#Angular Interview

[theladyofbloodshed]

[jcmarchi]

3 Questions: Evidence for planetary formation through gravitational instability

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/3-questions-evidence-for-planetary-formation-through-gravitational-instability/

3 Questions: Evidence for planetary formation through gravitational instability

Exoplanets form in protoplanetary disks, a collection of space dust and gas orbiting a star. The leading theory of planetary formation, called core accretion, occurs when grains of dust in the disk collect and grow to form a planetary core, like a snowball rolling downhill. Once it has a strong enough gravitational pull, other material collapses around it to form the atmosphere.

A secondary theory of planetary formation is gravitational collapse. In this scenario, the disk itself becomes gravitationally unstable and collapses to form the planet, like snow being plowed into a pile. This process requires the disk to be massive, and until recently there were no known viable candidates to observe; previous research had detected the snow pile, but not what made it.

But in a new paper published today in Nature, MIT Kerr-McGee Career Development Professor Richard Teague and his colleagues report evidence that the movement of the gas surrounding the star AB Aurigae behaves as one would expect in a gravitationally unstable disk, matching numerical predictions. Their finding is akin to detecting the snowplow that made the pile. This indicates that gravitational collapse is a viable method of planetary formation. Here, Teague, who studies the formation of planetary systems in MIT’s Department of Earth, Atmospheric and Planetary Sciences (EAPS), answers a few questions about the new work.

Q: What made the AB Aurigae system a good candidate for observation?

A: There have been plenty of observations that have suggested some interesting dynamics going on the system. Groups have seen spiral arms within the disk; people have found hot spots, which some groups have interpreted as a planet; others have explained as some other instability. But it was really a disk that we knew there was lots of interesting motions going on. The data that we had previously was enough to see that it was interesting, but not really good enough to detail what was going on.

Q: What is gravitational instability when it comes to protoplanetary disks?

A: Gravitational instabilities are where the gravity from the disk itself is strong enough to perturb motions within the disk. Usually, we assume that the gravitational potential is dominated by the central star, which is the case when the mass of the disk is less than 10 percent of the stellar mass (which is most of the time). When the disk mass gets too large, gravitational potential will affect it in different ways and drive these very large spiral arms in the disk. These can have lots of different effects: They can trap the gas, they can heat it up, they can allow for angular momentum to be transported very rapidly within the disk. If it’s unstable, the disk can fragment and collapse directly to form a planet in an incredibly short period of time. Rather than the tens of thousands of years that it would take for a core accretion to happen, this would happen at a fraction of that time.

Q: How does this discovery challenge conventional wisdom around planetary formation?

A: It shows that this alternative path of forming planets via direct collapse is a way that we can form planets. This is particularly important because we’re finding more and more evidence of very large planets — say, Jupiter mass or larger — that are sitting very far away from their star. Those sorts of planets are incredibly hard to form with core accretion, because you typically need them close to the star where things happen quickly. So to form something so massive, so far away from the star is a real challenge. If we’re able to show that there are sources that are massive enough that they’re gravitationally unstable, this solves that problem. It’s a way that perhaps newer systems can be formed, because they’ve always been a bit of a challenge to understand how they came about with core accretion.

[instailyacademy]

Angular Interview Questions and Answers - Instaily Academy

In this blog post, we have covered the top Angular interview questions and answers in 2023, along with tips on how to answer them effectively. We will also discuss some common mistakes that candidates make in Angular interviews, and how to avoid them.

[frontendinterviewquestions]

Check latest frontend interview questions and answers here

[thecuriousbeauty]

Under His Watch-Part 1 (Harry Styles x reader)

Series synopsis: Y/N, an ambitious FBI intern, joins the homicide department, where she catches the eye of the brooding head detective, Harry Styles. As they tackle high-stakes cases together, Y/N uncovers a side of Harry no one else sees. Are they just boss and intern, or something more?

Word count: 9.1k

A/N:- Hello everyone, so sorry for being gone for a while, but I'm back with something new that I hope you guys will love! This is going to be a short, two part series so like it up and reblog so I can get the second part out soon!

Warnings: Talks of murder, drug dealings, killings, crime scenes, violence, usage of gun. No smut in this part, but definitely in the next;)

____________________________________________

The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a soft, golden light through the open window. The air feels fresh, but with a touch of warmth that hints at the summer heat to come. Birds chirp in the distance, their songs a gentle reminder of the new day. A light breeze stirs the curtains, carrying the scent of flowers blooming outside.

In a small, cozy bedroom, y/n stands before her mirror. She fidgets with her clothes, unsure whether the outfit is too formal or too casual for her first day at work. She has seen agents usually wear suits, but she opted for a dark blue buttoned shirt and pants, because she was just starting as an intern. Her fingers tremble slightly as she adjusts her hair, a mix of excitement and nervousness swirling inside her. Her heart races, each beat echoing the uncertainty of what’s to come.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. The thought of the day ahead makes her stomach flutter—so many unknowns, so many new faces, and yet, the possibility of something great. She smiles at her reflection, trying to reassure herself. Beneath the jitters, there’s a spark—an energy that comes from stepping into something new, a sense of potential.

She checks the time and realizes she’s running a little late.The world outside is already awake, and so is she, ready to take on whatever her first day at work will bring.

Y/N doesn’t know when she decided to pursue a career as a detective. Maybe it was all the detective shows she used to watch with her father as a kid, or maybe it was the numerous novels she’d read. She loves the suspense, the mystery, and figuring out all the little clues. She loves the thrill of it. And now, as a result of her hard work and dedication, she has gotten into the FBI’s internship program.

The actual, Federal Bureau of Investigation. 

The FBI building looms like a fortress in the heart of the city, its imposing, angular structure made of dark granite and steel. The air is thick with history and authority, as if the walls themselves hold the secrets of countless investigations. As she takes her detective steps through the sliding glass doors, the buzz of activity inside is palpable. Agents in suits walk briskly through the sleek, modern lobby, while the hum of conversation fills the space with a sense of purpose.

The hallways are lined with framed photos of notable cases and agents, a constant reminder of the legacy the building holds. The lighting is stark, the floors polished to a mirror shine, and the walls adorned with maps and classified files that hint at the work being done behind closed doors. It’s both overwhelming and exhilarating—this is where the nation’s most pressing cases unfold.

“Oh, Miss y/l/n, right on time!”,  she hears before she sees none other than one of her superiors, part of the homicide department, Agent Eliza Carter. She had taken her interview. The woman held two coffees, and gave her the same kind smile she had given her that day.

“Good morning, Agent Carter!���

“Morning to you too. Sorry, I forgot to mention, you’ll be with homicide this month, probably another department for the next, and so on. Boss man’s just about to start the meeting, so come on quick!”

“Right. Do you know anything about the case?”

Her heels click behind her as she follows the agent, her eyes continuing to look around, absorbing everything around her. 

“Oh yeah, this is actually an old case. A really annoying one, you’ll see. Harry will brief us anyway.”

Harry. Detective Agent Harry Styles. 

Head of the homicide department, and one of the most renowned and respected figures in the field. His reputation precedes him: sharp, methodical, and almost legendary in his ability to solve cases that others can’t even begin to crack. She had heard stories about his brilliant mind, how he could piece together the smallest details that everyone else overlooked. The thought of getting to learn directly from him sends a rush of nervous energy through her veins.

“Can you get the door please?”, Eliza asks, and y/n quickly swings the glass door open for her, and then steps in herself, into the big room where there were around seven people gathered. All of them in matching suits, discussing amongst each other as they stared at the boards pinned with information about their cases. 

“Everyone, this is y/n y/l/n, our new intern, she’s gonna be with us for this month!”, Eliza introduces, handing one of the coffees to a man, who also gives y/n a smile. “Hello, I’m Ethan Grant.” 

The others also started introducing themselves, most of them friendly and smiling, two of them only giving her a nod, to which Eliza rolled her eyes. 

“Styles running late?”, Agent Cole Matthews asks as he looks at his watch. 

“I saw him getting a call, he had that face on.”, Nora says. She had short silver hair, and dark blue eyes, that looked like she would kill you if you pissed her off.

“Oh no, that can’t be good.”, Eliza shook her head.

“Face?”, y/n asks the girls who just smile at each other, Nora gives her a wink. “You’ll see.”

The door swings open with a quiet click, and Detective Harry Styles steps into the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. Tall and impeccably dressed in a dark suit that fits just right, he exudes a quiet authority. His broad shoulders and confident stride catch the eye, but it’s his sharp jawline and the faint stubble along his chin that hint at a more rugged edge beneath his polished exterior.

His eyes—piercing, yet thoughtful—scan the room as he steps forward, his gaze pausing just long enough to meet each of their eyes, an unspoken understanding passing through the group. The way he moves is purposeful, the air around him almost charged with intensity, as if every step he takes is measured, calculated.

Then his eyes meet hers, eyebrows raising up in question. “New intern, boss.”, Ethan says. 

She acts quickly to introduce herself, “I’m y/n, it’s such a pleasure to-”

“We’re still talking interns?”, he rudely cuts her off, and her lips seal shut at his tone. 

“Yes we’re doing rotations this year, Harry, they must have given you a form to sign.”, Eliza said, and Harry let out a sigh, not even batting a single eye in y/n’s direction, turning around to the projector. 

“Whatever. Let’s get to work, we have a busy day ahead of us.”

Y/N’s heart sinks. She’d imagined this moment so differently—she thought he’d at least say something encouraging, maybe give her a quick nod of acknowledgment. But instead, there’s only the cold, impersonal air of the office, and his complete disregard.

