly how much he hated — and loved — being told no.

"I should fuck that bratty little mouth of yours, I swear to God," Bangchan muttered under his breath, but you caught every sinful syllable.

You forced yourself to roll your eyes, pretending that your thighs weren't already pressing together at the sound of his voice. Pretending that your pulse wasn’t hammering in your ears.

"You should fuck off to that precious studio of yours and stay there," you shot back sweetly, voice dripping with sarcasm. You flashed him a sugary, fake smile, the kind you knew drove him insane.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. "Or," he growled, "I could just drag you into my studio and fuck you against the soundboard. Shut you up properly. What do you think, princess?"

You let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You're such a fucking idiot. Why am I even here? Stop the car."

Bangchan just laughed, that low, cocky rumble that sent unwelcome heat curling through your stomach. "I'm not stopping the damn car. Stop being a little pain in my ass and let me drive you to college, alright?"

You hated him. You hated him because he was still the only person who could talk to you like that and somehow make you want him even more. He kept his eyes locked on the road, cool as ever, while you stewed in your own frustration and something else much, much filthier.

When he finally pulled up in front of your college, you immediately reached for the door handle, desperate to escape. But click—he locked the doors.

You snapped your head toward him, glaring. "What now?"

"Don't you think we need to talk?" he asked, arching a smug eyebrow like he already knew you weren't going anywhere.

Your heart thudded against your ribs. You knew what he meant. He was talking about the night before—the filthy moans, the breathy whimpers, the way you'd fallen apart just from his voice. But you weren’t about to hand him that satisfaction.

"We have nothing to talk about. Now unlock the damn door."

Bangchan chuckled darkly, humorless. "Don't play dumb, angel. You think I forgot the way you said my name last night? Fuck, you practically begged for me."

Your face burned so hot you wanted to scream. You slapped your hands over your cheeks like that could erase the memory—or the way your body still reacted to him like a live wire.

"For fuck's sake, stop," you groaned, wanting to disappear into the seat.

He tilted his head back against the headrest, grinning like the devil himself. "Why? You love it."

You sucked in a shaky breath, slumping in the seat like you could somehow sink through it and escape him. He was impossible. Irrefutable. Catastrophic.

"Chan," you began, voice strained, "what happened yesterday was a mistake. I—I got carried away, and it’s not happening again. We’re over. You need to get that through your thick skull."

He turned toward you fully now, his playful smirk fading into something far more dangerous. His dark eyes raked over you, making your skin tingle.

"Funny you say that," he murmured, voice low and almost cruel, "when your body’s telling a whole different story."

You froze. Only then did you notice—your chest heaving, the frantic way you were breathing, the way you were basically squirming in your seat. Like a junkie itching for a fix.

His fix.

You ripped your gaze away, humiliated, scrambling for the door handle again. "Just—just let’s forget it. Please. I have to go."

Bangchan stared at you for a long moment, jaw tense, but in the end, he relented. He reached into the backseat, grabbed his jacket—his jacket that still smelled like him, still clung to him—and tossed it into your lap.

"Take it," he muttered gruffly.

You didn't argue. You couldn't. You just grabbed it, clutching the worn fabric between your fingers like a lifeline. You didn't even look back as you shoved the door open and slipped out of the car.

Bangchan didn't say another word either. He just watched you walk away, jaw clenched, hands tight on the steering wheel.

And you could feel it—the burn of his gaze drilling into your back the whole way inside.

You were so exhausted after the endless grind of the week that the idea of happy hour with your coworkers felt like salvation. 

As soon as the clock hit the end of the workday, you, Mingi, and the rest of the creative team slipped out and made your way to a cozy bar not far from the office—a place famous for cold drinks and some of the best barbecue you’d ever tasted.

It was another one of those freezy nights, the kind that wrapped around your skin like a second, unwanted layer. You grabbed your own jacket on the way out—your jacket, not the black one that still hung in your apartment entryway, quietly mocking you with Bangchan’s lingering scent every time you walked past it.

Everyone at work adored you, and you knew it. Women, men, it didn’t matter—everyone said the same thing: you were the prettiest damn girl the office had ever hired. Some of them said it shyly, others more bluntly, but either way, you never let it go to your head. You were too busy being genuinely grateful to them for welcoming you so warmly, especially your boss.

Mingi refilled his glass with another shot of soju, raising it in your direction. You clinked glasses with him and everyone else, laughing as the room buzzed with conversation and the cozy clatter of plates and glasses.

The food was incredible—juicy, smoky barbecue, spicy side dishes, sizzling meat still crackling on hot plates—and the conversation even better. You all talked about work, about who was secretly seeing who, about how much alcohol was "too much," and laughed yourselves stupid.

Soyeon, one of your colleagues, kept throwing not-so-subtle glances between you and Mingi across the table, hiding her giggles behind her hand. It was ridiculous—and a little hilarious. Apparently, the office fantasy was that if you dated someone like Mingi, it would somehow restore everyone's faith in love.

But Mingi was just a friend. A nice guy. Respectful. Safe. The kind of guy who smiled warmly at you and never, ever crossed any lines.

One shot led to another. Then another. And before you realized it, your vision blurred, the world spinning slightly every time you tried to focus. Everything around you—the colors, the lights, the sounds—smeared together into something loud and soft and dizzying, like a dream.

You saw a couple of your coworkers nearly face-planting into the table, and Mingi's blurry figure pacing nearby with a phone pressed to his ear.

"Are you okay? Can you stand?" Mingi’s voice filtered into your ears, strained with concern.

You blinked up at him, then giggled. "Of coooourse I can stand. Oops. Maybe?" you slurred, flopping back down against the table with a dramatic huff and knocking over two empty bottles with your arm.

Everything was so comfortable. You could have curled up there and fallen asleep if it weren’t for the loud thudding of boots approaching.

Footsteps. Voices.

You opened one eye sluggishly, just in time to see two dark figures approaching the table.

"Thanks," Some voice said distantly.

And then—suddenly—you were lifted off the ground like you weighed nothing at all. Strong arms cradled you against a warm, broad chest, and you blinked through your hazy vision to see familiar lips, a strong nose, and messy black hair peeking out from beneath a hood.

"Hey! What—what are you—" You shrieked, squirming uselessly in his hold. "Are you insane?"

"You love making a fucking scene, don’t you, princess?" Bangchan growled low against your hair. "Keep your voice down. I'm taking you home."

"I don't want to go home! I was having fuuuun and—and—" you sniffled, your voice wobbling embarrassingly. The bar, the lights, the laughter were all fading away as Bangchan marched toward the car, his pace determined and irritated.

"You’ve had enough fun for tonight," he muttered under his breath, as if speaking to a disobedient child.

The second he set you down inside the car, everything changed. The world turned softer, warmer. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he buckled your seatbelt, his fingers brushing your coat as he secured you in place.

You inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of something sweet and familiar—vanilla, musk, leather. Him. You sighed, feeling your body sink deeper into the seat.

"Why do you smell so good?" you mumbled, your lower lip jutting out in a pout as you crossed your arms stubbornly.

Bangchan just shook his head and laughed—a deep, throaty sound that filled the car. "You're adorable, you know that?"

And you were too drunk, too soft, too wrapped up in him to say anything back.

"That would be comical if you were sober," Bangchan muttered under his breath, slamming the passenger door shut before rounding the car and sliding into the driver's seat.

"Hey!" you protested weakly as he buckled in, his fingers brushing against his hoodie. "I didn't even drink that much."

Bangchan huffed a dry laugh. "Angel, you can’t even stand up straight. You’re like a drunk bambi on ice."

You groaned, slumping back against the seat. Ugh. As much as you wanted to argue, he wasn’t wrong. And it annoyed you even more that he was right. You tugged at the seatbelt uncomfortably and with a huff, pressed the button to roll the window down. The cold night air immediately hit your face, shocking your skin and making you shiver, but you welcomed it. Anything to clear your head.

The car smelled like him. Leather and something a little sweet—something infuriatingly comforting. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the sharp, bracing wind instead of the fact that Bangchan was sitting just inches away, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel impatiently.

It stung, the kind of sting that settled in your bones, to think about how close you'd once been under different circumstances.

You met Bangchan years ago, back when the air between you still crackled with teasing and unsaid things. It took time — time and reckless choices — before you both stopped pretending it was harmless.

He was always brutally honest, almost cruel in how easily he wore the truth. You’d known it was him, long before you had the courage to admit it. And he had never cared about messy pasts or whether he was your first anything; he only cared that you were his last.

He met you through Jisung — who, true to form, stuck to your side like a second shadow — and it hit him like a punch to the ribs. That kind of sick, dizzy want that didn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to drown it.

Bangchan had been patient in the way only a man desperate for something real could be. Every party, every careless night out, he made sure he was there — close enough to touch, close enough to drive you crazy with it. Until you finally gave in and kissed him like he was air and you were drowning.

And he didn’t say it out loud — he wasn’t that kind of man — but he knew he’d won the fucking lottery. You weren't just beautiful; you were built from the same sharp, stubborn material he was.

You knew how to love him in a way that didn’t shrink him or tame him.And he loved showing you off — not because he needed to prove anything, but because he could.

Wherever you went — parties, concerts, rooms full of people who wished they were you — heads turned. You didn’t just look good together. You fit. Like some cruelly perfect puzzle, made to make everyone else feel like they were missing something.

You were the ‘it couple’ — not because people said so, but because no one could look at you and believe otherwise.

And now you had to pretend  like it was easy that none of it had ever meant anything. That you hadn’t once been stupid enough to build your whole heart around him.

The ride was quiet for a few moments, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of your jacket as you shifted. Your head lolled slightly to the side, and even in your blurred state, you caught the way his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel every time he glanced at you.

"You always cause trouble," he said finally, voice low, almost fond. "Even when you don't mean to."

You scoffed. "You're the one kidnapping me from my fun."

"If I left you there, you'd either end up passed out on the floor or flirting with some idiot," he said coolly, not taking his eyes off the road. "Neither option sounded good to me."

"I wasn't flirting," you muttered, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. "I was just... being friendly."

Bangchan snorted. "Yeah, well. You're mine. You don't need to be friendly with anyone else."

The words hit you harder than the cold wind. Your eyes snapped open, your heart giving a traitorous, unsteady beat. He said it so easily. Like it was just a fact of life, as simple as breathing.

You opened your mouth to say something, to argue, but no words came out.

And Bangchan just kept driving, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the dashboard.

When he pulled up outside your apartment, Bangchan didn't even give you a chance to reach for the door handle. He was out in a flash, slamming his door and rounding the car like a man on a mission.

You caught up to him, your boots clacking against the sidewalk in a staggered rhythm. He didn’t even bother to look back; he knew you were following like he always knew, smug bastard that he was.

"You think you're so clever," you muttered as you caught up, breath puffing in the cold air.

"Well," Bangchan said, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "That's because I am."

You rolled your eyes so hard you were surprised they didn't fall out of your head. Still, you brushed past him at the entrance, key in hand, making a show of being thoroughly unimpressed.

The door creaked open under your push, and you turned just enough to toss a casual, biting smile over your shoulder. "You coming in, or are you too scared I'll bite?"

Bangchan's mouth twitched, that almost-smile he saved just for you. "If I was scared of your teeth, princess," he said, stepping inside after you, "I wouldn’t be imagining all the places I'd want you to leave marks."

You slammed the door a little too hard behind him, the bang echoing off the hallway walls. Not because you were mad, because if you didn't, you might've launched yourself at him like a woman starved.

"You need therapy," you said, dropping your keys in the dish by the door.

"Probably," he agreed, kicking off his shoes like he owned your place, moving through your apartment with easy familiarity. "But you first."

You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall as you watched him with half-lidded eyes. "You’re awfully confident for someone who just manhandled a half-drunk girl out of a bar."

Bangchan grinned, throwing himself down onto your worn-out couch like a king claiming his throne. "I call it rescuing."

"I call it kidnapping."

He shrugged. "Semantics."

You hated—hated—how good he looked sitting there, manspread like he paid the rent, your hoodie bunching around his arms, the glint in his eyes daring you to push him. To challenge him. To keep playing the game you two were never quite able to quit.

"You’re so annoying," you muttered, peeling off your jacket and tossing it somewhere near the coat rack.

"And you're drunk," he said, patting the spot next to him without a hint of shame. "C'mere, princess. Let’s have a little chat."

"I’m fine right here, thanks."

Bangchan tilted his head, studying you with the kind of intensity that made you want to squirm. "You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re one good glare away from either ripping my head off or climbing into my lap."

You scoffed, pretending not to trip over your own feet as you crossed the room and dropped into the armchair instead, curling your legs up under you.

"Dream on, studio rat," you said sweetly.

He smiled slowly, eyes dark and lazy and a little dangerous. "You call me names like that, and then wonder why I wanna ruin that mouth of yours."

The worst part? You did wonder. You wondered all the time.

You tucked your chin onto your knees, flashing him a slow, mocking smile. "Big words, Bangchan. Too bad that's all you're good at. Talking."

The spark that lit behind his gaze was damn near nuclear.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice dropping so low and smooth it wrapped around you like silk.

"Careful," he said, voice edged with warning and wickedness. "You poke the wolf enough, princess, don't be surprised when he bites back."

Your heart was beating so fast it was almost dizzying. And you knew—you knew—you should tell him to leave. Should tell him you needed to sleep it off. Should slam a thousand doors between the two of you before you made a mistake you couldn't take back.

Instead, you grinned like the little devil you were.

You batted your lashes like a brat, voice dripping sugar and spite. "What are you waiting for then? Afraid you’ll get bitten too?"

Bangchan let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real.

"One of these days," he said, standing up slow, every muscle under his hoodie stretching and pulling in ways that made you bite your lip, "you're gonna push me too far."

You kept your smile in place, but your mouth was suddenly dry. "Promises, promises."

He came to stand over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He leaned down, palms braced on the arms of the chair, caging you in without touching. Without meaning to, the chain around his neck slipped loose from his sweatshirt, dangling just above your eyes like a silent dare.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his breath ghosting across your lips, "what you're asking for."

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. Still, you refused to look away. You refused to be the first one to break.

Bangchan’s mouth curled into something feral, something proud, like he could see every stubborn, reckless thought in your head and loved you more for it.

He brushed his nose against yours, just barely, before pulling away.

"Go to sleep, princess," he murmured, backing off like it cost him something. "Before we both do something we'll regret."

You watched him move across the room, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and tossing it onto you in one smooth motion.

"Goodnight," he said, turning toward the door.

"Goodnight, asshole," you mumbled back, snuggling into the chair despite yourself.

Your head was pounding before you even opened your eyes.

The sunlight filtering through the blinds felt like a personal attack, and the taste in your mouth was proof that maybe you weren't as immune to soju as you thought.

You groaned softly, pressing the heel of your palm against your forehead, cursing every life choice that had led you to this very moment. 

Everything hurts. Your brain, your pride, your soul.

You didn’t even remember getting into bed. The last thing you recalled was sitting in the armchair in the living room, long after Chan had left. You turned your head carefully, expecting to find an empty room, expecting to be alone—like you always were after nights like that.

Instead, you found him. Curled up like a fucking angel in your beat-up armchair.

One arm slung lazily over his stomach, the other bent so his hand could half-cover his face, messy black curls spilling out from under the hood of his sweatshirt. His legs were awkwardly folded up to fit, his whole body making a kind of soft, exhausted nest in the chair way too small for him.

And God, he was beautiful. Ridiculously, stupidly beautiful.

Your throat tightened without permission. Because somehow, it hurt a little, seeing him like that. Vulnerable. Still. Peaceful, like he'd finally stopped fighting the world for five minutes.

You sat there blinking at him, trying to convince yourself it was just the hangover making you emotional. Definitely the hangover. Had to be.

Slowly, you shifted to sit up, careful not to make any noise. But even that tiny movement made Bangchan stir, his body tensing instinctively before relaxing again.

You watched as he buried deeper into the chair, pulling the hood lower over his eyes like a child hiding from the morning.

It was absurd. He looked like a stray puppy you accidentally fed once and now couldn’t get rid of.

And the worst part? You didn't even want to get rid of him.