“We’re dealing with a 30-year-old man named Charles Russo. He's been on our radar before but slipped through the cracks. He’s involved in drug trafficking, but this isn’t just about drugs—it’s about control. He’s a key figure in a network that stretches across the city, and he’s responsible for at least three recent murders tied to his operations.”

A photograph of Russo appears on the projector screen—a mugshot from a previous arrest, his face hard and defiant, his eyes cold. Styles gestures to the image.

“This is our suspect. Russo has managed to stay under the radar for months, but he’s back in the game. We have intel from one of his associates that he’s been laying low, but now we’ve gotten wind of him resurfacing. We know he’s been making contact with his former contacts in the drug trade, and his movements have been tracked to the outskirts of the city.”

He pauses, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. The team leans forward, eyes narrowing as they take in every word.

“We can’t afford to let him slip away again,” Harry continues. “He’s ruthless. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in his way. The last time he disappeared, it took months for us to get any leads. We’re not going to make that mistake again.”

“So what’s the plan?”, Nora asks.

Harry points to a map on the wall. The area surrounding an old industrial district near the city’s border is highlighted in red.

“We’ve got a lead. A tip from an anonymous source says Russo is meeting with one of his suppliers here,” Harry explains, tapping the map. “We’ll be setting up surveillance teams around this location. We’re going to hit him where we know he feels comfortable. His old contacts will be there, and that’s our chance to bring him in.”

He looks at his team, making sure they understand the stakes. "This won't be easy. Russo knows how to cover his tracks, and he won't hesitate to go violent if he thinks he's cornered. I want everyone to stay sharp, no mistakes. We’ll have undercover agents in place, and our best tech team will be monitoring the area for any sign of movement.”

He glances at y/n, the intern who’s been quietly taking notes in the back. His voice softens just slightly, but still firm.

“You’re going to work with Carter and Grant to run background checks on Russo’s known associates. I want every detail—every business transaction, every phone call, every scrap of information you can dig up. It could be the key to finding him faster. Can you do that?”

“Yes sir.” She nods quickly, her mind racing. This is her chance to contribute, to prove herself, and she’s not about to let it slip away.

“Once we have enough intel, we move in. Fast, clean, and without hesitation. Our goal is to catch him off guard,” Harry finishes, his gaze sweeping over his team. “I expect everyone to be in sync. This guy has evaded us long enough. Let’s make sure it ends tonight.”

The room falls into a focused silence as everyone gets to work. The plan is set, and the wheels are already in motion. 

Eliza shows y/n her desk, and Ethan quickly shows her all the technology, y/n didn’t need much explaining, she was familiar with it all. She had even taken up courses in coding and hacking. 

Finally, it’s time to attack. Officers bustle around, adjusting their gear, making final checks on equipment, and running through last-minute details. The hum of radios, the clinking of handcuffs, and the soft rustling of jackets fill the air as the room feels like it’s on the verge of something big. y/n stands off to the side, a little on edge as she watches Harry gather the team for their final briefing. His green eyes scan the room with that characteristic sharpness, giving quick instructions to the officers heading to different positions. 

With a deep breath, she approaches Harry as he finishes talking to Detective Logan Pierce. Her pulse quickens, and she straightens her shoulders. This is it.

“Detective Styles,” she begins, trying to keep her voice steady, “I was wondering if—if I could come along. I know I’m new, but I’ve been following everything closely, and I’m ready. I can help in any way I can.”

Harry looks at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. There’s a brief silence before he responds, his voice calm but firm. “You’re not ready for this kind of field work. This operation is too high-risk, and it’s not something you should be thrown into on your first day. I need you back here, where you can handle communication, and make sure we stay on track. You’ll be a key part of this, just not in the way you expect.”

She feels a small pang of disappointment, but it’s quickly replaced by a sense of clarity. He’s right. She’s still learning the ropes. The reality of the danger in the field is something she can’t ignore. But at the same time, the disappointment doesn’t sting as much as she thought it would. She’s still going to play a crucial role.

“Understood,” she says, nodding as she pushes her feelings aside. She can feel a sense of purpose rising in her chest. “I’ll stay in touch with the agents, make sure everything runs smoothly. I’ll be ready to react if anything goes wrong.”

A flicker of approval crosses Harry’s face, though he doesn't show it fully. “Good luck!”, she can’t help but call out as Harry reaches for his own bullet proof suit and a hint of a smirk crosses his lips. 

It was so brief, that she wondered if she had really seen it, or if she had imagined it.

The night is thick with tension as the operation unfolds, the air heavy with the weight of what’s at stake. Outside the industrial district, the team is in position, each agent hidden in shadows, waiting for the signal to move. Inside the precinct, y/n is stationed at her desk, headphones on, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she tracks the operation. Her eyes are focused on the live feeds from the surveillance cameras set up around the district, her mind sharp and alert.

The plan is simple—surround Russo and catch him in the act. The agents are ready, but they need to stay in constant contact. That’s where she comes in. She’s the lifeline,watching the feeds, listening to their transmissions, and keeping them updated. She had earpieces connected to Harry and Cole, who had teams on both doors of the warehouse.

Through the earpiece, the voice of Agent Logan Pierce crackles to life. “y/l/n,we’re about to move in on Russo. He’s on the move—heading toward the south side of the warehouse. We need a visual confirmation. Is he coming into our range?”

Y/N’s heart pounds in her chest, but she keeps her voice steady. “Got him. He’s moving east toward the rear entrance. You’ve got about thirty seconds before he reaches the blind spot. You need to move fast.”

“Copy that,” Pierce responds. “We’re moving in now.”

y/n watches the screen, heart racing as she tracks Russo’s every step, eyes darting between the surveillance feeds and the map on her screen. Every second feels like an eternity. She checks her watch, counts the seconds in her head. Then, suddenly, he disappeared.

“Shit.”, she says, trying to figure out where the piece of shit is headed now.

“I hope I didn’t just hear you say shit while monitoring one of the most important cases, newbie.”, she hears Agent Styles, and her cheeks redden a little bit, but she focuses on the task.

“Sorry, you need to wait, Agent Pierce, I’ve lost him.”

“You’ve lost him? What do you mean? He’s right here-”

“-No, I think..I think he’s coming around from the other door. Agent Styles?”

He answers immediately while y/n works on a way to monitor Russo again, “Yes, are you sure it’s not a connectivity problem or-.”

“I think he’s on your side.”

“Oh yeah? That mother fucker. Guys, close in.”

“Wait, y/n, are you sure? Cause this might be the last chance we have to get him and one mistake-”, Cole begins, a little unsure.

The image on the monitor shifts—Russo steps into the frame. 

“Agent Styles, he’s about to break through—wait for it—now!”

The moment she speaks, Harry and the rest of the team spring into action. They converge on Russo in a synchronized move, cutting off his escape route before he can even react. There’s a flurry of movement, the sound of boots pounding on the ground, and then, within seconds, Russo is tackled to the ground, handcuffed and subdued.

A burst of static fills her earpiece, followed by Harry’s voice. “We got him. He’s down. Nice work, y/n. You nailed it.”

He called her by her name for the first time and the compliment made her heart race in a way she hadn’t expected. She blinks, her breath catching in her throat. Styles—the man she had been eager to impress—had just complimented her, and it felt like everything she’d hoped for.

“Thanks,” she replies, trying to keep her composure. “I just did what I could.”

“Well you’re the first newbie to actually not piss me off on their first day. You can go home, y/n, enough for the day. We’ll bring him in.”

Y/N exhales slowly, a rush of adrenaline flooding her veins. Her hands shake just a little as she removes her headset, a smile creeping up her face. They did it. They caught Russo, and she was the one who helped make it happen. For the first time since walking into this precinct, she feels like she truly belongs.

___________________________________________________

Over the next few days, she really fit in with the team members. She especially loved talking with the girls, Nora and Eliza. They’re laughing about the latest office drama—how Agent Matthews accidentally spilled coffee all over Harry’s favorite jacket this morning.

“I swear, it’s like he doesn’t even notice how clumsy he is,” Nora says, shaking her head with a grin. “But Styles—he’s always so cool, never says a word. You’d think he’d be fuming after that.”

y/n chuckles, feeling more at ease in their company. "I bet he was just silently judging him in that typical Styles way. You know the look I'm talking about, right?"

Eliza laughs, leaning in. “Oh, absolutely. The silent judgment is his trademark. But I’m surprised he didn’t rip Pierce a new one.”

y/n finds herself grinning at the camaraderie, feeling like she’s starting to fit into the team’s dynamic. It’s easy, the way they talk, tease, and laugh together. 

She decides to stay back a little longer that day, her eyes skim through the pages—cold cases from years ago, some unsolved, others with only the vaguest of leads. She’s been digging into them to understand the bigger picture of how the team operates, trying to learn from the cases they’ve solved, and the ones they’ve left behind.

Her focus is interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps approaching. She looks up to see Harry, his coat over his arm and his briefcase in hand. He stops a few steps away, his gaze lingering on the pile of files she’s working through.

Her gaze lingered on his arm, his sleeve rolled up enough for the ink on his forearm to peek through. She could see the dark outline of a tattoo—a design she’d never noticed before—curving around his wrist and disappearing beneath the cuff of his shirt. The way the ink curled around his skin made her wonder how many more he had hidden beneath his clothes.

She couldn’t help but admire the way his sleeves clung to his muscular arms, the sharp lines of his body defining his form. His green eyes were a striking contrast to his skin, deep and captivating. They always seemed to hold a quiet storm, a vulnerability masked behind his professional exterior. The way his curls fell around his forehead, slightly unruly, added a touch of ruggedness to his otherwise polished look.