You loved so many things about him — stupid, quiet things. The way he smiled, all crinkled eyes and wrinkled nose, like he couldn't help himself. The way his face looked when he just woke up, soft and defenseless, so beautiful you couldn’t resist tracing his skin with your fingertips, half-convinced he might dissolve like a dream.

You loved his curls too — how, beneath all that cocky, rough-edged swagger, he still looked like a boy you could never quite stop loving. 

You sat there for a few minutes, silent, just...watching. Taking in the ridiculous boy who drove you insane but still made sure you were safe. The guy who would argue with you all night but leave you his coat when he left. The boy who threatened to bite and ruin and wreck, but slept like a kid in your living room without asking for anything in return.

Your chest aches in that stupid, traitorous way you hated.

"Idiot," you whispered, your voice breaking the silence.

Bangchan didn’t stir.

You dragged yourself up off the bed, every muscle in your body protesting, and grabbed a blanket. With more gentleness than you’d ever admit to, you tucked it over him, careful not to wake him.

For a second, your fingers hovered over his hair, aching to brush the curls back from his forehead.

You didn’t.

Instead, you backed away, wrapping your arms around yourself, needing the distance before you did something even stupider. You padded into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, moving slowly, quietly.

Because you could be a lot of things. You could be stubborn and sharp and bratty as hell. But you weren't heartless. Not with him.

Not when he looked like that.

You were halfway through pouring hot water into a chipped mug when you heard the shift of fabric and the low, scratchy groan of someone waking up.

You didn’t turn around. You weren’t ready to see him awake yet.

Not when you were still trying to glue your heart back together after catching him sleeping like some exhausted little god on your chair.

Instead, you muttered, “Morning, sunshine,” as you dumped two sugars into your cup.

Bangchan’s voice was still thick with sleep when he answered. "You're alive, huh?"

He sounded way too pleased about that fact. You shrugged, sipping your tea. "Barely. And only because I’m too stubborn to die of embarrassment."

He chuckled behind you, the sound low and rough, and you cursed how good it sounded.

"You should be embarrassed," he said, stretching his arms above his head, making the chair creak. "You were one soju away from getting banned from half the bars downtown."

"Bold words for someone who kidnaps girls from happy hours," you shot back, finally turning around to look at him.

Big mistake.

His hoodie was bunched up around his waist, revealing a sliver of tan skin and the waistband of his sweats. His hair was a glorious mess, dark curls flattened on one side, and he had the nerve—the nerve—to blink at you like he wasn't aware he was slowly killing you just by existing.

You yanked your gaze away. "I need a shower. I feel like death."

"Yeah, you look like it too," he teased under his breath.

You flipped him off lazily as you padded toward the bathroom.

Inside, the hot water was bliss. You stood under the spray for long minutes, letting it wash away your headache, your regret, your dangerously soft feelings. Or trying to.

When you finished, you wrapped yourself in a towel and wandered back into your room, dripping wet, not even thinking.

That's when you saw him again. Through the mirror.

Bangchan was standing just outside the doorway, frozen halfway into a movement, like he hadn't meant to be caught. His eyes caught yours in the mirror’s reflection—and then flickered lower, to your bare shoulders, the curve of your back, the towel barely clinging to your hips, and your wet hair dripping water down your spine.

For a second, neither of you breathed.

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides, as if he could physically force himself to behave.

You smirked at his reflection, wickedly pleased at the way he was practically vibrating from the effort of not touching you. You snickered and sauntered toward your closet without another word, feeling his gaze burn into your skin the whole way.

By the time you made it back to the kitchen, fully dressed and mostly composed, the smell of something burning hit you in the face.

"Chan," you said, deadpan. "What fresh hell is this?"

He looked up from the stove, sheepish. A frying pan in one hand, a horribly mangled attempt at eggs in the other.

"I was trying to make you breakfast," he said, voice half-defensive, half-hopeful. "Y'know, so you don't die from alcohol poisoning."

You folded your arms and tilted your head. "You can't cook for shit, can you?"

He tossed the spatula into the sink with a clatter and scowled at you, but there was no real heat behind it.

"You're welcome, princess."

You plopped into a chair, grinning like a little devil. "Aw, you really do love me."

Bangchan grumbled something incoherent under his breath, ears turning slightly pink as he banged around the kitchen trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left.

You bit your lip to hide your smile. Because he could fight it all he wanted. You both knew exactly where this road was heading.

You were still towel-drying your hair when Bangchan’s phone buzzed across the counter.

He checked it absently at first — one glance — but then his entire posture changed. He straightened up, jaw clenching, and answered it with a tight, low, "Yeah?"

You hated the way your chest dropped before you even knew why.

From the kitchen, you heard bits and pieces. Another producer. Some “quick fixes” needed. A session that apparently couldn’t survive the weekend without him.

When he hung up, the room went heavy. He didn’t meet your eyes. He just shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, shoulders stiff with guilt.

You sat down with your mug of burnt coffee, the faint smell of your vanilla soap clinging to your skin. You looked... soft. Kissable. And for a wild second, Bangchan thought about crossing the room just to taste you — hair damp, cheeks flushed from the hot shower — to press his mouth to yours and make you forget the rest of the damn world.

But the words came out instead. "I gotta head to the studio," he said, voice almost apologetic.

You took a slow sip of coffee, then set it down harder than necessary, the sharp clack making both of you flinch.

"You’re seriously going to the studio?" you asked, too casual, too light to be anything but fake.

Bangchan finally looked at you. His eyes were heavy, tired. Maybe even sorry.

"Yeah," he said, like he hated himself a little for it. "Deadlines."

You hummed — a sharp, disbelieving sound — and tapped your nails against the mug.

"It's Saturday," you said quietly.

"And?" he shot back, more defensive than necessary.

You stared at him, really started, like you were trying to scrape something real out of him with your eyes alone. "And nothing," you muttered, voice tight.

He sighed, confused and already losing patience. "What? You want me to blow it off or something?"

You laughed, sharp and humorless. "Oh, no. God forbid you miss a day at your precious studio."

Bangchan blinked at you, and you saw it happen — the slow realization that this wasn’t about today, or even about the stupid phone call.

It was about every time before it. Every late night. Every broken promise. Every time you sat exactly where you were now, waiting for someone who never really came home.

"You’re mad," he said slowly, stupidly, like he was still putting it together.

"No. I’m not." you snapped, standing so quickly your chair screeched against the floor. "Maybe it’s a hangover. Or maybe I’m just allergic to the same fucking story."

His jaw tightened. "What story?"

You crossed your arms across your chest, feeling dangerously close to either screaming or crying.

"You," you spat. "You and your work and your excuses. The plans you cancel, the calls you forget to return. The way you make everything — everyone — secondary to your next big project."

Bangchan flinched, and for once, he didn’t try to spin it. He didn’t even deny it. He just stood there, breathing shallowly, like he was bleeding out and didn’t know how to stop it.

"That was different," he finally managed, voice rough. "That was when—"

"When we were together?" you cut in, voice low and sharp as a blade. You watched him wince like you’d hit him. 

Good. He deserved it.

"It’s easier to forget about someone when they’re still stupid enough to love you, isn’t it?"

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to plead — but you shook your head, feeling the final snap of something deep inside you.

"You should go," you said, barely above a whisper. "Wouldn’t want you to be late for your real life."

Bangchan looked at you for a long, breathless second. There was so much there — regret, anger, longing — but none of it mattered anymore.

He grabbed his keys off the counter without a word. You turned your back to him, rinsing your empty mug in the sink even though your hands were shaking.

You heard the door creak open.

He hesitated. Waited. You didn’t look. You didn’t move. You didn’t stop him.

Except—"Bangchan," you called sharply, almost involuntarily.

He froze, half-out the door.

When he turned back, there was a flash of hope in his eyes, quick and raw.

You crushed it without mercy.

You threw his jacket at him, hard enough that it hit his chest with a dull slap. He caught it reflexively, stunned.

"There," you said, your voice brittle and shaking. "Go save the charts or whatever."

Bangchan’s face darkened. His jaw flexed hard enough to crack. But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t beg. Didn’t stay.

He just yanked the jacket on stiffly, avoiding your gaze, and left, the door clicking shut with a finality that made your stomach twist.

You stood there long after he was gone, feeling hollow and breakable and so, so stupid for still loving the sound of his stupid footsteps fading away.

You had sworn you’d stay in this weekend — locked away with bad TV and worse wine — but then Jisung, being Jisung, practically collapsed at your feet, begging you to come to a party some friend of his was throwing.

Apparently, the guy was rich, bored, and had a habit of throwing the kind of parties that made people lose entire weekends without noticing.

On one hand, it sounded like the perfect distraction. On the other, it meant risking running into the headache you were currently trying to scrub out of your system: Bangchan.

After the last fight, he'd gone radio silent. No texts. No late-night calls. No nothing. And, really, that was for the best.

If he wasn't reaching for you, it made it easier not to reach back.

You chose violence anyway — or at least the fashion equivalent — sliding into a rose-gold slip dress so decadent it felt illegal. Fendi and Versace had stitched the thing like they wanted you arrested. Paired with heels sharp enough to commit crimes and a final swipe of lipstick, you were ready to forget him, even if it was only for a few hours.

Jisung pulled up, grinning like he'd just pulled off the heist of the century. Almost on time. Almost.

The second you stepped out in front of the mansion — all cold marble and warm bodies packed inside — Jisung shifted nervously beside you.

"I should probably tell you something," he said, his voice too light, too innocent.

You gave him a flat look, elbowing him hard enough to make him grunt. "Spit it out, Han."

He winced, hands raised in surrender. "Bangchan... might be here. Maybe. Possibly. Almost definitely."

You stared at him for a beat, then shrugged, hooking your arm through his.

"Relax, Ji. I came here for you," you said, flashing a grin that maybe even you didn’t fully believe. "I’m going to have fun. With or without him."

Jisung exhaled like he'd just narrowly avoided death by your hand. And maybe he had.

The interior of the house was obscene in the best way: sleek, brutalist luxury. An infinity pool glittered beyond the glass walls, champagne flowed like water, and waiters glided around balancing trays stacked with cocktails too pretty to drink.

A guy passed by offering glasses of something pale pink with tiny flowers floating inside. You plucked two without hesitation. "Fancy," you muttered, raising a brow at Jisung, who just laughed and stole one from your hand.

The party belonged to some entertainment mogul — the kind of man who collected artists the way other people collected cars — and, apparently, he was old friends with Jisung, Changbin, and your ex.

Music production royalty. Big names. Bigger egos.

Wading into the crowd was like slipping into warm water: bodies pressed together, laughter sticky in the air. You felt it immediately — the stares. The second skin your dress had become. It clung in all the right places, caught the light like it was made to worship you.

You moved through the room like a knife through silk, cruelly aware of the way heads turned, conversations stuttered.

The music was loud, a beat that pulsed in your bones. You danced with Jisung, spinning, laughing too loudly. Letting the thrum of the night drown out the creeping awareness settling at the back of your neck.

Of course he was here. And of course you saw him.

You didn’t even have to look hard; his presence was magnetic — or maybe it was just the fact that you could feel his stare burning into your skin.

Leaning against the table like he had every right to be the center of the universe. Black long-sleeve shirt clinging to the brutal cut of his muscles, like sin wrapped in cotton. Chains glinting at his throat, sliding obscenely down the line of his leather pants.

It should have been illegal to look that good in anything. It should have been illegal to look at you the way he was looking at you.

And when your paths crossed — when you drifted closer on the tide of the crowd — his gaze sharpened, darkened, locked onto you with a slow-burning intensity that made your spine straighten involuntarily.

It took every ounce of your willpower not to react. Because you knew that look. You knew what it meant when Bangchan looked at you like that.

And it wasn’t fair.

Not when you knew damn well that dress — that very dress — had once been a gift from him. A whispered promise wrapped in silk. A secret only the two of you shared, stitched invisibly into every thread.

You could feel him watching you — his stare carving a path along your skin — but you refused to meet his eyes.

Instead, you let your gaze skim over every other face in the circle. Everyone but him.

“Ji," you purred, tipping your head toward him, "aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” The sweetness in your voice was pure venom, and you knew it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Bangchan's hand tightening around his glass. So tight the blood drained from his knuckles.

Changbin you already knew — he greeted you with a familiar grin — but the others were new: “Wooyoung, Yeonjun, Hongjoong,” Jisung rattled off, and each offered you a hand and a polite smile.

Musicians, all of them. Some of their biggest tracks? Produced by 3RACHA. Produced by him. Not that you spared him so much as a glance.

Bangchan stood there, rigid and simmering, a silent storm cloud just beyond the conversation. Acknowledging you only in the sharp way his jaw flexed. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You could almost hear the accusations unsaid: How dare you wear that dress. How dare you parade yourself around like that. How dare you pretend he wasn't standing right there — burning for you.

You tilted your glass back and drained the last of your drink with a careless shrug.

“I’m grabbing another,” you announced, lifting the empty glass between two fingers like it was something disposable. “Ji, want one?”

Jisung shook his head, distracted by something someone said.

You turned on your heel without waiting for an answer, feeling the hem of your dress flutter like a taunt around your thighs. You knew the way the fabric shifted when you moved. You knew exactly what you looked like walking away.

And you knew exactly who was watching you — fists clenched, jaw locked, fighting the losing battle not to follow.

You ordered a Sex on the Beach and leaned casually against the bar, tapping your manicured nails against the counter. The party roared around you — glittering, chaotic — and you welcomed the momentary lull.

That was when someone appeared. Leaning against the glass with the lazy confidence of a man who thought he had a shot.

"You here alone?" he asked, eyes skating over you without a shred of subtlety.

You tilted your head, lashes brushing your cheekbone in a mockery of innocence. "Why?”

"Would be a crime if you were." He smiled — all teeth and ego — and even had the audacity to bite his bottom lip.

You almost laughed.

He was textbook: handsome in that obvious, forgettable way. The kind of man who thought every pretty girl at a bar was just waiting for him.

The bartender slid your drink over. You took a slow sip before answering, savoring the citrusy burn. "Oh, yeah?"

"I could make your night a hell of a lot better," he said, stepping closer, his voice low. "If you come dance with me."

You barely smothered a smirk. Empty promises rolled so easily off their tongues, didn’t they?

"Then show me," you said, voice syrupy sweet, slipping your hand into his outstretched one.

He led you toward the dance floor, weaving through bodies under the pulse of strobe lights and pounding bass. The air thickened with sweat, perfume, and something wilder.

In the crush of the crowd, he planted a heavy hand on your shoulder, sliding it boldly — too boldly — down your spine to your waist. Guiding you into the rhythm like he owned you.

You let him. For a moment.

The music throbbed through you, rattling your bones. You moved your hips, eyelids fluttering shut, letting yourself drown in the beat — in the slippery feeling of rebellion and defiance.

Behind you, he pressed closer. His hands skimmed down the backs of your thighs, fingers hooking under the hem of your tiny dress, tugging it higher without shame.

Your jaw tightened.

You caught the stranger’s wrists mid-climb, dragging his hands back to rest just above your waist — a silent warning. You didn’t know what game he thought he was playing, but you weren’t about to be the pawn.

Another song bled into the air — a pounding, bass-heavy beat — and you let yourself sway lazily against him, pretending you didn’t feel the way he tried, and failed, to take control. 

It was cute, really. Men always thought they were the hunters.

After a few more minutes of indulging his wandering hands, you turned around, flashing a sugar-sweet smile that didn’t even reach your eyes.

"I really need to go to the bathroom," you purred, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

He grinned, clueless. "It’s okay, babe. I’ll be right here."

You gave him one last pitying look — poor thing — and slipped into the crowd, knowing damn well he’d never see you again if the universe had any mercy.

Bodies pressed around you, glittering, sweating, shouting. You ducked and weaved, humming under your breath to the song vibrating through the walls — Guess by Charli XCX — your hips still carrying the ghost of the dance.

The mansion was a maze of glass staircases and too many doors. People were tucked into dark corners, mouths on mouths, hands lost in hair, slipping into rooms to do things better left unspoken.

Finally, you spotted salvation — a guy stumbling out of a door, belt half-buckled. Bathroom.