There was something magnetic about his distinct features, something that caught her attention all the time.

“You’re still here?” he asks, voice quiet, as if genuinely surprised she hasn’t already left for the day. There’s something in his tone that feels different, not judgmental, but more... curious. Maybe even a little approving.

y/n clears her throat, trying not to seem too caught up in the files. “Yeah. Just trying to catch up on some of the old cases. Figured it’s a good way to learn how you all approach things.”

Harry studies her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before setting his briefcase down and taking a few steps closer. “You’ve got the right idea. We learn a lot from the cases we didn’t solve. The ones that slip through our fingers.”

She nods, feeling the weight of the truth in his words. “I’ve noticed that. Some of these cases... they’re so close to being solved, but there’s always one missing piece.” She pauses, flipping to a specific file that’s particularly puzzling. “What do you think about this one? A string of disappearances in a small town, no evidence left behind. It’s like they just vanished.”

Harry glances down at the file she’s holding, leaning over slightly, his voice low and contemplative. “Sometimes it’s not the evidence you’re looking for, but the pattern behind it. Whoever did this knew how to cover their tracks. But if you look at the people involved—especially the families, the connections between them—you might find something that doesn’t belong.”

“Thanks for that,” she says, her voice more sincere than usual. “I wasn’t sure if I was overthinking it.”

Harry gives a small, almost imperceptible smile, his usual stoic demeanor softening just a little. “You’re thinking in the right direction. Just keep pushing yourself. That’s how we get better at this job.”

She smiles in return, feeling a little more confident in her approach. Harry glances at his watch, then looks back at her. “Well, if you’re going to keep at it, you’ll need a little company. I was planning to head out, but it’s quieter here than usual.”

y/n looks up in surprise. “You’re staying?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Not really,” he says, his tone dry, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “Just thought I’d walk you out. It’s late. Wouldn’t want you to be walking to your car alone.”

Her surprise morphs into a small, grateful smile. “That’s... considerate of you. Thanks.”

He offers a slight nod, then gestures toward the door. “Come on, then. Let’s get out of here.”

The two of them walk out together, the quiet hum of the office behind them. Outside, the evening air is crisp, the sky darkening as they make their way across the parking lot.

As they approach their cars, y/n hesitates for a moment, then turns to him. “You’ve been doing this for a long time, huh? The whole... detective thing. How do you keep from getting burned out?”

Harry pauses, his hand resting on the door handle of his car. He looks at her, his expression momentarily distant, as if reflecting on the years of work behind him.

“It’s not about not getting burned out,” he says quietly, “It’s about finding what keeps you going. Whether it’s the people you work with or the cases that pull you in, you have to find something that reminds you why you do it.”

y/n nods, absorbing his words as they linger in the cool air between them.

With that, he starts his engine and pulls away, leaving y/n standing in the quiet parking lot for a moment. She watches his car disappear down the road, wondering what led him into pursuing this career.

___________________________________________

The next day, the guys are gathered around a table near the bullpen, eyes glued to a sports game playing on the office TV. The game is close, Ethan and Cole are already arguing over who’s going to win the match.

“Come on, you’re seriously betting on them?” Ethan snorts, shaking his head. “They’ve been playing like amateurs.”

y/n can’t help but overhear, the playful banter catching her attention. She’s not usually one for sports, but she’s been learning the ropes from her fellow agents. She knows enough to get by, and today, something about the challenge calls to her.

“Alright, alright, I’ll bite,” she says, walking over with a raised eyebrow. “How much are we betting here?”

Ethan looks up, surprised, then grins. “Didn’t think you’d be interested, y/n. You sure you know what you’re getting into?”

She smirks, her confidence growing. “I’m a quick learner. I’ll take your bet. I’m putting my money on the underdogs.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. This’ll be fun.”

As the game continues, the guys teasingly rib her for her risky bet, but y/n holds her ground, getting increasingly into the match. When the underdogs actually pull off the win, she’s the first one to stand up, pumping her fist in victory.

“Told you,” she says, beaming with pride as the guys groan good-naturedly. “Pay up, gentlemen.”

“Yes, we’ll be there soon, got it.” They all look up at the sound of their boss, who comes into the room, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Murder scene in Oak Drive, let’s go.”, Harry tells them, and everyone gets onto their feet, getting ready to go.

y/n goes to her desk as usual, knowing she’ll be given the duty of doing the background checks.

“Who’re you riding with Styles?”, Logan asks him.

Harry straps on his gun, and looks at y/n. “Can you drive?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Come on, then, newbie, let’s go to your first murder scene.”

y/n almost squealed with joy, jumping up in excitement, but then toned it down as Harry raised his eyebrows, waiting for her answer.

“Yes sir, right away.”

The car ride is quiet, with a subtle tension between them, an unspoken understanding, a quiet connection that neither has acknowledged. y/n's fingers tighten around the steering wheel as they approach the crime scene. He can’t help but steal a glance at y/n—she’s focused, eyes sharp, her thoughts clearly already at the scene ahead.

“You aren’t gonna faint, are you?”, Harry asks, breaking the silence. “Cause one of the interns did, seeing all the blood.”

She laughed lightly. “Nope, I’m excited, and I’m good with blood.”

“Good.”, Harry lets a small smile escape, and she pulls over to the crime scene. The other agents have already reached and are doing their allotted work. 

"Alright, you’ll handle the photos for now. We’ll take care of the rest."

Y/N nods, grabbing her camera from the seat beside her, trying to steady her nerves. She’s been given more responsibility lately, and with Harry’s subtle support, she’s been slowly gaining confidence.

 "Got it. I'll make sure to get everything."

As she moves closer to the crime scene, Y/N kneels by the body, snapping photos of the surroundings. Her heart beats a little faster as she works, but the adrenaline feels good. And while the scene before her is dark, there’s something about Harry’s quiet faith in her that makes her feel capable. She captures the details—each angle, each small clue—as if she’s been doing this for years. She steals a glance back at Harry, catching him watching her from a distance. For a moment, she wonders if he sees something more than just a hard-working intern.

As the team works around her, Harry steps away briefly to speak with the others, but his eyes flick back to her every so often. Y/N can feel it—his attention on her, the weight of it—but for now, she’s focused on her task. Still, there’s a strange pull between them, unspoken, but undeniable, lingering in the air like the tension of the scene itself.

Harry wants to leave soon, to talk to someone and take y/n with him, this time, he drives. As they pull away from the crime scene, Harry’s eyes are focused on the road, but his mind is already on the next step. Y/N’s still processing everything they’ve seen.

“So, what’s your take on this case so far?"

Y/N pauses, glancing up at him. She can tell he’s genuinely interested in her opinion.

“I think the victim knew the killer. Too many personal details for it to be random, but the motive’s still unclear."

Harry nods thoughtfully. "I agree. That’s why I’m going to talk to the first suspect now. Stay sharp—this could get tricky."

Y/N feels a small thrill at his trust in her judgment. It’s not just about the case anymore; it’s the way he values her input. As they drive toward the suspect’s location, she wonders if he’s giving her more responsibility on purpose, or if it’s just part of the job. Either way, it feels like a step forward.

After questioning the suspect, Harry and Y/N head back to the office, the car cutting through the quiet streets. Y/N’s mind is still on the conversation with the suspect, but then..her stomach growls loudly.

Harry glances over at her, his eyes sharp but gentle.

"Did you eat anything this morning?"

Y/N flushes slightly, trying to keep her cool, but the guilt is written all over her face.

"Yeah, I—"

"You didn’t eat, did you?"

Y/N shifts uncomfortably.

"I’m fine, really."

Harry sighs, shaking his head with a small smile."We’re making a stop. You’re getting something to eat. I know a good taco place.”

He turns the car off the main road, pulling into a small taco place. The smell of sizzling meat and fresh tortillas drifts through the air as they step out, and Harry opens the door for her, his usual professionalism replaced with a kind of care.

As they sit at a small booth, Y/N digs into her food, finally letting herself relax. Harry watches her for a moment, the glint of something unreadable in his eyes. After a few bites, she glances up at him.

"So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you always so grumpy? You’re like... a walking storm cloud sometimes."

Harry chokes on his drink a little, caught off guard by her boldness. He laughs—genuinely, with a surprised smile that softens his usually serious face.

He chuckles and wipes his mouth. "Grumpy? I’m not grumpy. I’m just... focused."

Y/N raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Focused, huh? Is that what you’re calling it?"

Harry shrugs, his smirk turning wry, clearly amused by her bluntness."Okay, maybe I’m a little grumpy. But someone’s gotta keep this place in line. You can’t just go around smiling all the time like everything’s sunshine and rainbows."

Y/N laughs, and for a second, their eyes meet. There’s an ease between them now, something playful, yet still with an undercurrent of something deeper. Harry’s usual walls are lower, and Y/N’s teasing is making him more human in her eyes.

"I don’t know, sometimes I think it wouldn’t hurt to see you smile a little more. Just... not at the crime scene, please."

Harry chuckles again, and it’s the kind of laugh that feels lighter than usual—almost as if he doesn’t mind sharing this side of himself with her.

"I’ll try. But no promises.", he says with a soft smirk.Y/N found herself grinning as she saw his dimples poke out. She hadn’t realized how much she loved seeing that little dimple until now, how it made him look so much more... approachable.

After a few more bites, she glances up at him. "Why did you want to be a detective, Agent Styles?"

The question lingers in the air. Harry’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and for a moment, there’s a heaviness between them. "Because I lost someone who mattered. My sister... she was murdered by some people when we were younger. I couldn’t sit by, not after that."

Y/N’s breath catches, and she sees the pain flicker in his eyes—his calm demeanor betraying a history of loss that runs deep. It’s the first time she’s seen him so vulnerable, so open.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t know.", she says quietly.

Harry shrugs, with a distant look in his eyes,"It’s alright. It’s been a long time... but it’s why I do this. It’s why I never give up on a case. To make sure no one else has to go through that."

There’s a pause, and Y/N feels the weight of his words sink in. She reaches out, placing her hand gently on his. The warmth of the moment takes them both by surprise. He appreciates the gesture, thumb ever so softly stroking a line on the back of her hand.

“You can call me Harry by the way, when we’re not at work.”, he says to lighten the air, and she smiles, drawing her hand back. “Okay.”

Little did she know that Harry had told her something that no one else knew about him. 

________________________________________________________

The precinct is buzzing with its usual morning chaos, the air thick with the noise of phones ringing, officers discussing cases, and the sound of feet shuffling across the floors. y/n is at her desk, flipping through some case files, trying to focus. She’s about to make another note, when she hears the unmistakable sound of Ethan and Eliza approaching her desk, their voices carrying through the room in a familiar, teasing tone.

“Well, well, y/n, looks like you’ve caught Styles’ attention,” Ethan says with a playful grin, sliding into the seat across from her. He leans back, crossing his arms, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

y/n looks up, feigning confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Eliza raises an eyebrow, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Oh, come on. We’ve all seen it. Harry doesn’t usually make time for anyone. But you—" she motions between the two of them, “—you got breakfast with him this morning. He doesn’t do that unless he’s got a soft spot.”

Eliza’s cheeks flush slightly. She opens her mouth to protest, but Ethan cuts her off.

“We’re just saying, Harry’s usually all business, right? But with you—” he gestures with a wink, “he’s practically a different guy. You must be special.”

y/n can’t help but laugh awkwardly, trying to brush it off. Yes, they had eaten breakfast together that morning, because both of them happened to arrive early to the office. “You guys are ridiculous. We just had breakfast. He saw me sitting alone and he was just being... well, Harry.”

But they aren’t buying it. Eliza smirks, leaning forward. “Right, Harry just casually opens up to you about his deepest, darkest secrets over a bagel. We’re all jealous, you know.”

y/n shakes her head, a little embarrassed, but also secretly amused. “Okay, okay, I get it. He’s not a softie, I swear.”

Ethan grins, clearly enjoying teasing her. “Sure, sure. But just wait until the next big case. When he pulls you aside to give you a ‘confidential’ briefing, we’ll be here, dying of curiosity.”

y/n sighs, trying not to laugh as she adjusts the papers in front of her. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. I’m still the intern, remember?”

Eliza raises her hands in mock surrender. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what we’re talking about. We all saw the way Harry looked at you when he was complimenting you yesterday. Like... he actually noticed your contribution for once.”

At that, y/n’s face goes a little redder, but she can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face. “He just—well, he just doesn’t say much. When he does, it’s kind of a big deal.”

Ethan chuckles, leaning in closer. “Yeah, we’ve noticed. Harry doesn’t exactly dish out compliments like candy. And if he says you’re doing good work? That’s... noteworthy.”

y/n laughs nervously, feeling a little overwhelmed by their teasing, but she’s also secretly flattered. She’s always admired Harry—his skill, his mind, the way he commands respect from everyone around him—and to hear that they’ve noticed the shift in his behavior, even in the smallest ways, makes her feel like she’s on the right track.

“Alright, alright, enough. You’ve got me all figured out,” y/n says, trying to play it off cool. “But don’t go getting any ideas. He’s still Harry Styles.”

“Sure, sure,” Eliza says, winking. “But we’ll be keeping an eye on you two.”

As they walk away, leaving her to her work, y/n smiles to herself, a warm feeling spreading in her chest. She wasn’t sure if Harry really had a soft spot for her, but just knowing that she’d earned a little of his respect—enough for the team to notice—felt like a win. Maybe she wasn’t just the intern anymore. Maybe, just maybe, she was starting to become something more.

______________________________________________

y/n has been busy lately. She passed her detective training exam but the theory exam wasn’t over yet, so she was preparing for that, along with managing the work she had been assigned at the FBI. It’s nearly midnight when Harry walks into the office, his eyes scanning the darkened room before landing on Y/N. He spots her hunched over her desk, staring at the screen, her tired eyes squinting in the dim light. By now he knows she’s a hard worker, but what really hits him is how late it’s gotten—and how she hasn’t stopped working.

Harry’s voice is tight with concern, trying to mask his frustration."Y/N, what the hell are you still doing here?"

Y/N looks up, startled, her fingers still hovering over the keyboard as she blinks at him, trying to hide the exhaustion on her face.

 "Just finishing up some things... It’s not that late."

He sternly walks closer. "It’s midnight. You should be home, resting. This can wait until tomorrow."

Y/N opens her mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops her. She’s used to his seriousness, but there’s something more here—something that’s not just about the case.

His voice softens, but still firm."You’re not invincible, Y/N. You need to take care of yourself."

Y/N sighs, glancing back at the stack of files on her desk, torn between wanting to finish everything and knowing she’s pushing herself too hard.

 "I’m fine, Harry. Really. I just want to get this done."

Harry’s frustration slips through as he says, "No, you’re not fine. You’ve been at this for hours, and you’re running on empty. I’m not leaving until you get some rest."

Y/N meets his eyes, seeing the genuine concern there, but also the subtle edge of worry in his features. She opens her mouth to protest again, but Harry doesn’t give her the chance.

Harry grabs her bag from the desk. "Come on. You’re getting in the car, and I’m taking you home."

She hesitates for a moment, but Harry’s serious enough that she knows there’s no point in arguing.

She grabs her things and follows him out of the office. The rain is coming down hard now, the city streets glistening under the dim streetlights. Harry opens the door for her, holding out an umbrella as they step out into the downpour.

They don’t speak at first, the quiet of the night surrounding them, just the soft patter of rain as they walk to his car. Once inside, the silence between them feels comfortable, but Harry keeps glancing at her, concern still etched on his face.

Harry breaks the silence."You sure you’re okay? You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately."

“I’m fine, my detective exam is soon, I just really wanna make it.”

“You will, you’ve already passed the physical. Trust me, you don’t have to worry about making it, the exam’s gonna be very easy for you.”

She lets out a soft exhale, those words making her feel a little better. After all, he had gone through all of this. “Are you gonna apply to work here?”

“Yes, I think this is where I wanna work. Not sure about the department though, I still have other rotations. I’m going to be with foreign affairs next week.”

Harry gasps in hurt, glancing over at her. “You don’t wanna be in homicide? Is it because I’m grumpy?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “It’s not you, Harry.. And I love homicide, the thrill is amazing! It’s just that I still have other departments to experience, you know, that’s what an internship is for.”

“Believe me, you aren’t gonna find any other department as interesting as this. But yes, you’re right. You have time to decide.”

The rest of the drive is mostly quiet, just the sound of the rain tapping on the windshield. When they finally reach her flat, Harry pulls up to the curb, parking the car in front of the building. He looks over at her, his voice quiet, with that same concern in it.

"You sure you’ll be okay getting inside? It’s late, and it’s still raining pretty bad."

Y/N nods, though she can’t hide the weariness in her eyes."Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride, Harry."

He doesn’t move, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to say something more, but instead, he opens his door and steps out, walking around the car to open hers.

He holds the umbrella over her as they step out into the rain, his arm wrapping around her back and her arm as he keeps her close and they walk side by side toward her building. The air is cool, and the rain falls steadily, but there’s something about the closeness of the moment that makes it feel almost intimate.

When they reach her door, Harry stops, looking at her with that same quiet intensity. "You’re getting some sleep tonight. No excuses."

Y/N can’t help but smile at his persistence, the kind of care that’s always just under the surface of his gruff exterior."I promise. I’ll get some rest."

Harry doesn’t move immediately, his gaze lingering on her face. There’s an almost unspoken weight in the air now, a subtle shift between them. Without thinking, Y/N reaches out and touches his arm, her fingers brushing against his sleeve.

“Thanks for everything, Harry. Really."

His eyes flicker down to where her hand rests on his arm, and for a moment, the world seems to pause. Slowly, he lifts his free hand, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. His touch lingers for a second longer than necessary, and Y/N feels her heart race at the intimacy of it.

His voice is low, and a bit hoarse."Anytime. You don’t have to thank me."

The tension between them lingers in the rain-soaked air. Harry steps back, holding the umbrella just a little closer to her to shield her from the downpour. Then he whispers softly, "Sleep well, Y/N."

He gives her a soft smile before turning to leave. Y/N watches him walk away, her heart still fluttering from the small but meaningful moments they’ve shared. The rain still falls, but in that quiet moment, everything feels a little different—like they’ve crossed a line, even if just for a moment.

As she walks into her apartment, she can’t help but replay his words and the feeling of his touch, knowing that whatever happens next, something between them has changed.

_____________________________________________

Y/N enters the quarters, the soft click of the door barely audible as she steps inside. The usual hum of chatter and playful teasing is absent, replaced by an air of tension that hangs thick in the room. Her eyes quickly scan the group of agents—none of them in their usual good-natured moods, all absorbed in their own thoughts. Something’s off.

Her gaze lands on Harry, talking quietly with someone behind his glass office door. He looks serious, his posture rigid, eyes narrowed as if he’s deep in conversation about something important. Y/N walks to Nora who’s sitting at her desk, the usual casual grin replaced by a solemn expression.