You moved fast, fingers curling around the handle — only for a much larger hand to slam the door wide open, forcing you back inside with a jolt.

You barely spun on your heels before a wall of heat and muscle cornered you, the door clicking shut with a deliberate, dangerous finality.

His chest rose and fell like he’d sprinted through hell to get to you. His jaw was locked tight enough to crack, and those dark eyes…

You knew that look. You knew it too well.

Anger. Lust. Hunger.

The kind that never asked permission. The kind that didn’t need to.

He took a step forward — and the bathroom shrank into something much too small for the two of you.

"You think you're fucking funny, huh?" His tongue poked his cheek, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your stomach gave a traitorous flip. "Not in the mood for your little games tonight."

"Don't fuck with me, princess." His voice dropped, low, gravelly — as he crowded you against the marble sink. 

You had to lean back, your ass brushing the cold counter, because there was nowhere else to go.

"I didn't do anything," you shot back, biting the inside of your cheek to hold your nerve. "You're imagining shit."

He let out a humorless laugh, the sound scraping low in his throat. "Yeah? You didn't let that asshole put his hands all over you in my fucking dress just to get under my skin?"

Touché.

Maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to burn. To suffer the way you had. Maybe you were desperate enough to crave this — the anger, the jealousy, the way it made his whole body vibrate with restraint.

Bangchan shook his head slowly, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"I always knew you were a little fucking attention whore, but this?" His gaze dragged down your body like a physical touch. "Dressed like a wet dream and acting like you're not desperate to be caught."

His mouth ghosted over yours — not a kiss, just a threat of one — and your fingers dug into the cold edge of the sink so hard they ached.

"What part of we're not together anymore you don’t fucking get?" you hissed, hating the way your voice cracked at the edges, giving you away.

Bangchan’s smirk deepened — like he knew exactly how close you were to losing it. Like he was savoring it.

And God help you, if he came even a breath closer, you would do something reckless and ruinous, like drag his mouth down onto yours, like admit that you were still starving for him.

As if he could read every filthy thought running wild through your head, his fingers brushed the hem of your dress, just skimming the bare skin of your thigh. Your breath caught — your whole body betraying you in a single, shivering heartbeat.

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, as if that would save you from the avalanche rolling through your veins. One month without him, and his touch still had you crumbling like a fucking amateur.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dark silk as he pressed closer — chest to chest, heat to heat — the hard line of his body trapping you against the marble. His hand slid higher, fingers grazing your inner thigh now, so close it made your hips tilt on instinct. "Fucking glowing." The praise was venomous, devouring.

"You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?" His lips brushed the shell of your ear, almost tender, almost cruel.

"You think I'm gonna let you walk around like that—" his fingers inched up, grazing the thin, soaked scrap of your panties, "—let some other asshole touch what’s fucking mine?"

His hand flexed against you like he wanted to tear you apart.

Your cheeks burned, your body burned — your thighs, your stomach, your ribs — everything thrumming with desperate, unbearable heat.

And worst of all,  you were wet. God, you were soaked for him.

He could probably feel it without even sliding his fingers under.

You hated it. You hated him for knowing it. You hated yourself for wanting him to ruin you all over again.

You wanted him brutal. You wanted him careless. You wanted him to use you until you forgot your own name. But somewhere, buried deep under the throb of your pulse, that thin, pitiful thread of reality was still whispering:

You’re not his anymore.

He kissed you — but it wasn’t a kiss you were ready for. It was brutal, a quick, greedy clash of mouths that stole the breath from your lungs.

By the time you tried to react, he’d already pulled back, staring down at you with eyes so dark they barely looked human.

"I won't do anything you don't want," he said, voice dropping low, a threat wrapped in a promise.

Meanwhile, his hand dragged upward, maddeningly slow, fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh like he had all the time in the goddamn world. He ghosted over the thin barrier of your panties — a brush, a tease, not enough, never enough — and the pressure made your knees weaken.

His fingers barely pressed against you, just enough to make you ache harder, just enough to make you silently beg.

"Tell me to stop," he said, fingers still tormenting the edges of your sanity. "Come on, angel. Open your pretty mouth."

You couldn't. You couldn’t even think straight, not when he was touching you like that, not when your body was trembling with how badly you needed him.

It wasn’t fair — how he could burn through you with nothing but a touch.

He stilled his hand purposely, the absence of movement so punishing it made your stomach drop.

"I need to fucking hear it," he growled, forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.

Your voice broke on the first attempt, your throat so dry it hurt. Finally, you swallowed hard and forced the word out. “No.”

The second it left your mouth, something snapped in him — like you had given him the keys to every dark, filthy thing he'd been holding back.

His mouth twisted in a smile that wasn’t kind at all — it was wicked, ruined. His pupils were so blown out, he looked possessed.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice sharp enough to cut.

Your body obeyed before your brain could even catch up. You turned to face the mirror, your hands gripping the edge of the marble sink like it was the only thing keeping you standing. The reflection was obscene — your face flushed, your pupils wide, your body vibrating with want.

And behind you — him — towering, overwhelming, the black of his clothes a stark contrast to the mess he was about to make out of you.

He shoved your back down with a firm hand, bending you over until the marble sink disappeared from view and all you could see was the cold, impersonal wall. Your ass lifted automatically, desperate to meet him, and Bangchan let out a sharp breath between his teeth at the sight.

“Fuck, princess.” His voice was rough, shredded with want as he shoved your dress higher, bunching the delicate fabric around your waist.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging hard into your flesh like he could brand you with them. He rubbed a slow, dirty circle over your panties, right where you were soaked for him.

“I missed this pretty little pussy,” he muttered, almost to himself, almost reverent.

You moaned under his touch, your whole body vibrating with the filthy thrill of being manhandled like this — like you were something he owned.

Bangchan smiled against your skin, because it was exactly what he wanted — your surrender, your desperate little sounds.

You gasped when he pressed his body against you, his erection thick and straining against the rough line of his pants. You couldn't help it — you pushed your hips back, chasing the friction, needing more, needing everything.

He bent low against you, lips brushing your ear as he ran two fingers slowly, maddeningly, along your lips. The fabric of your panties clung wetly to your folds, making the sensation almost unbearable.

“Suck them," he ordered, voice low and wrecked. "Make them nice and wet for me."

You let out a shaky breath, the filth of it lighting your nerves on fire. You twisted enough to meet his hand, parting your lips and taking his fingers into your mouth without hesitation. 

The second you did, Bangchan groaned — a raw, broken sound that made your thighs clench.

You wrapped your tongue around his fingers, licking slow and deep, dragging your mouth up and down them like you would if it were his cock. You sucked, sloppily, tasting yourself faintly on your own tongue.

Bangchan watched you with hooded eyes, his breathing heavy, his whole body coiled tight.

"Good girl," he praised, voice dripping with satisfaction. The words hit you harder than they should have, sending a fresh ache between your legs.

He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a slow, wet pop — a thin string of saliva stretching between them — and he smirked, absolutely wrecked by the sight of you.

The sight of you like this — desperate, obedient, filthy — was dangerous. Because all he wanted now was to fuck you so hard you'd forget your own name, until you were nothing but pretty, broken noises under his hands.

"Hold the sink," he commanded, voice low and dangerous. You spread your fingers along the cold marble, bracing yourself, every nerve in your body screaming for him to just touch you already.

Bangchan stepped closer, breathing heavily through his nose.

With a rough tug, he pulled your panties down, exposing you completely — slick, glistening, dripping for him. The second he saw you like that, he swore under his breath, his cock pressing harder against him like it physically hurt to wait.

He dragged two fingers slowly through your folds, gathering the wetness, coating his skin in you. You let out a breathy, involuntary moan, your hips twitching at even that minimal contact.

He watched, obsessed, as your body reacted to him, so easy, so natural — like you were made for this, made for him.

Three fingers circled your clit in a slow, maddening rhythm. You bit down on your lip, trying to muffle the desperate whine building in your throat.

It was useless. You squirmed under his hand, hips jerking against his teasing strokes, shamelessly greedy for more.

Bangchan laughed — low and cruel and possessive. "I'll show you who this greedy little pussy belongs to," he promised darkly.

Without warning, he slid two fingers deep inside you, filling you with a brutal, perfect stretch that tore a hoarse moan from your lips. Your knees buckled, the shock of it nearly sending you collapsing onto the sink.

On instinct, your hand shot up to cover your mouth, but Bangchan was faster.

He yanked his fingers free, leaving you clenching around nothing. Your head snapped up in frustration, but he was already growling in your ear:

"Hands on the fucking sink. Be a good girl and take it."

You barely managed a whimper of compliance. Trembling, aching, you placed both palms flat against the cold marble again, desperate to behave if it meant he'd touch you again.

Satisfied, Bangchan plunged his fingers back inside you — deeper this time, rougher. Your whole body jolted at the sudden invasion, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

He crooked his fingers ruthlessly, zeroing in on that perfect, devastating spot he knew too well.

You sobbed his name, helpless, lost to the overwhelming pleasure. Bangchan leaned closer, his chest flush against your back, murmuring filth against your ear while he fucked his fingers into you like he never planned to stop.

He knew your body better than anyone ever had. And tonight, he was going to make damn sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

"Want me to fuck your pretty pussy with my hand?" His voice dripped mockery, even as he thrust shallowly, barely letting you feel the stretch before pulling back again.

You moaned, your body shuddering against the marble. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

"Say please," he demanded, slowing his movements to a cruel, torturous crawl.

You gritted your teeth, rage flaring hot inside you. This was a punishment — and you both knew you deserved it.

Still, when he stilled his hand completely, your pride crumbled like sand.

"Fuck. Please." You whimpered, the word breaking out of you, raw and desperate. "Please, please, fuck me."

Bangchan muttered something under his breath — a filthy prayer or a curse, you couldn’t tell — before he slammed his fingers back inside you, hard and deep. You sobbed, the sound guttural, ripped straight from your chest.

He set a brutal pace, fingers pumping in and out of you, making a messy, obscene noise every time he bottomed out inside your dripping heat. 

It was filthy. It was everything you needed.

"More," you gasped, hips chasing every thrust shamelessly. "I need more."

He groaned low, a sound almost pained. "Fuck, princess. You're too greedy."

And then, without warning, he shoved two more fingers alongside the first — stuffing you so full you thought you might snap. Your body seized, a broken scream caught in your throat. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming stretch, the ache, the impossible fullness.

Bangchan didn’t give you a second to adjust. He moved slow at first, deep, devastating strokes that made you feel every inch of his hand inside you. You whined his name, nonsense spilling from your lips, your hips rolling uncontrollably against him, desperate for more.

"Stay the fuck still," he growled, pressing a heavy hand between your shoulder blades, forcing you down against the sink. You whimpered under his weight, blinking away the tears threatening to fall.

He shifted his stance, muscles flexing — and then he started fucking you fast, reckless, fingers slamming into you at a brutal pace that left you gasping, clenching around him, chasing an orgasm that was already boiling over inside you.

Your toes curled against the floor. That fire built and built in your belly, spreading up your spine until you were teetering right at the edge He didn’t let up for a second. Bangchan drove his fingers into you brutally, mercilessly, the slick, wet sounds of your body devouring every thrust filling the bathroom like music.

You were swollen, red, and trembling uncontrollably. Every nerve ending screamed with overstimulation, but the way he pressed you down — completely at his mercy — only made it filthier, made the pleasure spiral harder, darker, sweeter.

"Fuck," he groaned, voice rasping with something feral. "Look at how you take my fingers."

He leaned closer, tongue darting out over his lips, starving for the sight of you wrecked and desperate for him.

"I—I can't anymore—" you choked out, voice cracking in a whimper. "Chan!"

His hand moved faster, the thrusts deeper, knuckles brushing obscene against your insides.

"Are you gonna cum for me, princess?" he taunted, rough and low against your ear. "Show me. Show me who this greedy pussy belongs to. Cum for me."

It was a command you couldn’t disobey.

Like a snapped wire, your orgasm hit you so violently that your whole body jolted forward. Bangchan ripped his fingers free at the exact moment, flattening his hand against your clit and rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the heel of his palm. 

The sensation tore a scream from your throat, your vision whiting out.

He wrapped one thick arm around your waist, holding you upright while you convulsed, grinding his palm against your throbbing clit, prolonging every brutal, ecstatic wave of pleasure. You sobbed against the cold marble sink, tears streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.

"Look at yourself," he snarled, voice thick with pride and hunger. "Look at you when you cum for me. All fucked out. Mine."

His hand moved up, gripping your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to the mirror. What you saw made your knees almost give out: Your face flushed, wet with tears, mouth slack in a helpless moan.

Behind you, Bangchan looked like a fucking monster — wild-eyed, hair a mess, his body pressed possessively against yours.

And when your cum spilled down your thighs in thick, shining streams, soaking his hand, his grin was wolfish.

"That's it," he growled, dragging his wet fingers slowly over your skin, smearing the mess across your trembling thighs. "My girl. So fucking good to me."

You slumped back against his chest, your head dropping onto his broad shoulder, boneless and ruined. Bangchan stroked your waist like you were his prized possession, tracing the outline of your body with greedy, adoring hands.

"Taste it," he murmured against your temple, voice gentler now, darkly satisfied. "This is how good you’re, baby."

He shoved two fingers between your lips, pressing them flat against your tongue. You accepted them greedily, wrapping your mouth around him without a second thought.

Because deep down — as much as you tried to deny it — you belonged to him in ways that you couldn’t undo.

Bangchan stared at you like he was starving, his eyes black with lust, devouring the sight of you so eager to please him. His thumb dragged lazily across your bottom lip, smearing your gloss, leaving a wet, messy sheen all over your mouth like a mark he wanted the world to see.

For a split, torturous second, you thought he was going to kiss you.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your body tilting toward him instinctively, aching to feel his mouth against yours. One simple touch that would have undone you completely.

But he pulled away at the last second.

It was like being doused in ice water. The heat between you evaporated instantly, leaving a hollow ache behind.

You stumbled back, spine hitting the cold bathroom wall, every part of you trembling — not from pleasure now, but from something colder, crueler.

He stood there for a long, agonizing moment, his face carved into something unreadable, chest heaving like he was still fighting himself.

Then he said, voice hoarse and brutal, "Better clean yourself up, princess. You're a fucking mess."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, unlocked the door, and vanished into the pounding music and flashing lights beyond.

You were left alone, the door swinging half-shut, the air around you still heavy with the smell of sex and sweat. Staring at your ruined reflection — lipstick smeared, cheeks wet, eyes hollow — you barely recognized the girl looking back.

Destroyed. Empty.

Still aching for a man who had just reminded you exactly how much power he still held over you.

PART TWO TOMORROw!

[mia-maybank]

I Have A Feeling You Got Everything You Wanted: Part 2 - George Clarke

George Clarke x Fem!reader ( 2.2k words)

The sidemen charity match , a gorgeous ex-boyfriend with a mullet and his entire friendgroup scattered around the stands to avoid ... what could ever go wrong?

warnings: angst (they will get their happiness eventually I promise), hints of poor mental health but it's not a heavy focus, arguing.

series | masterlist

Thank you guys so much for the love on the first part! I hope you enjoy this part just as much <3 (also why is trying to write a breakup where both people come out of it looking like a good person so hard help)

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Time feels like it stands still as I shrink under the gaze of the very people I had been intending to avoid at all costs today. I felt like a deer in headlights, a child caught in the act of doing something I wasn't meant to, although I had technically done absolutely nothing wrong, except miss my ex-boyfriend.

The awkward silence stretches on, until Chris, seeming to realise that nobody is eager to be the one to break the silence, clears his throat and turns to look at the crowd of boys behind him.

"Uh, are you guys okay to give us 2 minutes?" he asks, and my stomach drops with a mix of relief at the thought of not being under the scrutinous gaze of all 6 guys any longer, but also dread at the thought of watching George walk away. Again.

2 Months Ago

I sit on the edge of my shared bed with George, picking at my fingers nervously whilst he paces the length of the bedroom, hands intertwined in the ends of his mullet. Usually, when my anxiety heightens and my tendency to pick my fingers raw and red takes over, George is straight over to cradle my hands and soothe my nerves with soft kisses to my knuckles and gentle whispers. Now, however, he can barely look at me, eyes darting around the room restlessly, never landing on one place for too long.