"Hey, what’s going on? Why’s everyone so serious today?"

The agent looks up. "We got a lead on the Rotherl case. Word is, he has a fourth hostage with him. Cole and Eliza managed to track down where he should be right now and we’re just waiting on Harry’s word to go.”

“A fourth hostage?”, she gasps. She wasn’t part of the team during the investigation of the Rothel murders but she had read up all about it. He was one of the most wanted men, who kidnapped his victims before killing them. He had already killed three innocent people, leaving no traces behind him. If they had a lead on him, that was amazing.

She glances toward Harry’s office, where he’s still deep in conversation, his jaw clenched. Before she can ask more, the door opens, and Harry steps out, his sharp gaze scanning the room. “Let’s go, everyone. I’ve called for backup. Matthews, Carter, good job. Now let’s wrap this up.”

“This mother fucker has had enough of a run.”, Eliza mutters, strapping on her bullet proof west and tossing the other to her partner. 

Y/N’s been with the team for weeks now, and in that time, Harry’s allowed her to tag along when things got tense, letting her learn the ropes. She can’t imagine being left behind on something so big, not now.

She grabs her things, ready to move with the team, but Harry catches her before she gets too far, his lean fingers wrapping around her wrist.

"Not this time, Y/N.", he says, his voice firm, with no room for negotiation.

Y/N freezes, her heart sinking at his words. She’s about to protest, but she catches the look in his eyes—a mix of concern and something else she can’t quite place. She takes a breath, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Come on, Harry. I’ve been with you through worse. You know I can handle it."

“It’s not about how much you can handle, y/n. This is a mad man, and you don’t even have a gun to defend yourself.”

“But I’m trained to fight, and I can use a gun if someone throws it to me-”

“-y/l/n.”, Harry cuts her off with his classic stern face. She hasn’t gotten her gun license yet, she’ll get that only after she becomes an agent after her exams, but she’s already done with all her training. He’s trying to protect her, she realizes. Still, she won’t back down so easily.

"You can’t keep me in the dark. I want to be there with you guys.”, she says firmly.

Harry stares at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers as if weighing the risk. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

He reluctantly agrees. "Fine. You can come. But you stay in the car. Understood?"

Y/N’s heart skips, but she hides her smile, knowing she’s won this small battle. She nods, her voice determined.

 "Understood.”

Harry studies her for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge if she’s really going to stick to her word. When he finally nods, there’s something like relief in his eyes, mixed with the ever-present worry that seems to linger with him.

"Good. But if you step one foot out of that car, I swear I’ll drag your ass back inside myself.”

Y/N chuckles lightly, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of something unspoken. “Got it, sir.”

As Harry turns to lead the team out, Y/N follows behind, a mixture of excitement and nerves swirling inside her. This was more than just another case. It was a dangerous one, and she was in it, even if only on the sidelines. 

“Here, y/n, put this on.”, Ethan comes to her with a bullet proof vest just like everyone else’s. She didn’t think she’d need one sitting in the car, but she put it on, not wanting to start another argument with an agent.

They pile into the cars, the tension in the air thick as they head toward the high-risk location. Y/N’s fingers tap nervously on her lap as she watches Harry in the rearview mirror, his eyes already set on the mission ahead, and she can’t help but feel, even in the midst of everything, that tonight could change something between them.

The car rolled to a stop a few blocks from the dilapidated building. The air outside felt damp from the rain that had just stopped falling, but the tension was thick, and the city streets seemed unusually silent, despite the flashing lights of squad cars surrounding the area.

Y/N leaned forward in the passenger seat, her eyes glued to the building in front of them. The usual lighthearted banter between the team was gone.She could see Harry’s figure through the windshield as he stepped out of the car, his dark coat flaring behind him like a shadow as he walked toward the rest of the team.

She saw the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his body was braced for the weight of what they were about to face. His focus was sharper tonight, sharper than usual. He was already in the thick of it, mentally preparing for what could be a deadly confrontation.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the seat, but she stayed silent. Harry moved with precision, the rest of the team falling in behind him as they gathered around him. The air between them was charged, the kind of energy that only came when everything was on the line.

She heard Harry’s calm voice through his earpiece, “Position yourselves around the building. No one moves unless I give the word.”

Y/N nodded along with the rest of the team, even though Harry couldn’t see it. Her heart hammered in her chest as her gaze shifted from Harry to the building—dark and looming against the city skyline. She could barely make out the figure standing in the doorway.

It was Rothel. The man who had committed violent crimes. And now, he was holding someone else hostage.

Y/N exhaled slowly, gripping the seat tighter. The girl in the doorway, only a teenager by the looks of it, was standing frozen in place, her face pale with fear. Rothel had a gun to her forehead, and she heard him yell out something, but couldn’t make out what it was. Harry raised a hand to the rest of the team, signalling them to hold off.

She could hear Harry. “Rothel, listen to me. Let her go. We don’t need any more bloodshed. Just put the gun down.”

She couldn’t see Harry’s face from the car, but Y/N knew how carefully he must have been approaching the situation. His voice never cracked, but there was an undercurrent of urgency there—just enough to show he was trying to negotiate without pushing Rothel over the edge.

The earpiece crackled with static, and then Rothel’s voice, sharp and filled with fury, came through.

Rothel growled. “I don’t want to hear your deals. If you don’t back the fuck off, I’ll shoot her right here.”

Y/N’s hands went ice-cold. The air in the car felt thick, suffocating. She swallowed hard, wishing there was something she could do, some way she could help, but all she could do was watch—wait—and pray that Harry could talk him down.

Harry’s voice came again, steady and unwavering.

“You don’t want to do this, Rothel. Let her go. We can work something out. Just... put the gun down. It’s not too late.”

Y/N’s eyes were fixed on the building as the tension in the air grew heavier. There was a shift, a subtle movement at one of the upper windows. She squinted, her heart dropping as she realized the figure there wasn’t just an observer—he was armed, and his sights were set on Harry.

Her breath caught in her throat. Panic surged through her as she saw the man preparing to act. Without thinking twice, Y/N grabbed her earpiece, trying to warn the others, but there was no time for that. The danger was too immediate.

She threw open the car door, barely pausing before sprinting toward the building. Every step was fueled by a sense of urgency, her mind racing. She couldn’t let him hurt Harry.

Y/N reached the back of the building and found a staircase leading up. She didn’t hesitate as she ascended quickly, her heart thumping in her chest. At the top, she paused, ears straining for any sound—anything that would give away the shooter’s position.

There, at the far end of the hallway, the man stood, oblivious to Y/N’s approach. She didn’t think, she just moved. Silent and quick, she rushed toward him, tackling him off balance. They hit the ground, but the struggle wasn’t over.

“Move out of my way unless you want me to kill you, bitch.”, he growled.

“Oh you can try.”, she growled back.

The man pushed back, trying to regain his footing, but Y/N used every ounce of her strength to keep him down. He fought back, his hands grabbing at her, but she was faster—more determined.

In the chaos, she was struck hard, sending her crashing into the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her, but she gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the growing pain. She couldn’t let him get to Harry. He needed to save that girl.

She heard gun shots from below and something that sounded like a cry of relief from the hostage, then she heard Harry’s voice through her fallen earpiece. “He’s down, great job team.” She made the mistake of letting her guard down for one second, in relief, and that’s when the man managed to rise to his feet and point the gun at her.

She heard Harry’s voice again, through her earpiece, now panicked. “Y/N, where are you? Answer me.”

Her vision swam from the dizziness, but she forced herself to focus. The man looked down and groaned in frustration. y/n laughed. “Guess your little plan didn’t work out, huh?”

“It was a good plan, now it’s all ruined because of you. Did you think I was joking when I said I’d kill you?”

“Y/N?”, she heard footsteps and Harry’s voice. 

“Harry!”, she called back, panic starting to rise in her chest. The gun was pointed at her, so she couldn’t risk moving. 

Harry points his own gun at the man. “Put it down right now, you sick bastard.”

y/n closed her eyes as she heard two shots fire at the same time. Then she heard a big thud. Suddenly, there was pain shooting through her body. The pain was overwhelming, but there was something else—disbelief, confusion, and the shock of what had just happened.

She had been shot.

She was brought back from her dazed state by Harry’s panicked, almost broken, voice, “Y/N, it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay..don’t worry, o-okay?”

She could hear the crack in his voice, the fear that only came when someone was truly scared of losing someone they cared about. Her heart fluttered weakly in her chest at the realization. Her thoughts weren’t on the blood soaking her arm or the pain threatening to consume her. They were on Harry. He was here. He was with her. And as she fought to keep her eyes open, the last thing she heard was him calling her name, desperately holding onto her in the chaos of it all.

____________________________________________

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[bettelaboure]

⊹Looking for your hat, cowboy?⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Summary: a confident, provocative dancer and a closed-off, brooding idol clash backstage and onstage in a slow-burn, tension-fueled romance that spirals from teasing games to raw emotional confession. ⊹ Warnings: explicit sexual content, rough language, secret relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation (in teasing), voyeuristic elements, public exposure risks, and workplace power tension ⊹ Author's note: good luck, have fun 🤍

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You joined BigBang at twenty-two, all hips, attitude, and glitter. Not that you cared much for the fame. You loved the music. The beat. The way your body felt like a live wire when you danced. You loved the thrill of performing, the rush of being watched. Of knowing they were looking. Especially him.

Choi Seung-Hyun.

He didn’t look the way you'd expected. Not when you first met. He wasn't loud, or flashy, or hungry for attention like the rest of them. He looked carved from shadow and smoke, all angular lines and quiet storms. Dark brows and darker eyes. His voice was low, rich as whiskey, and twice as dangerous.

He didn’t like you.

That was fine. You didn’t like him either.

You were the dancer. The one who wore ripped tights and heels, who smirked during interviews and rolled your eyes at rehearsals. The one who could swing her hips and make the world forget its name. You pushed buttons. Smiled sweet and jabbed hard. Especially at Seung-Hyun.

Because he never flinched.

Until he did.

The studio was dim, bathed in golden lamplight and the low buzz of electricity. Rain lashed the windows, the city beyond hazy and soft. Seung-Hyun sat hunched over his notebook, long fingers cradling a pen like it was a weapon. You slipped in behind him, a shadow of perfume and humidity, your ponytail still damp from rehearsal.

"You're sulking again," you said, the words gliding from your mouth like silk dipped in acid.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even twitch.

You crossed the room with that slow, deliberate sway of your hips, hips that had commanded stages in Seoul and Shanghai and London. You slid into the seat beside him, your legs folding with grace and defiance, one bare knee brushing his thigh. He was all wrapped up in his lyrics, jaw tight, bottom lip bitten raw with focus. You leaned in just a little, close enough that your breath warmed the shell of his ear.

"You know," you said, voice pitched low, "you'd be hot if you smiled more."

He stopped writing. The pause was subtle, but you felt it.

A flicker.

The edge of something that hadn’t quite sharpened yet.

Then, without looking, he said, "And you'd be tolerable if you talked less."

Your head tilted. A smirk tugged at your lips.

"Wow. Was that an insult, Choi? I’m proud of you."

"Wasn't trying to impress you," he replied, tone dry, though his pen moved again. You noticed the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. How his hand tightened just slightly around the pen.

"You should."

This time, he did glance at you. Just a flick of those obsidian eyes, but it was enough. Your breath caught, for half a second. Then you laughed, light and careless.

He didn't laugh.

He never did.

But something shifted between you.

A hum. A tension, like the air before thunder.

It kept building. Slow and brutal, like the pull of a riptide. You kept finding ways to poke at him, to press where it hurt—or thrilled. Like the time during tour in Osaka, when you strutted into the green room in your shortest silver skirt, your thighs gleaming under the fluorescents. You leaned over the snack table just a little too far, feigning interest in a banana, and glanced over your shoulder to catch him staring.

He looked away immediately. Choked slightly on his water.

Victory.

You sat beside him after, close enough to brush arms. He kept his gaze on the floor, headphones in, jaw working like he was chewing through everything he wanted to say.

"See something you liked, oppa?"

His eyes flicked up. That same heat. Controlled. Bottled.

"I see a lot of things I don't comment on. Doesn't mean I didn't notice."

You blinked.

That was new.

You tilted your head, studying him. "Learning to play my game?"

He leaned in, slowly. Not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the gravity between you. "No. Just rewriting the rules."

You didn't have a comeback for that. Not right away.

But it shifted for real that night in Tokyo.

The building was nearly empty. Rain pattered on the rooftop, a soft, endless drumming that made everything feel heavier. You were dancing alone in the practice room, lit only by the glow of the city filtering through the foggy glass. The mirrors caught your silhouette—fluid, powerful, and unapologetic.

He watched you from the couch for a while, silent. You weren’t even sure when he’d walked in. You just caught his reflection, shadowed and still, in the mirror behind you.

"Do you ever stop performing?" he asked finally.

You turned, slightly out of breath, skin flushed and glistening.

"Do you ever start?"

The question hung there. Then he stood, walking towards you slowly, like he was testing the ground beneath his feet. Your body tensed instinctively. Not in fear. In anticipation.

He stopped a foot away.

"You wear your skin like armor," he said, almost a whisper.

You stared at him, pulse thudding. "And you wear yours like a coffin."

His breath hitched.

Then he reached up. Brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek, fingertips barely grazing your skin. But the touch landed deep, like a burn you wouldn’t feel until later.

"Learning how to bite back," he said.

Your lips parted. Heart hammering. His fingers hovered, then dropped.

You didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

That was the first real moment. Not a line. Not a game. Just two people, stripped to the edge of something they didn’t have words for yet.

The tension didn’t dissolve after that. It simmered. Shifted. Became more dangerous. He met your provocations with quiet confidence now, sometimes even that sly, devastating half-smile that did more damage than any comeback. You still wore your shorts, your skirts, your confidence like weapons—but now you caught him watching, letting you know he was watching.

And when he looked away, it wasn’t out of shame.

It was to let you wonder what he was thinking.

And God, you did.

The live performance for "Bang Bang Bang" was pure chaos—the kind of spectacle that lived in flashing lights, sweat-slick skin, and thunderous bass. You were in full regalia, black leather and fire-red accents. Seung-Hyun, though, stole the breath from your lungs the second he walked out in that cowboy outfit.

Boots. Tight black jeans. That ridiculous but somehow perfect hat perched atop his head. The jacket—a mix of denim and fringe—should’ve looked tacky. On him, it was lethal.

You stalked over after the number, still high off the adrenaline, your skin buzzing. Seung-Hyun had just peeled his gloves off when you plucked the cowboy hat right off his head and settled it onto your own, tilting it at a playful angle.

His eyes flicked up to you, half-annoyed, half-amused, but he didn’t protest—just watched, arms crossed over his chest, as you turned to Hyo-rin with that signature smirk.

“So, you know the rule, right?” you asked, voice dripping with mischief.

Hyo-rin, catching on immediately, tried to hold in her laugh, but her lips twitched. “What rule?”

You leaned in conspiratorially, fingers tapping the brim of the hat. “You wear the hat…” You paused, letting the silence stretch, watching Seung-Hyun out of the corner of your eye as he straightened slightly, a frown forming.

Then you dropped the bomb. “You ride the cowboy.”

Silence.

Seung-Hyun blinked. Once. Twice. Then he choked. His body went rigid like he’d just short-circuited, and his hand jerked up—too slow—to snatch the hat back.

You spun out of reach, laughing.

Hyo-rin completely lost it, practically wheezing with laughter. Seung-Hyun stood there, stunned and utterly betrayed, his ears turning crimson.

“That’s not a real rule,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“Oh, but it is,” you teased, tipping the hat dramatically before finally handing it back. You walked past him, close enough for your shoulder to brush his. “And now that you know, well… be careful who you let wear it.”

He groaned, dragging his hands over his face, and you? You just basked in your victory, the echo of your laughter still hanging in the air as he stood there—flushed, rattled, and maybe just a little bit intrigued.

Another show ended in a frenzy of lights and applause, but even as the crowd roared and the confetti rained down, you felt his stare. It wasn’t the usual casual glance or tight-lipped smirk. It was direct. Controlled. Electric.

Seung-Hyun hadn’t said a word after the cowboy stunt. But you could feel the storm brewing.

You lingered near the back hallway, sipping from a water bottle and humming under your breath when you heard the purposeful click of boots. You turned, already smiling.

"Looking for your hat again, cowboy?" you teased.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached you in three long strides. Before you could blink, he bent and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, your body jolting with surprise.

“Seung-Hyun—what the—?!”

Your words punched out of you, breathless and half-laughing, your hands bracing against his strong back. The fringe of his jacket tickled your fingers, and you felt the taut ripple of muscle beneath it. His hold was unshakable, one arm locked around your thighs, the other steadying your hips like he’d done this a thousand times in his head.

“You think you’re funny?” he growled, voice low and close to your waist. “Running your mouth like that?”

“I know I’m funny,” you bit back, twisting slightly over his shoulder to glare at the back of his head. “What, can’t handle a little heat, cowboy?”

He didn’t answer.

Just let out a long, controlled breath and kept walking.

The sound of his boots echoed in the narrow hallway. The tension between you—hot and fraying—vibrated in every step. You weren’t laughing anymore. Not really. Because beneath the adrenaline, there was something heavier in your stomach. Anticipation. Want. A thrill of not knowing what he was going to do next.

He kicked the door to the empty dressing room open with his boot and stepped inside like a man with a mission. You barely had time to take in the room before he closed the door behind you with a hard click and locked it.

Then he set you down—slow, almost too gentle—and didn’t let go.

You straightened, brushing hair from your face, breath uneven. “So you manhandle all your bandmates, or am I just special?”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Then he stepped back, dragging a hand through his damp hair. Still in full costume—tight black jeans hugging every muscle, fringe jacket slipping off one shoulder, and the cowboy hat held loosely in his hand—he looked like a fever dream.

“I’m tired,” he said suddenly, voice rough, cracking through the air. “Tired of pretending this is all jokes. That I don’t feel it every damn time you push me.”

You blinked. “Feel what?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You.”

He sat down heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees, running both hands down his face, then clutching the hat like it was anchoring him.

“I go home, and I replay it all. You walking past me in those skirts. The way you bite your lip when you think I’m not looking. The way you laugh like you know you’re pulling my strings.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your throat.

“I didn’t play your game because I was afraid. I didn’t play because I knew—if I started—I wouldn’t stop. I can’t stop.”

He stood again. Slow. Like a force of nature reining himself in.

“I can’t keep pretending your teasing doesn’t wreck me. That I don’t want to tear that smug look off your face and kiss you until you forget your own name.”

He stepped in close, lifting the hat.

“Every time you wear this,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I think about it.”

You raised an eyebrow, testing him. “About what?”

He gently—intimately—placed the hat on your head, tilting it just right. His knuckles brushed your cheek. You didn’t breathe.

His eyes locked with yours. “You said the rule was—‘you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.’”