"I just don't like what's happened to us lately" I continue on with the half-conversation-half-argument that has seemed to go around in circles for the last hour, with neither one of us willing to back down, both too stubborn and passionate. It funny, the way the world works; the two traits that once brought us together in the beginning, when times were simpler and we could still dance around the pressures that life threatened to impose, are now the very qualities that may destroy our relationship entirely.

"We've been fine" George argues, sighing from across the room like he's tired of this argument. Usually, he would always hear me out and respect my opinion with the utmost tenderness and follow up with action to prove that he listened to me, however the strain that has loomed over our relationship for the last 2 weeks has taken a toll upon him just as much as it has me. "I've just been busier because I've had shoots with the sidemen - you know I would never avoid you on purpose."

"I know you haven't meant to George, but you have to understand how shit it feels to be pushed to the side suddenly because of work opportunities!" My voice rises now, frustration taking over the rational side of my brain as I felt like I wasn't being heard - something I wasn't used to with George, who was usually so attentive.

"Well maybe you need to understand how shit it feels to be trying to balance constant work commitments, friends, family and a girlfriend when everybody expects you to be perfect!" he snaps back, his face dropping when I flinch back. He tentatively takes a step towards me, and when I don't flinch again, he kneels in front of the bed, grasping my hands in his own and gazing up at me with a look so tender that my heart nearly wrenches straight out of my chest.

"Look, I think we’re trying to love each other in ways the other person doesn’t need.” his voice is tender, so tender that it almost doesn't match the cruel words he had previously uttered. "I think maybe we just need a break."

My heart drops at the dreaded words, tears springing to my eyes. But then I look at George's tear-stained, earnest face and know in that instant that I will do anything for this man, even if it involves ripping my heart straight out of my chest over and over.

"Okay" I whisper, my voice cracking. "We'll take a break." He knocks his forehead gently against mine and I close my eyes, savouring his warmth against mine. I don't open my eyes when he kisses my forehead, slow and lingering, like he doesn't want to let go, and finally look up just in time to see him leave.

A day passes. I mope in bed. Then comes a week. I finally give up hope of any of our friend group reaching out to me. Then a month. I decide to leave the house for the first time since the breakup but can't find the motivation to make it out of the door. Then two months. And I give up completely.

One by one, the guys take Chris' not so subtle hint and leave. Simon looks between the two of us with poorly-concealed curiosity before turning away, patting George on the shoulder reassuringly as he leaves. Ethan and Max follow quickly, muttering between themselves, whilst Tobi offers me a reassuring smile and Harry a small nod before they continue up the stairs.

George doesn't move.

He finally unfreezes, relaxing his posture and turning towards Chris, his facial expression still irritatingly unreadable.

"Are you okay to give us a minute, mate?" he asks Chris, his voice taking on that gentle tone again that takes me back to the last time we spoke. Chris nods, stepping towards George and whispering something into his ear that makes his face crumple in concern before Chris turns back to me. "We will catch up later properly, alright?" the hopeful tone of his voice chips at the cage I've built around my heart the last two months and I nod, watching him break out in a relieved grin before he heads in the direction of what I guess is the changing rooms.

The silence lingers for a moment , both of us unable to stray our eyes away from each other or form a coherent sentence.

"Hi" I finally settle on. Hi? You've fantasised about this moment for the past 2 months and the best you can come up with is hi? I mentally scold myself, but to my relief his face breaks out into a soft, almost fond smile. God, I've missed that smile so fucking much.

"Hi" he echoes, and I melt inside as the sound of his voice greets my ears.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you on your big day" I apologise, suddenly self-conscious of how psychopathic sneaking around a football match that my ex-boyfriend is playing in seems. "I was planning on just coming to watch quietly and then slipping out without causing a scene, I guess that didn't really go to plan though".

He laughs softly, the sound a soothing melody to my lingering anxieties. "Yeah, you never were the plan maker for good reason". The past tense hurts more than I care to admit, but I force myself to brush it off as he continues to speak. "I'm sorry that you felt like you had to hide from everyone though, we all would have been really happy to see you."

He lets that statement settle for a moment, sitting on a step before patting the spot next to him. I sit down, close enough that our knees knock, and when he doesn't pull away I feel like a teenager with a crush on the boy sat net to her in class. He keeps his gaze steadily trained on mine, continuing with a much more raw, vulnerable edge to his voice now. "We all really miss you, y'know. I miss you".

I can't help the flame of anger that sparks in my chest at the clearly false sentiment, because if they missed me, why did nobody call?

"But...but you didn't call me George" I can't disguise the plain sadness that fills my tone, avoiding his eyes. "Two months and not one person called or text me ... not once."

When I finally dare to look up, I'm surprised to see tears in his eyes and a flare of panic jolts through my chest at the thought that I might of upset him. I apologise quickly, but he shakes his head softly, his expression only saddening further.

"Don't you dare apologise" he finally utters, causing me to blink in surprise. "Chris told me about how you haven't left your flat since the breakup".

The concern and tears in his eyes suddenly make sense. "That snitching bastard, so that's what he whispered to you" I groan in exasperation and embarrassment, hiding my face in my hands.

He giggles gently, tugging my hands slowly from my face, the sudden contact sending shockwaves of electricity through my body, before much to my disappointment he drops my hands and a serious expression takes over his face once more.

"I'm so, so sorry that you felt isolated like that. Everybody presumed you wanted to be left alone and had moved on with different friends and a new life, but that was a fucking stupid assumption to make and we should have known better and reached out. I hate the thought of you all alone this entire time."

I don't know quite when it happened, but one minute I'm staring at him wordlessly as I process his words and the next I'm violently sobbing. He only hesitates for a fraction of a second before pulling me in, shielding me in his toned arms as I weep into his shoulder and dampen his shirt.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry" he keeps murmuring, and it's not until my sobs subside slightly 15 minutes later that I feel the dampness on the top of my head and realise that he is crying to.

Pulling back just enough to be able to see his expression and wipe the tears gently from his cheeks, I take shuddering breaths and he continues to hold me soothingly, one hand rubbing my back whilst his other thumb draws circles on my waist.

"I missed you" I finally feel brave enough to whisper into the air between us and he instantly pulls me back into a tight embrace.

"That argument two months ago" he murmurs into my hair, rocking us soothingly back and forth. "I've regretted every word I said every single day since. Every. Single. One."

I sniffle into his chest, nodding in agreement. "Me too."

"I wanted to reach out so badly" he admits, continuing to rock me slowly. "I thought you were better off without me, so I didn't. But I know I fucked up now. I carried on with living and filming with our friends like you hadn't just vanished off the face of the earth since our argument and that was so, so fucked up of me to do" his breath hitches and we slowly pull away from each other, assuming our much less intimate positions sat side by side on the steps.

I already missed his warmth, so I knocked my leg against his own, relieved when he pressed his skin against mine like he needed the contact just as much as I did.

"I did miss being a part of everything" I admit into the quietness of the corridor. "My youtube career, my friendship, me and you ... it all felt like it fell apart that day." I can barely stand to look at him, for the amount of guilt and pain his expression holds is almost unbearable.

"I'd like to prove to you again that you still have all that" he mutters almost shyly.

"Huh?" I furrow my brows, not understanding his statement.

"Your channel. Your friends. Me.. we are all still here if you want us." he lets out softly. "I know I sure as hell don't deserve your forgiveness but-".

"George" I interrupt softly before he can fall too far into his self-internalising guilt-fuelled spiral. "I messed up too. I could've reached out and I didn't."

His brow furrows. "Still not your fault" he counters, so familiarly stubborn that I almost giggle giddily despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Want to come say hi to everyone?" he asks almost sheepishly. "I know they all want to see you.. and we are going for drinks after.. only if you want to come, no pressure of course" he tacks on quickly at the end.

"Are you sure? I don't want to make it awkward or weird" I hesitate, doubt clawing at my insides.

"You won't, I promise" he sticks his pinkie out and I smile fondly at his childishness, linking my pinkie with his and allowing him to pull me up towards the lions den.

Well, here goes nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 3 will be out in the next few days wehehe ... also I feel like I suck at writing dialogue so I do apologise

Tags:

@the-internets-girlfriend @madforgeorge @happyclifford @sidemenslver @heyitsmefall @bbygrlllllll @mothersversiononly @dopeysunflowers @kwonhoeshi @ooostarwarsfandom501st @liz140569 @artvscvntymullet @livvymd

Also everybody who asked to be on my tag list in the comments of part 1 is it just for this series or for any george fics/ ukyt fics in general? Just so I know what to tag you guys in :)

[ruinix]

can dark quinn fuck reader while she's asleep?

Lovely, hey there. So. Um.. dark!quinn...just a lil thot, okay? 😶‍🌫️🫣 First, lil confession, I wanna be claimed just like that y'know. Yes, I am a whore. Anyway...this is more of a ramble. My head is a mess. Also...don't ask if it's gotten too long. This did not happen.

Don't come for me. This is truly dark. You've been warned.

Whore thoughts. Dark. Deranged behavior. Somnophilia. Non-con. Drugging. Manipulation. This is dark, y'all. Dark. Dark!!! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

You were always a heavy sleeper. Sure, you had trouble sleeping, but once you were out, you were out. Quinn knew that. He would be a bad boyfriend if he didn't.

Afterall, he was the one who always woke up first for his early practice, the one who tried to pry your vice-like grip every time, the one who tried banging the cabinets during the morning to make sure, to constantly test your sleep. The one who touched your pussy through your panties until your arousal slicked it, until soft moans escaped your lips.

Then came the problem. You would rouse, stirring then slowly wake up, before he could make you come, before he could further his debauchery. Fucking always.

You would be so confused, too sleep-drunk, too innocent that you would just assume Quinn's cuddling you.

Even for so long, you never put two and two together. Not a clue with his touches. With his lack of care that he never asked for your consent through these acts. Well, why would he need such a thing when he owned you? Every single fiber of your being was his.

Your body that could no longer reach the heights of an orgasm without his touch. The number of times you came running towards him with tears of frustration in your eyes because no matter what you do--no matter what toy or technique--you couldn't come. The number of times you called him whining while he was on a road trip because you got so horny, yet you couldn't do a single fucking thing to help yourself.

Your mind that couldn't choose anything for yourself. Always seeking his opinion. Before, you would just go out with your friends whenever you like. Now, you preferred staying home just because Quinn planted seeds of doubt about your friends not being good for you, about them only using you because of how sweet you were, which were all not false. They were using you to get to him. You were so naive to see through their elaborate trap, so Quinn easily manipulated the circumstances that you had to break off the friendships. You didn't need them anyway. Not when you have him.

Not all of your friends were using you though. Some were good. Too good, too fucking nosy, trying to get you to see how twisted he was. Quinn can't have that, so he got rid of them too. Threats. Blackmail. He did it all, making you think they just dropped you, which made you more needy for his company.

Your soul that sang with his. So bright and innocent when you stared at hum like he hung the moon. So adorable when he fucked you so hard that he left you sore for days with bruises painting your neck, your hips, your thighs, and everywhere else. Still, you looked at him with heart-shaped eyes.

You've been such a perfect girl to love, fuck, and manipulate. So perfect, really. Except you kept waking up when it was about to be more interesting. When he was about to consume you in a different fucking level. When all he wanted was for you to come around him while you were still in dream-fucking-land. Was that too much of an ask?

So, Quinn moved.

He took his time researching things that would keep you asleep. He acted like a damned insomniac, going to a shrink and telling him he needed something to help him sleep, expertly twisting the truth, emphasizing he needed something to get him to sleep throughout the night. It was so easy. One trip to the pharmacy, he got his prescription along with bottles of melatonin and magnesium.

Getting you to drink the supplements was simple. Your eyes were twinkling as you take it as him being concerned with you. You happily take them. No questions. Not a single doubt or concern. You just take and take. Everything he gave you.

Quinn was always patient. Always bidding his time. He won't use his supposed prescription yet. Touching and testing if the supplements were enough. They were not. Therefore, he used them, telling you he saw a better additional supplement.

He waited and waited for your protest, even a question on what the fuck it is because one would normally ask, but alas, you said:

"Okay."

Then you grinned at him with such innocence that Quinn wondered how on earth did you survived this cruel world. No matter. He was here to keep you safe from anything else but him. He loved the pureness you offer. So pure that he must corrupt.

He watched. Within minutes, you were out like a light. Your body was in a supine position under the blankets, your chest moving with your every breath. Like a princess. His very own sleeping beauty.

One tug, the sheets were off. He could see the goosebumps on your skin, your nipples hardening under your silk night gown. He ran his hands over your thighs, spreading them, pushing the fabric up and up and up, exposing your lace panties. Slowly, he touches your clothed pussy, feeling along your folds, teasing your clit down to your entrance and back up.

Soft. You were so soft and getting so drenched. The need to smell you overtook him, not giving a shit anymore if the drug would actually keep you asleep. He just hooked one thigh over his shoulder, pressing his nose on your pussy and smelled your feminine musk. So divine as he started to lick over the lace.

Just one taste and he lost it. Like a feral beast who had not eaten for days, he licked and sucked and nipped, almost laughing as he heard your little whines, preening at how your hips jerked so slightly. Then he stared right at your face, waiting for you to wake but you didn't. Fuck yes.

He could barely think straight anymore. He tore your panties, slapping his cock against your quivering pussy, rubbing himself on you until he was coated by your arousal as his pre-cum dripped down his length. The way your thighs twitched, your eyebrows frowning, your barely there 'hmmm'. Everything etched in his brain. As he slowly sank his cock into your pulsing heat.

He fucked you slowly. Every thrust was full and deep. Your tits moved, bouncing, luring him in for a taste, so he indulged. Using his teeth to tug the neckline of your nightgown then he sucked your pebbled peak. One by one. he could feel your walls spasming for a mini orgasm. So adorable.

Your troubled moans filled his brain. He could basically feel your body trying to wake up, could feel the dream your mind was showing you. He was also fucking you in your dream, wasn't he? How hard was he going? Were the pathetic sounds coming out of you supposed to be your pleas to fuck you harder?

He supposed they were. What else could they be? You were always such a slut. It must be maddening for you not to get what you wanted.

"I know, my love. I know," he whispered in your ear, groaning when your pussy squeezed so tight around him that he almost came. "Let's take our time, okay? Fuck. We got the whole night."

It didn't matter to Quinn if he had to wake up for a morning skate. He would take his fucking time. He was already so fucking confident that his team would win. They always seemed to win whenever he touched you during your sleep. Now that he was fucking you, maybe it could be an easy victory. Fuck, he hoped it would be. Even if they lose, there was no way he wouldn't do this again.

Languidly, he rolled his hips as his hands gripped your hips wider, opening you up.

Then he started to get rougher. His hips bucking into you to claim you brutally. He wanted you to be so confused about why you're so sore in the morning, wanted you to feel so horrified about the new kiss marks he was leaving all over your chest, your collarbone, your neck. He wanted to see you panic when you see the handprint bruises on your thighs.

Those images of you all rattled and horrified filled his mind. He couldn't stop smiling as he pressed down your lower abdomen, his thumb softly rubbing circles around your clit until you come so hard, your lips parting, yet you didn't wake up. He kept whispering praises into your ear, chuckling at the little sniffles coming out of you because he wouldn't stop his thrusts, wouldn't stop playing with your sensitive clit.

"Give me another one, my Love. Just one. Then we'll stop," he teased into your lips, kissing you without care even if you didn't kiss back. It was exactly how he wanted. Just you in the palm of his hands. Just you being fucked by him because he could. Just like his very own sex toy. "I promise."

He lied and lied and lied.

He wouldn't stop.

Why would he?

He could only grip your skin, short nails digging into your tender flesh. When you came again, he did too, spurting deep into your pussy, kissing and licking your neck, praising you over and over again. He took his time to recover. Then he would do it again and again. The same fucking lie would escape his lips.

His sweat would drip down your sweaty body. His cum would be pooling under your ass. Your pussy would be red and raw from overuse. Your skin would be marked by bruises already darkening, reddening. He would be so greedy at the sight of you not waking up. Totally under his mercy. The night wouldn't be over, yet he was already planning the next time to do this.

He tried to stop at least. He was getting too exhausted after a couple of hours of partaking you. Hell, he almost fainted after he came so hard, but he couldn't. He needed more and more. He could only turn you both sideways, lazily fucking into you. His cum would already become too watery, too diluted, too spent.

He would only stop when he could no longer give you anything. Still, he couldn't be satiated. He would crawl down your body to start cleaning you with his tongue. Tasting the mix of your cum and his. Smelling what he has done. It was all so divine.

He did his best with the clean-up. He replaced your nightgown and panties, wiped away the sweat. Even managed to change the fucking sheets with his shaky legs.

After tucking you in with his arms around you, he passed out. Only to wake up the next fucking hour. It was time to fucking work.

Work he did, grinning and laughing to himself when you called midday, sobbing because your body fucking ached.

Sorry. This is nothing but a figment of your imagination, i fear. I didn't write this. The parasites in my head did. They were having a protest because I was reading an extremely wholesome romance fantasy book. They needed something dark so they took over my keyboard. 🤧😔

-> more thoughts? List.

[crazy-pages]

Yeah see, I have a simple axiom.

Every society under the sun has fools and assholes. There have been no exceptions to this, ever, despite a metric fuckton of trying. (In fact one might argue that this has been the defining goal of much of organized religion. None of them have succeeded yet.)

So I don't judge political systems, potential or real, based on how well they get rid of fools and assholes. A lot of people have promised that throat history and nobody has ever succeeded. Maybe your pet system will be the one to do it, but I'm not going to gamble on that. A big part of how I judge political systems is how well they accommodate the existence of fools and assholes. Do you have systems to protect people who aren't educated on a particular subject, or to limit the harm assholes do?

Because education is great. I wholly approve of improving public education as a means of reducing foolishness. And if you're not advocating a spontaneous replacement of regulation with foolishness, that's great to hear.

But if your goal is eliminating foolishness with education and eliminating assholishness with surplus, it puts me on edge. Because I'm worried about what happens when it is taken on faith that, at some point, all those regulations and protective measures will be unnecessary. When it's taken for granted that people being foolish or assholes is because they're just not getting with the program, rather than the program maybe not fixing the problem of fools and assholes.

Because as an example with health grifters, we're not going to solve cancer overnight. There are going to be people who have critical terrible health issues which cannot be solved and are desperate for any solution. People in these situations fall into health grifts even when they are incredibly educated. Doctors and nurses fall into them too, this isn't just a failure of capitalism to do public education properly.

And we're also not going to solve the existence of grifters by getting rid of capitalism and ensuring everybody has basic needs met and substantial surplus. I grew up in a very well off liberal city, and I knew a ton of people who had retired with plenty of money after a career in the sciences, who spent their retirements doing health grifts. Not out of malevolence, but because they had been caught by the same grift themselves at one point and came to truly believe in it, or because being able to spend their spare time 'helping' people made them feel good. Which is exactly the driving idea of anarchism, that when we have all of our needs met we will want to help other people. It's just that it turns out that need can be met by doing things which actually prevent people from getting the medical help they actually need, because tricking yourself into believing you are helping people fulfills that desire just as well as actually helping people. Some of them are fools, some of them are assholes, some of them are just accidentally assholes.

So even in a perfect anarchist future, we are going to have people vulnerable to fake medicine and people who want to fill that need with fake medicine. Which is why my question is always, whenever anybody is talking about their preferred political system, what is that system going to do about fools and assholes? And if the answer is that we're just not going to have fools and assholes, all of my hair is standing on end.

Because I'm actually a big fan of anarchism. Especially as a method of workplace organization. As a researcher I've seen a lot of different methods of organizing research and development and the most functional parts of the systems I've seen have always been fundamentally anarchist. (The worst parts have always been the most capitalist and authoritarian systems.) But I don't think anarchism in the workplace will obviate the need for top-down safety regulation structures. Elimating capitalism could help, but anyone who thinks it would *fix* workplace safety has never been a safety coordinator.

So I love much of anarchism. I really do. But oh wow is it disappointing when almost everyone I hear talking about it thinks it'll solve the fools and assholes problem, and that people are just spontaneously going to make wheelchair ramps even when they personally don't know anyone in wheelchairs.

The reason I’m not an anarchist is that in the centuries before the Americans with disabilities act people could have all installed safe wheelchair ramps in all of their buildings and they didn’t.

If you’re trying to make a system that relies on people being nice I’m not gonna go with it.

[erwinsvow]

there's one time before you and jack start dating, but after you had switched over to night shift, that you need to cover someone during the day so you exchange shifts and are there all day. he doesn't get a text about it, finds out when he sees you running around at six forty-five looking tired and overwhelmed. it makes sense, your sleep schedule had adjusted to nights and it's calmer sometimes so the day shift seems hectic in comparison.

(he doesn't know this, but you were also thrown off. no one making you perfect cups of coffee and tea when you need them, no one handing you a granola bar half way through the shift because he knows you don't sit down and eat unless you're forced. no one encouraging you with silent stares and carefully selected words that you can hear when you close your eyes and try to sleep. no, he doesn't know about any of that.)

so when he finds you for the step-off he cracks a joke about you abandoning the team and going back to your old ways. you tell him right away that you'll be back tomorrow night, and then you lean in just to tell him i'm never going back to day shift. you had just meant it was so much different than what you'd gotten used to and you think you really prefer the schedule like that, prefer the environment and all that. but the words linger in his head the rest of the night. (more specifically—how you leaned in, how it's like a secret the others can't know. night shift has ruined you, spoiled you. you could never go back. at least, that's what he thinks about for the next twelve hours. ruining you and spoiling you. or something like that.)

so you give him and the rest of the night crew a case presentation on the patient you were taking care of all day—and it's really nothing but you go through everything you need to tell him and give your treatment recommendation and justify everything. others from the day shift fill in the blanks and finish out the rest of the story so jack knows what to expect for the rest of the night out of this bed. and he doesn't know why he says it, just feels proud that you presented so well, that you didn't get nervous at his questions, that you didn't doubt the care you gave the patient. leans in and tells you that you did a great job, that he'll miss you tonight. and you beam up at him with that blinding smile, your eyes sparkly and you feel a rush of energy like you could work another twelve hours if he was saying things like that all night.

and your smile. jack sees it often enough, he doesn't know why he has the same reaction every time. temporarily, his brain shuts off. the neurons stop firing. the thoughts die down, the room goes quiet. he just stares at you and smiles back and you two kind of stay like that until robby coughs and the nurses are laughing and your day shift co-residents are nudging each other. and you turn back to them sheepishly, and jack scratches the back of his head and they go to the next patient. but before you leave for the night he makes sure to ask if you've eaten, and you tell him you're about to go do it. and he looks at you kind of serious, and keeps his hand on your upper arm and says make sure that you do.

and well, like always, you listen.

[ego13]

AFTER MIDNIGHT part. 1 – y.jm

PAIR ࿐ fem! reader x yu jimin. GENRE ࿐ pure angst/smut, detective, criminalistic. WARNINGS ࿐ murders, violence, semi-detailed description of corpses, references to child abuse/harassment, drug references, cheating, redflag!jimin, deception, complicated relationships, eventual smut, cunnilingus, kissing, impact play, misleading, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart , baby), open ending. SYNOPSIS ࿐ a series of suspicious murders have swept through a small town, raising it to its ears, which forces you to take up the case, not even suspecting that one of your "old" friends will return from the shadows. WORD COUNT 11,2k ࿐ PLAYLIST After Midnight ࿐

Jimin was holding her half of the headphones delicately, as if it were a secret she didn’t want the nobody to steal. The other half nestled in your ear, you leaned her head just slightly closer, lying it on her shoulder. The soft chords of "Sleepwalking" by Bring Me The Horizon drifted between you both, carried by the tiny MP3 player tucked in her hoodie pocket.

“We’ll always be together, right?” she asked, her voice quieter than the song, almost swallowed by the wind.

You turned to look at her. Her eyes were interested and serious, her dark hair tangled slightly from the breeze. There was something in her expression — an earnestness that made the moment feel like it was being carved into the wood beneath you.

“Always,” you said without hesitation, reaching out to pinky swear.

Jimin smiled then — bright, unguarded, and free. Your pinkies linked like the final note of a perfect song, sealed by laughter and that last chorus echoing in their ears.

"Why are you even asking me this? Is there something I don't know?" You asked with a ringing interest in your voice, clearly surprised by such a sudden interest in this kind of question.

"No... you know more about me than I do, even if I wanted to hide something from you, you would understand in the first moments," Jimin chuckled, clearly changing the subject, trying to avoid a direct answer to the question.

"You're right, so don't even think about hiding anything from me! I'll find out anyway," you giggled, turning your gaze into the distance, connecting the bright stars into small constellations in the clear sky with your gaze.

Noticing this, Yu smiled, she didn’t look at the stars, she didn’t need to, the brightest and most beautiful star in her life was now sitting in front of her, that's why her hand slowly crept up to yours, carefully intertwining your fingers together.

"Just... just suddenly, just suddenly, if something happens to me, will you promise to always remember me?"

The question made you look back at her, looking at her with eyes full of uncertainty. Why was she asking such strange things? The question was stuck in your head and you couldn't find the right words to answer, just nodding silently, taking a deep breath.

Seeing this, her hand tightened its grip on yours, smiling weakly as she brought it to her lips, leaving a few kisses on each of your knuckles as the last chords of the song slowly faded away.

The sound of wind faded. The song cut out.

Your eyes opened.

The room was dark except for the blinking light on her phone vibrating against the nightstand. Your head throbbed slightly — a dull reminder of falling asleep without eating. You blinked once before reaching the phone.

"Yunbin, Investigative Committee."

You answered, voice rough. “Yeah?”

“You’re awake! Thank god.” Yunbin’s tone was clipped. “Check your email. Right fucking now. It’s urgent.”

You sat up, rubbing the heel of her hand into her eye. “Can’t it wait until morning I have a fucking meeting with of Mr. Park tomorrow, if I don't get enough sleep I'll definitely spit in his face.

“No, this can't wait,” he said. “It’s him. We got new evidence. Check your inbox. The email with the archive is there. Password is the usual. Please don't delay. Let me know the second you open it.”

He hung up before you could say anything else.

You sighed, shoved the blanket aside, and dragged her laptop from under the bed. Fingers trembled slightly as you typed in her password — more from the chill than fear, or so you told yourself.

The email was already waiting. No subject. No text. Just an attachment named "SEASIDE_CASE_ARCHIVE.zip"

You clicked it. Entered the password. The archive opened.

There were four folders. Each named after a date. Each containing photos.

You clicked the first one.

The screen filled with images of a body — a young girl, no older than twenty, laid out in the sand. Her stomach was sliced open in a clean, straight line, the flesh parted but blood minimal, as if the cut had been made with professional precision. Her face was eerily calm. In her hands, arranged gently, was a small bouquet of white lilac.

You clicked through the other folders. The pattern repeated.

Four girls. All killed in the same way. All on the same spit of land by the sea — but each found in a slightly different spot. Their torsos opened. Their hands clutching lilac. There was no chaos in the scenes. No mess. Just death, arranged with cold care.

Your stomach turned.

The medical team had nicknamed the killer “The Reaper.” Well... you could see why.

There was nothing passionate or messy about the murders. Just clinical brutality. It didn’t look like rage. It looked like a statement. What was planned, damn, this bastard definitely has professional hands, you were willing to bet that the guys from the forensics team who have done more autopsies in their careers than you can imagine could do such a precise abdominal dissection.

You closed the last photo and sat still in the silence, the sound of the laptop’s fan the only thing filling the room.

Your phone buzzed again. A new message from Yunbin.

Yunbin:

Do any of the girls look familiar to you?

You:

No... I’ve never seen any of them before.

Yunbin:

Are you sure?

You:

One hundred percent. Why?

Yunbin:

All four girls were around your age. 15 to 18. No known family connections. Different backgrounds, no ties to each other on paper. But here’s where it gets strange.

You:

Go on.

Yunbin:

Three of them had registered visits to the same mental health clinic in Seoul. Same month. Same doctor. No details on the sessions — records sealed.

You:

What about the fourth?

Yunbin:

No clinic record... but get this — she was caught shoplifting from a pharmacy six months ago! Security footage shows her muttering to herself and holding a bouquet of lilac.

You:

White lilac? Same lilac?

Yunbin:

Exactly.

You:

So... he targets vulnerable girls?

Yunbin:

Looks that way. Victims showed signs of recent emotional stress — anxiety, insomnia, some hinted at suicidal ideation in personal journals or police interviews.

You:

How the hell does he pick them?

Yunbin:

That’s the question. There’s no digital link. No chatrooms, no shared devices, no obvious connection between them.

You:

And no one saw him?

Yunbin:

No witnesses. He moves fast. The bodies were all found within 24 hours of death. No defensive wounds either. It’s like they didn’t fight.

You:

Or couldn’t?

Yunbin:

Exactly! Autopsies show they were sedated before the incision. Carefully. Nothing messy.

You:

Listen... I need everything you have on that clinic.

Yunbin:

Already on it. I’ll send you the internal list of patients from the month they visited. Might be something there. Including staff rosters. Maybe someone slipped.

You:

Thanks. I’ll dig in.

Yunbin:

One more thing.

You:

Yeah?

Yunbin:

I was told that she, a woman, called the local clinic. She made a call to emergency services a week before the first victim.

You:

What did she say?

Yunbin:

The transcript’s short. She said: “He’s coming. He already took her. I saw it in her eyes.” Then hung up. The number is unavailable, geolocation cannot be calculated, apparently the phone is for one-time use.

You:

The owner of the phone could not be identified either?

Yunbin:

That’s what I'm trying to find out.

You:

Fine, going to sleep now, because I'm about to switch off. I'll meet you at the the office.

You set the phone face down on the desk and leaned back in the headboard. The screen still glowed faintly, casting a cold light across the room. Eyes burned from staring too long. The images from the archive were still there in the back of your mind.

The victims have no connection? This will need to be checked, because if this is really the case, how then do we even look for the maniac? How do we predict the next victim?

You closed the laptop. Stood up, your knees ached slightly from sitting too long. You pulled the curtains tighter and crawled back into bed without changing. The sheets were still warm. She lay flat on her back, eyes open in the dark.

Sleep came slowly, despite the mess that's going on in your head.

The alarm buzzed at 7:15. You slapped it off without even opening your eyes.

Body felt like it had been hit by a truck. You lay there for another minute, then rolled out of bed and dragged yourself to the bathroom.

You stared at herself in the mirror. Pale. Hair is a fucking mess. You looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days, and that... wasn’t far from the truth.

In the kitchen, you made yourself some black coffee and didn’t bother with breakfast. Just stood at the counter, sipping it in silence. Thoughts about what happened didn't leave your head. And that dream with Jimin, what was that all about?

You moved on autopilot — pulled on dark slacks, a white blouse, blazer, boots. Tied your hair back loosely. Slid the badge into the pocket, then her ID, then her USB drive.

Laptop in the bag. Phone charged. Everything is strictly according to the template by which you lived every fucking day.

You checked the lock on the door twice before leaving.

The hallway outside your apartment was quiet. Old floorboards creaked under your steps. You took the stairs instead of the elevator.

The city was waking up when she hit the street. Traffic already building. People on their phones, rushing to work, completely unaware that somewhere by the sea, four girls had died without a sound.

By the time you reached the corner, the noise and crowds were already too much. The city felt louder than usual. Head was still foggy. You made your way to the small underground garage behind the building and unlocked your jeep.

It was old, beat-up, but reliable. No tech distractions, just a manual engine and the low hum of the radio you never tuned.

You pulled out onto the main road, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping her coffee cup. And for a moment you thought about the dream again. The bridge. The music. Jimin’s face.

It hadn’t come out of nowhere.

She had been your best friend for years. From first grade to senior year, they were always together — school projects, sleepovers, summer breaks. You shared everything.