Your smirk wavered.

He stepped back, slow, and sat on the couch with a heavy exhale. Legs spread. Shoulders relaxed, but his gaze never left yours.

“Then ride me,” he said.

The air left your lungs.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. You took one step forward. Then another. And then his hands were on your hips, pulling you to straddle him, and you were sinking into his lap, knees tight to his thighs.

There was a pause.

Just a heartbeat.

Both of you breathing the same air, eyes locked. And then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

There was no preamble. Just hunger. Tongue. Teeth. Four years of heat and silence and self-restraint burning down all at once.

Your fingers curled into his fringe jacket, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the weight of him beneath you. He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your back, possessive and sure. You arched into his touch, heat blooming in your stomach.

"You’re full of shit, you know that?" you gasped against his mouth.

"And you’re addicted to playing with fire," he growled, nipping at your lower lip.

You moaned when his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, finding every sensitive spot with maddening precision. Your hips shifted forward, slow, deliberate. His grip tightened.

“Still playing it cool?” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked.

“Not even a little,” you panted, nails raking through his hair.

He leaned back just far enough to look at you. “You gonna keep the hat on, or should I take it back now?”

You gave him a wicked smile. “Only if you can handle what comes next.”

He matched it. “Try me.”

Your hands moved first—sliding over his chest, unfastening the fringe jacket and pushing it off his shoulders. The fabric slithered down his arms, pooling behind him on the couch. You let your fingers explore the lines of muscle beneath his thin shirt, mapping him with touch. He watched you, heat simmering in his gaze, but didn't move to stop you.

His hands skimmed the curve of your thighs, fingers brushing the edge of your performance shorts. He pushed the fabric higher, thumbs tracing bare skin, drawing lazy circles that made your breath catch.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice dark silk.

“I’m not scared,” you said, meeting his eyes.

“I didn’t say you were.” He smirked, and then leaned up to kiss you again—slower this time, more exploratory. Like he was savoring the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath. Your bodies pressed closer, the friction building, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

You peeled off your top, your bare skin now flush against his, and the sensation made both of you shiver. His hands found your waist, guiding you gently, firmly, like he’d imagined this moment too many times to rush it. You leaned into him, kissing down his jaw, his neck, dragging your teeth lightly across his collarbone. His breath stuttered.

He tugged his own shirt off with one swift motion, and your hands ran over his chest, tracing the lines, the tension held in every inch of him. The air between you crackled as you rocked your hips slowly against his. You could feel him now—hard and ready beneath you—and your smirk returned.

“You gonna keep watching me like that,” you murmured, lips brushing his ear, “or are you gonna do something about it?”

His answer was a deep growl.

He gripped your hips and pulled you down against him, your thighs tightening around his waist as your movements synced—slow, purposeful, maddening. You kissed again, deeper, mouths opening, breath mingling, fingers digging into flesh. You undulated your hips in a rhythm that had both of you gasping.

When his hand slid between your bodies, under the waistband of your shorts, your body arched. His touch was skilled, unhurried. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You pressed your forehead against his. "You were really just waiting for me to crack, weren’t you?"

He smiled, just barely. "I wasn’t going to beg. But I damn sure wasn’t going to let anyone else have this."

The clothes came off in fragments. First your shorts, then his jeans. His mouth stayed on your skin the whole time, worshipping, claiming. When you finally sank down onto him, slow and full and breathtaking, both of you froze.

He held you there, still, his hands trembling against your waist.

“God,” he murmured. “You feel…”

You silenced him with a kiss.

And then you moved.

Slow at first—grinding, teasing—every shift drawing gasps and curses from his lips. You rode him like you danced: unapologetic, powerful, in full control—until he met you halfway, hips bucking, mouth clashing with yours in something raw and desperate.

Each thrust, each movement, was a conversation neither of you had dared to have until now. The friction between you was more than physical—it was years of longing, of silence, of stolen glances finally erupting.

His hands roamed your back, your thighs, your chest, unable to stop touching. You rocked harder, faster, both of you unraveling, the room echoing with breath and broken whispers.

And you—riding him in nothing but that hat and a wicked grin—felt like the whole world had narrowed to this.

Him. You. The heat. The fire.

And the end of the game.

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, watching the way his eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping back against the couch. A low moan escaped his throat, dark and throaty.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice broken. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Good. Then die knowing it was worth it.”

He laughed—deep, breathless—and grabbed your ass, guiding you harder against him. Your bodies moved in tandem, heat rising between you like a storm cloud ready to split the sky.

“You love being on top of me, don’t you?” he growled, voice rough, each word pulled from his gut. “So cocky. So smug.”

You bit his bottom lip playfully before releasing it. “You love it,” you whispered. “You love that it’s me making you feel this way.”

He thrust up into you with force, his grip on your hips tightening. The sudden intensity ripped a gasp from your throat.

“I love that you’re finally mine,” he said, voice gravel and silk. “I love that no one else gets to see you like this. Hear you like this.”

You moaned as he buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin just below your jaw. Your body trembled above him, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding harder, deeper.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he groaned. “You’ve been teasing me for years, walking around like a goddamn goddess. You wanted this.”

You nodded, breathless. “I still want it.”

“Then take it,” he snarled.

And you did.

Your pace quickened, driven by his words, his hands, his body. You rode him like the center of your universe had shifted beneath your thighs. The moans that spilled from you weren’t rehearsed or coy—they were real, raw, drawn from somewhere deep. He responded with broken sounds of his own, his fingers moving everywhere, gripping, sliding, exploring.

“Say my name again,” he whispered, staring up at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believed in.

You leaned down, your forehead pressed to his. “Seung-Hyun,” you gasped, hips bucking, your body tightening around him. “Seung-Hyun—”

He kissed you again, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist like a lifeline. The hat tilted on your head with each movement, your moans swallowed into his mouth as you neared the edge together.

“I’m not going to last,” he warned, voice rough. “Not like this. You feel too fucking good.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “Let go. With me.”

You moved faster, hips rolling in a rhythm that had both of you unraveling, your bodies a blur of heat and friction. The slick sound of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with breathless gasps and the creak of the couch beneath your desperate rhythm.

He held you tighter, kissed you harder, and when you came, it was with a cry—his name on your lips, body trembling, heart hammering. He followed with a groan that vibrated against your mouth, hips snapping up into yours one final time as he poured into you.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat-slicked skin. His arms around you, holding you like you might float away if he let go.

You collapsed against his chest, your face buried in his neck. He rested his cheek against the cowboy hat still on your head.

And then he laughed. A soft, amazed sound.

“Still think this was just a game?” he murmured.

You smiled, breath still shallow. “No. That was the prize.”

You don’t remember when your fingers started playing with the soft strands at the back of his neck, just that it felt natural. Gentle. Intimate in a way that felt almost too much, too soon.

But he didn’t pull away.

Seung-Hyun was still beneath you, chest rising and falling with the slow, steady pace of someone trying to come down from a high. His arms were wrapped around your waist, his skin sticky with sweat, but he made no move to let go.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your lips brush his collarbone. A soft kiss. A slow inhale.

He smelled like heat and leather and something uniquely him—rich and masculine, threaded with a note of sandalwood that clung to the edge of his skin.

You felt him shift under you slightly, his hand trailing lazily up your spine.

“You broke the hat,” he muttered into your hair.

You pulled back just enough to see him, the crumpled cowboy hat now hanging lopsidedly off your head. You reached up, flicked it back into place with a smirk. “Battle wounds.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, soft and unreadable. For a beat, neither of you said anything.

Then he sighed, slow and heavy.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “I’m tired of the games.”

You studied him. The way his brows pulled together, the seriousness in his voice despite the way your body was still pressed intimately against his.

“I know.”

“You flirt. You push. You know exactly what to say to get under my skin,” he continued, brushing your hair away from your cheek with a featherlight touch. “And I let you. Because I wanted… this. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t mean anything.”

You blinked.

The words weren’t unexpected, not really. But they hit harder than you thought they would.

“And now that you’ve had me?” you teased, voice soft, but a little unsure. “What then?”

He reached up, gently pulled the hat off your head, setting it aside before resting his hand on the side of your face.

“I don’t want you just like this,” he said quietly. “I want all of you. When the lights are off. When the stage is quiet. When you’re not performing. I want the version of you who teases and the one who doesn’t. The one who’s strong, and the one who hides when no one’s looking.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’ve got me,” you whispered, almost like a confession. “Even when I’m being a bitch?”

He smirked, something warm sparking in his eyes. “Especially then.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. His hands slid down your back, grounding you to him, anchoring you in that fragile, real moment.

Outside the dressing room, you could hear the distant thump of footsteps, voices, the world starting to move again.

But neither of you moved to get up.

Eventually, you spoke again, voice softer this time. “So, are we still playing?”

Seung-Hyun looked at you, that familiar flicker of mischief now tempered with something deeper.

“No,” he said. “We’re done playing.”

Then he kissed you again—slower this time. No teasing. No edge. Just lips and breath and the taste of something new blooming between you.

Something real.

The next morning, it was all rehearsals, spotlights, and sharp-edged choreography.

You were back in your dancer mode—short shorts hugging your hips, crop top clinging to your skin, legs flexing with every kick and turn. The air in the rehearsal room was thick with sweat and music and the silent pressure to be perfect. Lights beamed down from above like stage fire, unforgiving and hot.

You moved like a weapon—controlled, deadly, and graceful. The beat of the track pounded in your chest like a second heartbeat. You didn't look at him.

But you felt him.