Then came the end of high school. Graduation. College applications. And suddenly, Jimin was just… gone.

No goodbye. No call. Not even a text.

Her number stopped working. Socials were wiped. Mutual friends knew nothing. A couple rumors floated around — that her family moved out of Seoul, maybe Busan or Incheon — but nothing solid.

Eventually, people stopped asking.

But the you hadn’t. You still remembered messaging Yu's old email once, months later, just to try. No response.

That bridge from the dream — it was real. It was the place they went when things were hard. When school got rough. When Jimin’s mom was drinking again. When they you both didn't wanted to go home.

And now, for some reason, her face was blurred. Vivid. Sharp. Like she’d never existed.

You shook your head and blinked at the red light. The GPS buzzed even though you wasn’t using it. Just out of habit.

You turned down the quieter side street that led toward the committee offices — a large gray building tucked between an old bank and a private security firm. You parked in the lot, engine off, and sat for a second with the keys in your hand.

Jimin had vanished.

No note. No warning.

Just like that.

You rubbed her eyes once more, then grabbed your bag and stepped out into the morning air.

The curtains did nothing to block out the morning light.

Jimin squinted, groaned, and rolled over — but instead of a pillow, her face pressed into a scratchy throw blanket that smelled like gin and the couch she’d passed out on again. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dry.

Footsteps padded softly across the marble floor.

"Jimin," a voice said gently, like someone trying not to start a fight before breakfast. "You need to get up."

She didn’t move at first. Just let out a grunt and buried her face deeper into the cushion.

"Jimin." The voice came again, firmer now. "Come on. I asked you not to drink last night."

She opened one eye and turned her head.

There she was — her wife, Chanyeol. Dressed like always in something understated but expensive, with a fresh blowout and no visible sign of age despite being ten years older. Perfect. Fucking rich.

Jimin sat up slowly, her spine aching from the awkward position she’d slept in. She tugged her shirt down, even though it was wrinkled and smelled like cigarettes.

"I didn’t plan on drinking," she muttered, voice hoarse.

Chanyeol walked over and handed her a glass of water. "No one ever does."

Yu drank it in one go. Her throat burned.

"You need to pull yourself together," her wife said, crouching in front of her, her tone still measured. "She’s on the way."

Jimin blinked. "Who?"

"My daughter," the woman said. "I told you yesterday. She’s coming for dinner."

Yu exhaled. "Right."

"She hasn’t seen you in weeks. Please, at least try to be presentable. Don’t make this awkward, for me especially."

Jimin pushed herself up and staggered slightly. Chanyeol caught her elbow, steadying her for a second before letting go.

"I’ll go to shower," Yu said. "Give me fifteen minutes."

She nodded, then turned to leave, heels clicking softly on the floor. At the doorway she paused.

"And Jimin," she added without looking back, "if you’re serious about that novel, maybe open the damn laptop today."

Then she was gone.

Yu stood in silence for a moment, staring at the empty glass in her hand. The penthouse around her looked like something out of a magazine — all glass, leather, and minimalism. Nothing in it felt like hers.

She made her way to the bathroom, turning on the water.

Jimin stood under the shower, arms against the tile, water beating down on the back of her neck. She didn’t move. Just let it run down her body in unsuccessful attempts to sober up.

The heat should’ve helped — burned away the hangover, the taste of stale alcohol, the fog in her head — but it didn’t. It never did. Her thoughts kept circling the same drain they always did.

The book.

She had the idea three years ago. A crime novel about a detective chasing a killer who left flowers in the hands of his victims. She wrote the first chapter in a single night, drunk off cheap wine and inspiration. It wasn’t perfect, but it had something.

Then came the offers. A stipend. A sponsor. A publisher who’d "keep an eye" on her progress.

And then came her.

Her wife.

They met at a fundraiser she wasn’t supposed to be at, dressed in someone else’s suit, pretending to belong. But the woman had noticed her — really noticed her — and something about being seen by someone with power and money had hooked Jimin.

It didn’t take long. The penthouse came next. The promises. Then the wedding.

And then the slow drift.

Now the book sat untouched on her desktop — a document opened more times than she could count, each time filled with more a fucking guilt than words.

And every time she thought about writing again, she heard his voice.

Chanyeol’s father. The chairman. The old bastard who’d never said her name once but never stopped talking about her.

"She’s a loser with a shitty book and a dream with a hole in her pocket."

"She’s using you to play artist."

"She wants the money, not the marriage."

Every time he visited, he’d shake his head like she was a stray dog the family hadn’t managed to kick out yet. And the worst part?

He wasn’t completely wrong.

Jimin had needed the money. She’d needed a place to stay. She’d needed someone to say "just write and don’t worry about rent."

She never lied about that. But somewhere along the way, she forgot how to write at all.

The water started to run cold. She didn’t flinch.

Her palms were wrinkled. Her eyes burned. The hum of the ventilation fan filled the silence.

If she didn’t pull herself together, the old man would be right — again.

And worse, the girl showing up for dinner would see it too.

Yu shut off the water and stood in the silence for a few seconds longer.

Then she reached for the towel.

She rubbed the towel over her head, slow and distracted. The bathroom mirror was fogged up, but she didn’t bother wiping it down. She was still standing there, bare feet on cold tile, when her phone started buzzing from the counter.

"HANA - TV EDITORIAL OFFICE"

She stared at the name for a second, then picked it up and answered with a low, dry, "Yeah?"

"You sound like shit," Hana said without missing a beat.

"I feel worse."

"Still drinking yourself sideways?"

"Got a better hobby in mind?"

There was a pause on the line. Yu leaned on the sink and waited, eyes on the fogged-up glass.

"I’ve got something," Hana finally said. Her tone dropped into that serious register she used when she actually had news. "Real shit. Not clickbait."

"Go on."

"You know Mokpo?"

Jimin blinked. "Yeah. Port city. South coast."

"Right. So... a guy I know down there — small-time fixer, drinks with cops — he just told me there’s movement on a hush-hush case. Local police are losing their minds trying to keep it under wraps. No official statements, but he swears there’s a serial involved. Four dead girls, all in different parts of the city."

Yu straightened a little. "Confirmed?"

"Unofficially, yeah. But the details…" Hana hesitated, then said, "They’re all staged. Same exact pattern. Surgical stuff. Like out of a damn screenplay."

Jimin didn’t speak for a moment.

"You’re not calling just to tell me bedtime stories."

"Nope." Hana sounded like she was grinning now. "I’m saying this is your shot. Material. Real, dark stuff. You wanna finish your silly book? Go look death in the face again. You used to be good at that. Before all this…"

She trailed off, but Jimin caught the tone.

"Before I sold out," she finished flatly.

"I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to."

Another pause. Then Hana softened. "Look. We both need a piece of cake. I need a segment for the docuseries we’re pitching. You need to write something that’s not an apology email to your agent. Let’s both stop drowning in this shit."

Jimin closed her eyes.

She could already feel the pull of it — the adrenaline, the story, the clarity she hadn’t had in years. She wasn’t dumb, she knew why murder called to her more than love ever did. There was no room for lies in a post-mortem.

"Where do I start?" she asked quietly.

"I’ll text you the fixer’s number. Name’s Minseok. He owes me. If you head down there, he’ll grease the doors."

Yu nodded slowly, towel hanging in one hand.

"And Jimin," Hana added, voice low now, "don’t fuck this up."

Call ended.

Jimin stood for a second, still dripping slightly, staring at her reflection through the steam. The fog was starting to clear.

She stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair still damp and clinging to her neck. She moved quietly down the hall, the scent of coffee already drifting toward her.

Her wife was in the kitchen, setting the table with calm precision — warm bread rolls in a basket, little glass dishes with fruit and yogurt.

Yu cleared her throat.

"You clean up fast," she said without looking up.

"Didn’t have time to fall apart today."

The woman gave a soft snort — not quite amusement, not quite approval.

Jimin padded across the marble floor, pulling the towel tighter as she sat down. She’d usually throw on sweatpants or something loose, but there was no time, not with the idea burning in the back of her head.

"I need a favor," she said, cutting right into it.

Her wife finally looked at her. "What kind?"

"Money."

A pause.

"How much?"

"Enough to get to Mokpo. Couple nights in a motel. Bus ticket. Some gear. Call it two million won, give or take."

Her wife blinked. "Mokpo?"

"Yeah. I wanna clear my head. Change the scenery. That’s all."

Yu avoided her eyes and reached for the coffee, pouring herself a cup like it would distract from the lie.

"Thought you didn’t have any friends there."

"I don’t," Jimin said quickly. "That’s the point. No people, no distractions."

Before she could reply, heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs.

And then came him.

Mr. Nam.

Old money in a linen shirt, still somehow sharp at nearly seventy, with perfect posture and a permanent sneer. He didn’t even glance at Jimin as he walked in, just went straight for the fridge and poured himself a glass of water.

"Morning, Dad," her wife said politely.

"Hm," he grunted. He turned, saw Jimin, and finally acknowledged her with a dry look.

"Still drunk?" he asked.

"Morning to you too," she muttered.

He sat at the head of the table and took a sip of water, eyes flicking between the two women. "What are we talking about now? More ‘creative escapes’?"

Jimin exhaled, annoyed. "I said I wanted to go to Mokpo. That’s it."

"For what?" He asked, leaning forward. “A yoga retreat? One of those ocean-view writing camps?"

"She wants to clear her head," Chanyeol said carefully.

The old man chuckled. "Of course she does."

He turned his full attention to Jimin now, his smile thin.

"You know, I spent forty years building a company that pays people with actual skills. You’ve spent what — three years trying to write a book you won’t finish and draining my daughter’s account in the meantime?"

"Dad—" she started.

"No, it’s fine," Jimin said coldly, setting her cup down. "He’s not wrong."

She looked him in the eye, dead calm. "But I’m still going."

The man snorted again. "You’re gonna run to the coast, drink in some moldy motel room, and call it ‘research’? You’re not an artist. You’re a freeloader in designer socks."

Jimin didn’t flinch. She’d heard worse.

But her jaw tightened. "I’ll finish it. One way or another."

"Oh?" The man smirked. "Then stop begging for handouts. Go work."

Her wife stood suddenly, hands on the table. "That’s enough."

The old man shrugged, grabbed his coffee, and walked off like he hadn’t just spit on her entire life.

Jimin sat in silence. Her throat was tight, but she didn’t let it show.

After a few moments, her wife sat back down, quieter now.

"You really going to write this time?" she asked softly.

She looked up, her voice low.

"I’m not asking again."

She was quiet the whole time she packed. A cheap duffel bag, some old notebooks, charger, camera she barely used anymore, hoodie, jeans.

Chanyeol leaned on the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed.

"You're really going alone?" she asked, her voice low.

"Yeah."

"You’re not meeting anyone down there?"

She zipped the bag slowly. "No."

There was a pause. Then she asked, more gently, "Do you want me to book the hotel for you?"

Jimin shook her head. "I'll figure it out."

"I just— You don't really do well on your own, baby."

That stung more than she let on. She slung the bag over her shoulder and turned to face her.

"I need to try."

Chanyeol looked like she wanted to say something else — maybe ask her to stay, maybe tell her she was full of shit. But instead, she nodded once and stepped aside.

"Call me when you get there."

"Okay."

Downstairs, the old man was sitting on the patio with his paper and tea, pretending not to notice her walking out the door. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a goodbye. Didn't deserve it.

The cab ride to Seoul Station was short, quiet. She stared out the window the whole time, sunglasses on even though the sky was gray. Her phone buzzed in her pocket — a message from Hana.

Hana:

Minseok’s expecting you. Meet him by the docks after 7pm. You still going?

Jimin:

Yeah.

She tucked the phone away and leaned back. Her head still ached from last night’s wine.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and cold. You stood near your desk, arms crossed, sipping coffee that had long gone lukewarm. Office was silent that was broken only by the soft sounds of Yunbin peeling off bits of tape and slapping photographs against the glass wall.

One by one, the victims appeared — grainy photos, close-ups of lifeless eyes, slashed skin, and lilacs.

"You sure you want these out in the open?" Yunbin asked without turning, "it's not the most pleasant sight, you know."

"Leave them," you said. "I want to see them when I walk in every morning, besides, i've seen worse."

He paused, glanced at her over his shoulder. "You're not sleeping, are you?"

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the newest photo he’d placed — a girl no older than seventeen, her body half-buried in wet sand, arms crossed neatly over her chest, fingers curled around the wilted lilac.

"Medical report says the cuts were done post-mortem," Yunbin said. "Stomach opened with something precise. Scalpel, most likely, but it's not certain, Yunho from the medical sector is still conducting an examination, the results will be out within a day."

You set your coffee down. "No defensive wounds?"

"None."

"So they were drugged?"

"Or just caught off guard. No signs of sexual assault. No robbery. No struggle."

You nodded, slowly processing.

"Victims don’t know each other. No online connections, no overlapping phone activity, no shared friends."

"Then how the hell is he choosing them?" you asked.

Yunbin shrugged. "Only common point is location. All dumped on that same stretch of coast, but spaced out by kilometers. Spit’s nearly eight kilometers long."

You walked over to the wall, looked at the photos again. "He wants them found."

"Obviously. Poses them like a fucking piece of art."

You tapped her nail against the glass. "And the lilacs?"

"White lilac means youthful innocence. In the old books, anyway."

"Jesus Christ," you muttered. "Fucking poet."

They stood in silence for a beat. Then he said, "You really don’t recognize any of them?"

You shook her head. "No. They’re all strangers."

He peeled the last photo from the file and smoothed it against the glass. The youngest. Maybe fifteen.

"Then maybe that’s the point," he said quietly. "They’re strangers to everyone. Nobody who’ll raise a fuss too soon. Easy to lose."

You stared at the girl’s face. Pale, half-lit by the camera flash.

"I want every missing persons report filed in that region for the past six months," you said. "Even ones that weren’t taken seriously."

"On it."

"And Yunbin," you turned toward him.

He paused at the door.

"Keep this in-house. No leaks. No press, I don't want some bastards from TV getting under our feet."

He gave you a small nod.

"Got it."

The door closed behind him, and you remained standing there, leaning against the edge of the table, examining each victim with a long-honed master's gaze.

The victims were not related.

But is it true?

Something made you reach for the file on one of the victims, opening the first page as if trying to find a catch in what was written.

"The victim's marital status... The father is an alcoholic, received a two-year sentence for robbery and fighting..."

It seemed that you had found absolutely nothing important in these lines, so you took the file of the last victim, but this time, opening it, your gaze instantly found the right line.

"The victim's marital status... Mother is an alcoholic, bad relationship with father after which he left the family, strained relationship with stepfather."

Fathers.

Perhaps there is a clue here.

And it was at that moment that you felt something click in your head. Reviewing the entire dossier for what seemed like the hundredth time, you began to understand something you had missed earlier.

All the victims had terrible relationships with their fathers.

How could you possibly miss this?

But that didn't matter now.

Taking a pen from the table, opening the cap with your teeth, you quickly wrote down the address of the last victim on a small piece of paper.

Yeosu, a city three hours' drive from Mokpo.

The hand grabbed the car keys lying nearby, as if a bullet flew out of the office. It seemed that you finally began to catch this invisible thread, and you had no right to lose it.

The rented Hyundai coughed as it climbed the hill toward the Investigative Committee building — a dull gray block of concrete with tinted glass and a security booth out front.

Jimin had one arm resting on the window frame, the wind tugging at her hair. She spotted Yunbin the second he stepped out — button-down shirt half untucked, lanyard around his neck, phone in hand.

She smirked and quickly pulled over near the curb.

"Yunbin!" she called out, snapping her fingers like she’d just remembered something. "Hey!"

He stopped, squinted toward the car, then took a step closer. His expression shifted from confusion to vague recognition.

"Jimin?" he asked.

"In the flesh. Hana’s friend. Fucking writer, remember?"

Yunbin looked at his watch, then at the sidewalk. "Right. She mentioned you might be in town with Minseok."

She leaned on the steering wheel. "Funny thing, I was just headed to the same coffee shop you’re probably walking to. Want a ride? I swear the air conditioning works better in here than it looks."

He gave the car a long, skeptical look, then shrugged. "Sure, I guess, I’ve walked enough today."

Yu grinned and unlocked the passenger door. "Hop in. First coffee’s on me."

As he climbed in, buckling up with one hand and glancing around the dashboard like he was checking for bugs, Jimin mentally took stock, easygoing, maybe a little overworked, but not the suspicious type. Getting him on her side would be no problem.

"Appreciate it," he said, settling in. "Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew around here."

"I didn’t expect to end up here, either," she replied. "Small world, right?"

He chuckled lightly. "Or maybe Hana set us up."

"Wouldn’t put it past her."

They drove in silence for a few blocks. Jimin kept it casual, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, but her mind was already ten moves ahead — rehearsing how she’d ask about the case without sounding too obvious, wondering how close she could get to the real story without scaring him off.

"So," she said casually, "how bad is it in there? Everyone's walking around like there’s a bomb under their desks."

Yunbin didn’t look at her, just stared out the window. "Worse than that."

Bingo. Fucking bingo.

It seems that everything will be much easier than she thought.

The coffee shop was only a few blocks away, a corner place with dusty windows and a faded sign that read "24/7 Coffee." Jimin parked a little crooked, tossed the keys onto the dashboard, and followed Yunbin inside.

They grabbed a small table near the window. he ordered black coffee. Jimin asked for an iced americano, even though she hated the aftertaste.

"So," she said, stirring the straw like she cared, "what’s really going on out here? Hana made it sound like some true crime goldmine."

Yunbin leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. "Yeah. You could say that."

Yu kept her expression neutral, sipping through the straw. She didn’t want to push too hard. Let him talk.

"There’s been four bodies so far," he said. "All dumped on the same stretch of coast. Different spots, but the same pattern."

She nodded slowly. "The girls, right? I read something vague on some forum. Thought it was a hoax."

"It’s real," Yunbin said, his voice a little lower now. "Stomach cut open, organs left intact. No signs of struggle. Holding white lilac in their hands. No fingerprints. No suspects."

"And you?"

"I'm just the assistant, you know," he shrugged. "The real one doing the legwork is the lead investigator. She’s been glued to the case since the first body was found, I've been her assistant for two years now, I assure you, she's a pro at what she does."

Jimin raised an eyebrow. "She?"

"Yeah. Young investigator, moved down here six months ago from Seoul. Total hard-ass. Doesn’t sleep, doesn’t smile. Her name is—"

He didn’t finish. Yu's hand slipped on the condensation of her plastic cup and knocked it sideways, spilling coffee across the table.

"Shit," she muttered, fumbling for napkins.

He sat back, startled. "Hey, you good?"

She waved it off. "Yeah. Just... the cup slipped. What were you saying?"

"Her name. You probably don’t know her. She’s not exactly the social type."

"Try me."

He gave her a look. "Y/N."

Jimin froze mid-wipe. Her stomach twisted in a way she hadn’t felt in years. She forced a short laugh.

"No shit."

Yunbin nodded, sipping his drink. "You know her?"

She leaned back, staring past him, eyes unfocused. "We went to school together. Long time ago. Haven’t seen her in..." She trailed off.

"Small world, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, swallowing hard. "Fucking small."

She tried to act normal, pretending to clean the mess she’d made, but her mind was running circles. She looked up at Yunbin, forcing a smile.

"So... this girl, right," she said, her voice carefully casual, "what’s her deal? You said she moved here from Seoul?"

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah. She got transferred a while ago. Some people say it was a demotion, others say she asked for it. She doesn’t talk about it."

She squinted. "How old is she?"

"Twenty five, but you know, she's the kind that looks like she hasn’t aged in ten years, but her eyes look like she’s lived three lives, after two years with her I can definitely say that she has seen a lot of shit, you know."

Jimin smirked. That sounded exactly like the you she used to know. But still... part of her didn’t want to believe it. It was too coincidental, too suspicious.

"She's like... well, she has a little scar under her eye, kind of quiet but sharp as hell, yeah?"

"That’s her," Yunbin said without hesitation. "She’s the real deal. Cold, maybe, but when she’s working a case. I swear she doesn’t even blink when looking at crime scene photos. Although, during all this time, I still haven’t gotten used to looking at fucking bodies that was teared apart, this shit still comes to me in terrible nightmares every day."

Yu didn’t respond right away. Her eyes drifted toward the window. The sound of cars passing by blurred into the background.

All at once, she was somewhere else.

Spring, maybe third grade. You sat cross-legged on the grass, a small smile tugging at her lips as she twisted little white flowers into a braid, slowly threading them through her hair. Jimin sat still, letting her do it, not because she cared how it looked but because it was your hands. Gentle, focused. Careful not to pull too hard.

"You look like one of those fairies in books," you had whispered, not even looking at her, too busy with the next flower.

Jimin had laughed. "Fairies don’t wear school uniforms!"

That memory hit harder than expected. She blinked and came back to the present.

She cleared her throat. "We were friends. A long time ago."

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t think she had any."

"She used to."

Yu took a long sip of her watered-down coffee and sat in silence for a moment.

"Yunbin," she said finally, "think you could introduce me to her?"

He looked at her for a second, then gave a slow, suspicious smile.

"Depends. You here for research… or something else?"

"Does it matter?"

He chuckled. "It might."

Yunbin was still smirking, but there was a note of caution behind it now.

"Look," he said, "I’ll be straightforward with you. She isn’t exactly the welcoming type. Especially not lately. She doesn’t like outsiders sniffing around, and if she gets even a hint that you’re here for your own reasons..."

Jimin crossed her arms. "I’m not trying to mess up her case! I just want to—"

"Finish your book. Get some dirt for your show. Yeah, I get it ever since you first appeared here," Yunbin cut in. "But let’s not pretend this is a clean visit. You’re not a cop. You’re not a journalist with credentials. You’re someone with a fucking unfinished book, and she’s not the same girl you remember."

Yu looked away, her jaw tense. "Then don’t introduce me to her. Just... give me a way to observe. From the edges, you know? I won't be tossing and turning right in the middle of things."

Yunbin paused, thinking. He scratched the back of his neck.

"I can introduce you to the guys from our team. It’ll give you some access—secondhand, but still better than nothing."

"It's better than nothing," she said quietly.

"But we should go now," he added. "She's out of town for the day. Went to talk to the family of the last victim."

Jimin blinked. "That last victim?"

"Yeah. A girl was found three days ago. Same setup. Same flowers. Her mother finally agreed to talk this morning. And she left at dawn."

She nodded slowly. "Then let’s go."

Yunbin stood up and tossed his cup in the trash bin, wiping his mouth with his hand. "Don't ask dumb questions, you will arouse suspicion ahead of time."

Yu raised her eyebrows. "I wasn’t planning to."

"Right."

The living room smelled faintly of old wood. A beige lace curtain swayed in the open window. You stood silently beside the upright piano, your elbow resting lightly on the yellowed wood, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The woman sat hunched on the worn couch, hands wringing a damp tissue until it tore in her fingers. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen.

"I still... I still can't believe it," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

You gave a brief nod. You didn’t write anything down yet. You just watched.

The silence lingered long enough to feel heavy before you finally spoke, your tone calm and.

"Mrs. Kang, I understand this is hard. But I need to ask some questions. About Minji."

The woman flinched at the name but nodded. "Okay."

"When did you start noticing a change in her behavior?"

"About six months ago. Maybe a little more. At first, it was small things — coming home late, locking herself in her room. But then..." She swallowed hard, voice cracking. "Then she stopped caring. She used to be such a good student. I never had to ask twice! And then her grades just... dropped. She started skipping school."

"Did she ever say why?"

"No," she whispered. "She never told me anything anymore. I asked, I begged. She’d just say I wouldn’t understand. She started wearing makeup I’d never seen before. Different clothes. And she’d come home smelling like soju."

You nodded, still not writing anything down.

"How was her relationship with her stepfather?"

The mother hesitated.

"Not good," she admitted finally. "They argued all the time. He’d try to talk to her like a father, but she’d shut him down immediately. Yell at him for stupid things. Like asking about her day."

"Did he ever hit her?"

The woman looked up, sharply. "No! Never! He’s not like that. He just… gave up after a while. Said she needed time. But I think she hated him. Just for being here."

You finally took out her notebook, flipping it open to a clean page.

"Did she mention any new friends? People you didn’t recognize?"

The woman shook her head slowly. "She stopped talking about her friends, too. I’d hear her whispering on the phone late at night, but when I asked, she’d say it was no one. I thought maybe it was just some boy. A phase."

"Did you ever hear any names? Maybe she was planning meetings with someone and mentioned it in passing?"

"No," she said, voice barely audible. "She changed her phone password. I couldn’t see anything. And now…"

She broke off again, her shoulders shaking. You looked at her, but didn’t move to offer comfort. You gave her space to cry without pity.

After a long pause, you asked quietly, "When was the last time you saw her?"

"Two nights before police found her," the woman said, eyes far away. "She was drunk again. Slammed the door on the way in. Yelled at me for cooking the wrong food. Then she locked herself in her room. I didn't even hear her leave that night."

There was a long silence again. You closed your notebook and stepped away from the piano.

"If you allow me, may I go into the girl's room?"

The woman didn't even raise her gaze, only silently nodding towards the elderly granny sitting next to her on the chair. Seeing this gesture, she stood up, took her cane and slowly walked towards you.

You followed the grandmother up the creaky staircase, the old wood groaning beneath her steps. The house was... dead quiet.

You reached the second floor, where a narrow hallway stretched in front of you. The grandmother turned toward the first door on the left and opened it slowly, letting you to enter the room.

"This is Minji's room," she said, her voice hoarse and filled with grief. "You can look, but... it's not much."

You stepped inside. The room was small but neat. A bed covered in faded pink sheets, a desk cluttered with half-finished homework, and a few stuffed animals scattered on the floor.

"She was always a good girl," the grandmother continued, standing in the doorway with her hands folded in front of her. "She never gave me any trouble, not like her father. But..." She paused, as if the words were too hard to say. "She was lonely. She used to cry, you know. Especially when she tried to reach her father."

You turned to face the grandmother, your expression neutral but her eyes sharp. "She tried to contact him?"

She nodded, her eyes watering. "Many times. She'd call him, leave messages. But he was always too busy, too angry to help. Always told her to stop bothering him."

"Did she say anything specific about that? About him?"

The old woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. "She... she just wanted him to come and pick her up once. She told me she was going to ask him to take her to Seoul. Said she couldn’t stand it here anymore." She swallowed hard. "That was the day before... the day she... well, you know."

You frowned, trying to piece it together. "So she asked him for help?"

"Yes," the grandmother said softly. "She sounded so desperate, like she was running out of time. But he just yelled at her. Told her she was being dramatic and to stop calling him." Her voice cracked. "She cried after that, poor thing. But she still called him. She called him the night before she..."

She couldn't finish the sentence. Her face crumpled as the grief overwhelmed her, and You felt a familiar weight in your chest. You couldn’t afford to feel sorry. You needed answers, not sympathy.

"I’m... I'm so sorry," you said quietly, though the words felt hollow. "Thank you for telling me."

The old woman gave a weak nod and stepped back. "I just wish he’d listened. Maybe if he had, maybe..."

"Maybe," you muttered, stepping back from the door. She gave the grandmother a final glance before leaving the room. She had all the pieces she needed. Now she just had to put them together.

Before leaving the room, you moved quietly toward the bed, your eyes scanning the surroundings one last time. Your gaze fell on the small diary that had been tucked under the pillow.

You reached down, careful not to make a sound, and slipped the diary under your jacket. It was a gut feeling, the kind that only years of experience could teach you. Of course you didn’t know what was inside yet, but it would be important.

You turned to the shelves filled with toys and felt your stomach tighten. One of the little bears, a soft, dusty pink, had its stomach torn open. The sight was... surprisingly terrifying, the plush fabric exposed, the soft cotton stuffing spilling out from the rough slit.

You stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as you crouched down to get a better look.

Your fingers brushed the torn edge of the bear’s stomach, your intuition didn't let you down, and your fingers felt something – something hard and unnatural. You carefully poked around inside, fingertips grazing a small ziplock bag that was tucked into the bear’s interior.

You didn’t know what was inside, but it was unmistakably suspicious. Drugs? Maybe. You didn’t want to jump to conclusions just yet, but the texture of the bag felt all too familiar. Poor girl, something was clearly wrong here, an ordinary child can't just go crazy one day. There's something there. Violence? Harassment? Possibly, given the strained relationship with her stepfather.

You pulled her fingers away slowly and stood up, you carefully placed that ziplock into your pocked. You wasn’t sure what this meant, but you knew it wasn’t a coincidence. This needed to get this tested — needed confirmation before you made any moves. It could tie into the case. Or it could be something else entirely. Either way, you was going to find out.

Finally you looked at the grandmother, who was sitting in the chair by the window, your hands still wringing the same tissue. You took a deep breath and walked over to her.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around the old woman, holding her tightly. The moment was silent, but the weight of it was heavy. You could feel the pain radiating off her like a thick fog.

Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but in this moment, you allowed herself to just hold the woman who had lost so much.

"I swear, I’ll find the bastard who did this," you said quietly, voice low but firm. "I won’t let him get away with it."

The grandmother nodded against your chest, her body shaking with quiet sobs. "Please," she whispered. "Make him answer for his actions..."

You didn’t speak again. Simply pulled away, your eyes catched the fragile hope in the old woman’s face. You had to get to work.

As you walked back to her jeep, you lit a cigarette, the familiar burn settling in your lungs. You leaned against the vehicle, took a long drag and let out a slow breath, staring at the road.

You pulled into the parking lot of the Investigative Committee’s office, the weight of the day heavy on your shoulders.

You couldn’t let yourself dwell on it though—not yet. There was work to be done.

As you entered the office, you was greeted by the sounds of laughter. Your team, including Yunbin, was gathered around the small conference table. They were clearly enjoying something — Jimin’s jokes, no doubt.

You paused for a moment, standing at the door and taking in the sight. Yu was seated comfortably, laughing along with them, her presence like a familiar part of the group, even though you had never given her that permission.

You hand gripped the doorframe for a second as the irritation boiled under you skin, but you quickly masked it. There was no point in showing your frustration. You wasn’t about to let anyone see how much Jimin’s presence bothered you.

You stepped into the room, eyes cool as they swept over the group. Yunbin’s face lit up as he turned to you. "Ah, Chief! You’re back. We were just—"

"Keep the jokes for later," you interrupted, your voice flat, dismissing the tension in the room with the sharpness of her words. "There should be no strangers here."

Yu straightened in her seat, a flicker of something crossing her face. Maybe surprise, maybe just the usual deflection. Either way, it didn’t matter. You wasn’t going to acknowledge you in front of the team. Not yet. Not like this.

"Got it," Yunbin said, still grinning but sensing the shift in the room. He quickly moved to gather some papers, trying to ease the awkwardness.

You took her usual seat at the head of the table, pulling out the diary she’d taken from Minji's room. She laid it on the table, staring at it for a moment before opening it carefully. The words seemed innocent at first, but soon turned into pain, which the girl poured out onto paper, in the hope that it would not hurt so much inside.

You could feel Jimin’s eyes on you. But you didn’t look up. You wouldn’t let herself be distracted. Not yet.

She stayed seated for a moment after you sat down, unsure if she should say something. The mood in the room had shifted completely. The others went quiet, shuffling papers, pretending to look busy. She hated the tension, but even more, she hated that you hadn’t looked her in the eye once.

She finally stood up, slowly walking over toward the desk.

"Hey," Jimin started, her voice low, careful, like she was approaching a wild animal. "Can we talk for a second?"

You didn’t lift her eyes from the diary.

"It’s been a long time, I know," she continued, hesitating. "But I think I can help. With the case. I have media connections, people who’ll talk to me, not the cops. I know how to handle this stuff."

The room fell completely silent. Yunbin looked up from his seat, lips pressed into a line.

You flipped a page in the diary with deliberate calm. Then, you closed the textbook, sat back in her chair, and looked at Yu like she was something you'd scraped off her shoe.

"You show up out of nowhere, ten fucking years later, like nothing happened," you said flatly. "You want to play detective now?"

"Listen, dear—" Jimin’s voice cracked slightly.

"Don’t fucking call me that," you snapped, standing up. "You don’t belong here. This isn’t a goddamn joke. These girls are dead. You’re not going to use this case to write your little novel or impress your TV buddies."

"I’m not trying to—"

"Get the fuck out of my office, Jimin."

The words hit like a hammer, and she blinked, caught off guard by the raw anger in her tone. It wasn’t just professional — there was pain behind it. Real, personal pain.

Yunbin stood up too, putting a hand on your shoulder.

"Chief," he said softly. "I know how this looks, but Jimin’s not a bad person. She might actually be able to help. We can control what she sees. Just give her a chance."

You didn’t look at him. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes stayed locked on her, who now stood frozen in front of the desk, her hands curled into fists.

"One chance," you said, voice cold. "You step out of line, even once, I’ll have security drag you out the fuck out of here."

Jimin nodded, swallowing whatever pride she had left.

"I won’t get in your way."

"You already did," you muttered, sitting back down.

The Jeep moved steadily, tires humming quietly beneath them. You drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting rigidly in your lap. Jimin sat in the passenger seat, her hands clasped together, thumbs fidgeting.

You hadn’t spoken in almost ten minutes.

"Thanks for letting me come," she said, finally breaking the silence.

No reply.

She glanced sideways. Your eyes were fixed on the road, jaw tight.

"I mean it. You didn’t have to. I know that."

"You’re right. I didn’t," you said flatly.

She exhaled a short breath, more like a sigh. "You’ve changed... a lot."

You scoffed. "You haven’t."

"No, I have," Jimin said. "Maybe not in all the right ways. But I’m not the same girl who ran off after graduation."

"You didn’t run off, Jimin. You disappeared."

The word hit hard. she bit the inside of her cheek, watching the waves crash far beyond the roadside barrier.

"My parents dragged me to Seoul without warning. It wasn’t planned, it just... happened. And I should have called. Wrote. Anything. I know."

Your hands tightened on the wheel. "And ten years passed."

You thought about what was said, it was all a complete mess, does she seriously think that she can show up after so much time as if nothing happened?

You fell silent, talking to Jimin about personal things is the last thing you need, because what if you get carried away again, fall head over heels in love again, no. There is a patrol of the spit by the sea ahead, and getting close to her is the last thing you need.

[bweeeb]

BOAT PROBLEMS

DBF Joel Miller X Reader

HAWAII SOLUTIONS PART TWO

Summary: After the night before, all you could remember was his hands on you, but apparently Joel was trying really hard not to notice you there, more than you would like.

warnings: hard dick, cock sucking, admit dirty things ,blow job with the door open, maybe some shitty writing. enjoy

Notes: I really don't feel this part two but I did what I could, I hope I didn't disappoint anyone.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

The feeling still burned on my skin

The fleeting memory of his fingers gripping my thighs, my ass, my breasts, everywhere. It still made me want to moan and crave more.

Joel Miller was like a drug—one of those dangerously good men who get you hooked and leave you wrecked when they're not around.I stretched on the bed, breathing in his scent that still lingered on my pillow.

Maybe I had underestimated him, but the man fucked me four times in just a few hours.

Believe me—Joel Miller’s cock takes you to another plane of existence.

"Sweetheart, we're heading down for breakfast."

Two knocks on the door separating my room from Addison and my dad’s. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see either of them right now… or if it was just that growing ache inside me that needed release.

Just when you think things couldn’t get any weirder, it hits you—how weird it feels for everything to seem so... normal.

There he was. Sitting next to my dad, casual as hell, looking at me too casually—if a sideways glance even counts as looking. But what I did notice was him staring at that damn spa lady Addison introduced us to before we headed out to the yacht for the day.What the fuck is this?

“Hey. Sweetheart, why don’t you go ahead with the girls? I need to talk man-to-man with Joel.”

My dad said it, and even as I walked with the two women, my ears were sharp, listening behind me.

“I heard something while we were waiting at the deck yesterday… you and… you know.”

“You know what?”

Dad must’ve gestured or something, because Joel chuckled like the idea was absurd.

“Oh hell no, man. What the fuck?”

“I know, it’s just—she’s my daughter. And you two were… together.”

“She went up to her room. Some local girl showed up, we were talking, and I figured—hey, you only live once, right?”

“Well. Glad you’re having fun, man.”

I don’t know if that’s what I wanted to hear. Joel obviously wasn’t going to admit anything, but still—it wasn’t what I expected. Oh, what was I expecting? Don't even ask. Especially since, as we walked toward the boat, my dad was ahead with Addison, and the bastard stayed back with Miss Sunshine, whose name I didn’t even bother to remember.

If he didn’t care, then I sure as hell cared even less. And yes, I would keep saying that teenage bullshit to myself until I drove him out of my head.

Oh my God. What am I? Fifteen years old, for God's sake.

Hours later, I was sitting at the front edge of the yacht when someone took a seat beside me. Out the corner of my eye, I saw a guy—my age, dark hair, styled like he had money, an open blue shirt, beer in hand, and a smile that could melt panties.

“You’re way too beautiful to be sitting alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

He glanced around. I smiled, turning my back to the sea and facing him.

“Well, I don’t see anyone.”

“Maybe you should be that someone then.”

“Perfect.”

He smiled, hand landing on my waist.

“Where are you from?”

“Texas.”

“You don’t sound Texan.”

“I usually show my Texan side when I’m riding.”

I smirked, and he bit his lip.

“You gonna show me how you ride?”

“Maybe. Where are you from?”

“California.”

“Californians are the best to ride.”

Lies. Joel Miller was the best.

“Ridden many?”

“Californians? Nah.”

“Come on.”

He grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the yacht cabins. But our giggles were cut short by a cough.

“Hey kid, they’re calling for you up top.”

Joel.

“Now.”

His tone was firm. The guy vanished, leaving me irritated, turned on, and did I mention irritated? Yeah. Still fucking irritated.

“Were you gonna fuck him?”

Who cares? I’m in fucking Hawaii.

“Oh my God, you were.”

Joel looked me up and down, shocked.

“Come on, Joel. . You ruin my thing, act like you didn’t do anything, flirt with that hoker the entire day and still think you have the right to say something?”

“You were about to fuck a guy whose name you don’t even know—and she’s the hoker?”

He did not just say that. Okay, it seemed like that, but man, he knew me well enough to know I wouldn't do that.

“So now I’m the hoker?”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head.

“Maybe I wasn’t even gonna fuck him. Maybe I’d just suck his dick. I don’t know. At least he’d get hard faster than you and I’d never have to see him again unlike you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He pointed at me.

“I do. You’re the one pretending you didn’t come inside me four times last night and now acting like you’re gonna do the same with that woman.

”I pointed at him, and silence grew thick between us.

“I wasn’t doing that. I’m hiding.”

“Hiding? "

" Pretending "

" You’re pretending that you’re not into me by getting with her? That’s why your dick’s bulging in those shorts? Because you’re hiding your hard-on for her?”

He stepped in, closed the gap, and pushed me into a cabin, growling into my ear while grinding his hard cock against my stomach.

“Hiding that my cock’s fucking hard as hell for you. Because you keep walking around with those damn tits out, that sweet ass covered in nothing but that see-through shit, and all I can think about is your tits bouncing in my face. You are the fucking problem.”

“Not my fault you can’t control yourself and act like you don’t even know me.”

“Then suck my fucking dick right now so I can stop pretending my hard-on’s for her.”

He ordered, and I was on my knees almost immediately. The cabin door was slightly open, and all I could hope was that no one came by and ruined this.

I pulled his shorts down, his cock slapping up against his stomach, making me let out a nasal laugh.

“Shit, you’re really fucking hard.”

One hand on my neck, the other wrapped around his length. I licked him slowly, dragging my tongue around the tip and spitting warm and slow over the swollen head.

“Quick, baby.”

He groaned, pressing my head down, and I braced myself against his thighs.

“Beg for me.”

I looked up through my lashes, dead serious.

“Come on.”

“Beg for me, Joel.”

I let go of his cock and he groaned in frustration.

“Fuck, please, sweetheart. I need you.”

“You need me?”

“Only you. It’s always been just you.”

He panted, and I smiled, stroking him again.

“How much?”

“I’ve jerked off over a hundred times thinking of you.”

The words fell from him like my touch had unlocked a vault.

“Oh yeah? What else?”

I asked, taking him into my mouth and sucking on the pink head.

“Stole one of your panties once. Jerked off with it while listening to one of your voice notes.

I pulled off, hearing a soft ‘pop'

“So filthy. Oh, Mr. Miller.”

I sucked him in again, deeper this time.

“You are… fuck. You’re fucking ruining me, sweetheart.”

“Mmhm.”

I mumbled with him deep in my throat, pulling back slowly.

“What else, Joel?”

I gave kitten licks to his tip. He gripped my hair tighter, making me moan, thighs clenching with how wet I was.

“Remember that night you called me? Drunk? Said you felt lonely and horny? I jerked off with you on the phone. Felt like shit after.”

“Oh, don’t feel bad. I did too.”

“What?”

“I called you because I was horny. Wasn’t drunk at all. Just needed to come with your voice in my ear.”

I smirked as Joel groaned, coming hard and painting my chest with it.

“Fuck. I’m gonna tell your dad. We’re gonna be together, baby. We’re gonna do this right.”

His hands softened, brushing my skin gently—until I looked up.

And saw my dad. Arms crossed. Eyebrow arched. Pissed as fuck.

“You gonna tell me you’re fucking my daughter, you son of a bitch?”

Everything happened fast—Joel was yanked away from me and my dad’s punch landed hard. I froze. Joel didn’t fight back. He just took it.

“Dad!”

I screamed, scrambling from the floor, rushing to them as Addison pulled my dad away.I dropped beside Joel, who looked at me before closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

“You okay?”

I whispered, brushing his bruised face.

“I deserved that,”

he muttered, standing up slowly.

“I’m sorry, okay?”Joel looked at my dad, whose back was turned while he ran a hand through his hair.

“You’re sick.”

My dad hissed, and I narrowed my eyes, pissed now.

Excuse me?

“Dad.”

“No. He watched you grow up. This shouldn’t be happening.”

“Well, it did. And it’s not just his fault.”

“He’s too old for you.”

He shook his head.

“And you’re too old for Addison.”

“So that’s what this is about?”

He yelled, and I threw my hands in the air—

“No, but if we’re playing that card, then maybe think about that for a second”

" Listen, I love her, man, I love her."

Joel stepped in front of me, and I froze, just staring at his back. Does he love her?

" You lied to me. I asked you about this, and you fucking lied to my face."

" You wanted me to admit it? I’m sorry, man."

" You should love her like a niece.My dad yelled, walking closer, pissed off."

" Well, I don’t. I did that once, alright? I didn’t love her when she was a kid, not the same way i love her now. I love the woman she’s become now, and that’s so much more than just sex, because long before this trip, I knew it."

" Damn, you fucked her, man."

My dad yelled, and I just kept staring at the back of his neck like a statue.

When the boat docked at the hotel, the silence stayed until everyone went to their rooms, except for me. I stopped at Joel’s door, and as expected, he opened it.

There I was, cleaning his face with cotton from the mess we made.

" He’s gonna be fine."

I whispered as I wiped his nose.

" At least he didn’t break your nose. I like your nose."

I admitted, and Joel smiled at me.

" I really love you."

He said the same thing from earlier, and I stopped, looking into his eyes.

" I think I love you too. I always wanted you to see me, you know? I thought it was hopeless, but look at us now. "

I said, laughing through my nose as I went back to cleaning his face.

" You’re ready."

I said, getting out of his lap and tossing the cotton in the bathroom.

" You know something you still owe me?"

I said, turning my back to him.

" What?"

" Make me come. I’ve been so horny since the boat ride, and you haven’t done anything."

" Guess I’ll have to take care of that."

The night was gonna be long. How lucky am I

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

a bad ending, sorry. I hope you enjoyed it. Requests are open

@theoraekenslover @hungryforbatboys @tracymbcm

[zepskies]

Funnily enough, this is the first time I've ever written a professor AU! But thank you, lovely!! I loooooove the color scheme of the moodboard Liane created. It matched my personal aesthetic so well and the classic lit in there just provided the perfect creative fuel! lol 💕💕

thissssss is such a beautiful and bittersweet description 💗💗

Oh thank you!! 🙏🏽 I worked really hard on that little intro - really helped me set the scene.

this was such a clever “meet cute” !! 😩 (I mean not really given they are very aware of each other but like, personal meet cute?) and yeah judging by sir-stares-a-lot off to the side, i’m glad dean was there to assist her <33 public transportation can be exhausting sometimes fr 🤦🏽‍♀️

ehehe yes it's a kind of "meet cute" for sure! Oh God yeah, Dean was really needed there to assist in multiple ways lol. Public transportation can be scary for a woman alone, especially late at night!

I actually ended up having to withdraw from college a while ago (:/) but man if I had him as a professor ??? I would’ve had perfect attendance for sure 🫠💓

Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that. 😥

Very much agree though lol. If Dean were my professor, I'd never miss a class. 😏 And I'd have to record every lecture bc I probably wouldn't be able to catch everything he was saying lolll.

i went from aww to real to aw :/ and finally to how the hell did those girls find out 😭 but I will say my nosey ass is intrigued 👀 lmao

Oh you know how news like that travels. 🥲 That's definitely going to be a subject explored in the series!

boy if you don’t watch out :| i’d pull my taser out idc 😭

LMAO that gif of disappointed grandma killed me! 🤣 But yes, I'd threaten to tase him in the dick idc either 🙃

literally!! the other day this guy got unnecessarily close to me at the bus stop so i gave him a dead stare and asked if i can help him with something in a flat tone as I backed away from him, then he tried playing dumb like mannn I ain’t trying to hear all that, move !!🤚🏽

omgggg guys really do try it, don't they? So creepy. lmfao and you pulled out the "Can I help you??" 🤣

Sometimes you really do gotta --

I personally adore when someone talks about something they’re passionate about. it’s so refreshing because they actually care and you can see it, hear it. like personally I don’t really have a passion for anything anymore lol which i’m fine with now, it just makes it that much better when I encounter someone who does have that passionate spark, like yesss pls tell me all about that subject 🙂‍↕️♥️ i mean correct me if i’m wrong (<3) but you seem to have such a big passion for writing, like it shows how much you love to do this, how much you care and all the effort that goes into the entire process. it all reflects in your writing !! every time you write interesting tidbits and fun facts I find them so interesting. you seem like the chill english teachers i’d get along with, in the best way ofc !!💘 (ex-teacher’s pet here 😔😂) also I hope i’m making sense lovely, brady isn’t the only pothead here lmfao 😭🫶🏽

Yesss I feel the same way! I love it when people are passionate about a subject. I'm sorry you don't feel like you have that passion for something right now, but I hope you do discover something new to enjoy and geek out about. 💗💗

Oh you're very right about that lol. Writing and storytelling is my passion and one of my key creative outlets, so I've studied it and tried to make it my career too. Fanfic though is very self-indulgent for me lol. It's mainly where I come for escapism and to try new things creatively in my writing. I'm so glad you find the "tidbits/fun facts" interesting!! 🥹💕💕 Since I also teach English, this was a really fun story for me to write lol. I think I'd love to have you in my class! I'm on the whole very chill with my college peeps (though I can't be as much with high school 🤣).

lmaooo girl no worries, you're making perfect sense 😘

yesssss keep gathering her up in your warm strong arms dean 🙂‍↕️🙏🏽 lmfao

Right? Even I melted while writing that part~

this was truly such a wonderrrrfull story 💛 the mutal pining is killing me but it’s so good!🫠 idiots in love…except they’re both really smart and it’s not love yet, they’re just pining…but still!🤠

Aww thank you, my lovely!! 🥹💓💓 I'm so glad you enjoyed it! The mutual pining is gonna be tough to start with, but I think these two are going to "give in" sooner than you might think. We'll see when I actually start writing the rest of this. 🤣

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort of laughter.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in. 

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”  

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you better," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He chuckled. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean chuckled, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

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