Seung-Hyun’s presence was a constant hum under your skin. Not glaring or obvious—he’d never be that. But in the way his gaze skimmed you when he thought no one noticed, in the way his foot tapped in time with your rhythm, in the sharpness of his jaw every time you rolled your hips just a little harder than necessary.

You hadn’t spoken since last night. Not properly. Just one last kiss—slow and silent, lips warm with something that felt suspiciously like affection—before he helped you dress. Then, a walk through the hallways, his hand resting low on your back like he owned that part of you now.

That tension, unspoken and buzzing, followed you both into the room.

During break, you collapsed on the floor with Hyo-rin, sweat dripping down your spine, legs still humming from the last routine.

“You good?” she asked, arching a brow. “You haven’t roasted Seung-Hyun once today. I’m worried.”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Maybe I’m bored of watching him squirm.”

She gave you a pointed look. “You don’t look bored. You look like you had sex for twelve hours and can’t sit properly.”

You rolled your eyes, sipping water. “Don’t project.”

“Don’t deny it,” she fired back. “You’ve got that stupid, post-orgasm glow. And he—” she nodded toward where Seung-Hyun was silently talking to Jiyong, face flushed, shirt clinging to his torso “—looks like he’s trying to stay sane.”

Your eyes drifted despite yourself.

He glanced over, meeting your gaze for the first time today. And this time—he held it.

No flinch. No subtle glance away. Just steady, simmering eye contact.

Your breath hitched. You tilted your chin. Smirked slightly.

He didn’t smile back—but his eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly, and your stomach flipped.

“Jesus,” Hyo-rin muttered. “Just fuck in the equipment closet and spare us the foreplay.”

You grinned, but the heat in your belly was real.

After rehearsal, people scattered—some to shower, others to food or phone calls. You lingered near the vending machines under the pretense of choosing between water or soda.

You sensed him before you saw him.

Seung-Hyun appeared beside you like smoke, silent and solid, his body boxing you in with casual dominance. One hand pressed to the wall near your head. The other brushed lightly against your hip.

“You kept looking at me like you wanted to fuck me in front of everyone,” he said, low and dangerous.

Your lips curled, slow and deliberate. “I was just stretching. Can’t help it if my ass looks good doing it.”

His laugh was dark and quiet. “You really don’t know when to stop.”

“You like it when I don’t.”

He leaned in—his breath warm against your ear. “I like it better when you’re naked, dripping, and begging.”

You inhaled sharply.

Then he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. “My place. Twenty minutes. Unless you’re too sore to ride again.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him close enough to barely brush his lips with yours.

“Better hydrate, cowboy,” you whispered. “You’re gonna need your stamina.”

His hand dropped down to squeeze your ass—hard enough to sting. “I already want you again.”

You shivered, and for once, had no comeback.

He stepped back, all cool control, and walked away like he hadn’t just lit a match and left you burning.

You didn’t knock.

He’d left the door unlocked for you, and when you stepped inside his apartment, it smelled like warm spice and cologne. Dim lights pooled in corners. One small lamp was on, casting golden hues across leather and hardwood. It was quiet. Too quiet.

You kicked off your sneakers, padded inside, your body still humming with adrenaline from the studio—and from him.

He was standing in the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand, the same black shirt from earlier now slightly damp from his post-rehearsal shower. His hair was damp too, brushed back and curling slightly at the ends.

He didn’t say anything when he saw you.

Just set down the glass and crossed the space between you in five slow steps.

You were already unbuttoning your shorts.

His mouth caught yours before you could speak. Hot. Demanding. Fingers diving into your hair. You grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it upward. He helped pull it off, tossing it aside as you backed into the nearest wall.

His body pressed against yours. Hard. Familiar. Perfect.

“I thought about you all day,” he said against your mouth. “Bouncing on me. Fucking owning me.”

You moaned, letting your head fall back. “Tell me more.”

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you, just like that—effortless. You wrapped your legs around his waist and felt the heat of his cock already pressing through his jeans.

“No teasing tonight,” he growled. “No games.”

“Good,” you gasped. “Because I’m not in the mood to wait.”

He carried you to the bedroom, dropped you onto the bed with a grunt, and pulled your shorts down in one swift move. Your top followed. Then your panties.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmured, sinking between your thighs. His fingers stroked over your folds, spreading you open. “Were you this wet while dancing?”

You whimpered. “Thinking about you fucking me in front of everyone.”

He groaned—deep and hungry—and dipped his head. His mouth found you, slow at first, then greedy. Tongue curling. Sucking. Drawing out every sound you gave him.

You clawed at the sheets, hips rolling, voice breaking.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, and his eyes were dark as obsidian.

“I want to watch you ride me again,” he said, pulling off his jeans and underwear. “I want you in control.”

You straddled him before he could finish the sentence, your mouth capturing his in a kiss that was more bite than breath.

He hissed as you sank down onto him, inch by inch.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathed, fingers digging into your hips. “Just like that.”

You rode him slowly at first, letting the pressure build. Each thrust dragged fire along your nerves. Each movement stoked something deeper—need, connection, hunger.

“Seung-Hyun,” you gasped, bracing your hands on his chest. “I want all of it.”

He lifted his hips into yours, deeper, harder. “Take it. It’s yours.”

And you did.

Again.

And again.

Until your body shattered over his, until he broke beneath you with a growl and a kiss, until you both lay tangled in sweat and sheets, breathless and wrecked.

This time, he didn’t let go after.

He held you close, chest to your back, one arm wrapped around your stomach like you might vanish in the night.

“You’re not leaving after this,” he said softly.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered.

And neither of you said another word.

It was getting harder to hide.

The thrill had its bite—stolen glances, breathless goodbyes behind locked doors, kisses smudged between elevator dings. But lately, the thrill was starting to turn into something else. Something riskier.

Like now.

You stood backstage at the music show venue, all glitter and chaos, your group waiting for your cue. Crew members ran past with clipboards, cords, and coffee, the low thrum of bass from the main stage vibrating through the floors.

And there was Seung-Hyun.

Leaned casually against the wall across from you, dark pants, jacket loose over his frame, hair styled sharp and immaculate. He was doing that thing again—pretending not to look.

But he was looking.

You felt it in the slow slide of his eyes down your legs, the flicker of his tongue over his lip before he looked away again. You shifted your weight just enough to make the hem of your skirt ride higher on your thigh.

He noticed. He always did.

You arched a brow across the distance. He didn’t move.

Then, just loud enough for only him to hear, you murmured, “Stop undressing me with your eyes.”

He pushed off the wall. One step. Two.

“Stop wearing shit that makes me want to undress you,” he fired back coolly, eyes dark.

You smirked. “Maybe I want you distracted.”

He didn’t break stride. He stopped inches from you, towering in that dangerous way he had—quiet dominance, all heat and smolder. “You want me stupid on stage, thinking about you bent over the dressing table?”

“Something like that,” you said, tilting your head. “Worked last night, didn’t it?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes flicked around—technicians, a staff noona passing by, someone calling for a mic check.

He leaned in like he was about to whisper something scandalous. Instead, his voice came low, serious, brushing the shell of your ear like a threat.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You laughed under your breath, letting it ghost over his cheek. “You like when I do.”

Then, with maddening calm, you turned on your heel and walked away—slow enough that your hips swayed deliberately with each step.

You didn’t have to look back to know he was watching.

The rehearsal was brutal.

Lighting cues, missed beats, a scolding from the choreographer—but none of it fazed you. Not when you could feel him watching.

You danced harder. Let your body roll with the bass, every movement a challenge. Your crop top clung to your sweat-slicked skin, your thighs flexing in time with the music.

At one point, you dropped low during a freestyle moment—knees apart, ass angled just enough to make your point.

You didn’t look at him.

But when the music cut and everyone caught their breath, you finally turned your head.

Seung-Hyun’s eyes were on you.

And he was pissed.

You bit your lip to hide the grin.

Later, in the makeup room, you were touching up eyeliner when the door opened behind you. 

You didn’t turn—didn’t need to. You could feel him. That silent weight of Seung-Hyun’s presence, coiled and deliberate.

“Careful,” you said to the mirror, lips curving as you dragged the brush with precision. “Someone might catch us alone.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped closer. The kind of closeness that made the air between you feel too thin. His eyes met yours in the reflection—dark, steady, simmering.

“Keep teasing me like that,” he murmured, “and I’m going to fuck you in this chair.”

Your breath caught. You smiled anyway, slow and wicked. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“I’m not in the mood for games tonight.”

You dropped the brush, your hand suddenly not so steady. “Oh?”

He moved behind you—close enough that the heat of him sank through the thin fabric of your crop top. He didn’t touch you. Not at first. Just stood there, his voice low against your neck.

“You think you’re in control?” he asked, tone casual but laced with steel. “All those moves you pull on stage, the looks, the smirks. You think I won’t do something about it?”

“I think you’ll try,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

One hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against him. His other hand slid down the front of your body, fingers slipping between your thighs with a confidence that made your pulse jump.

You gasped, grabbing the edge of the makeup table as his fingers pressed against the thin fabric of your shorts—slow, teasing strokes that made your knees weaken instantly.

“Still think this is a game?” he whispered against your ear.

You tilted your head, biting back a moan. “I think you like it when I play.”

He chuckled, dark and knowing, and slipped his hand inside your shorts. Past the lace. Past every last ounce of your pride.

Two fingers slid through your slick heat, slow and steady, curling just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You bit your lip hard, a small, choked sound escaping your throat.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch your lips. He stayed right there at your ear, breath hot.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured, fingers pumping slow, dragging through you like he had all the time in the world. “To sit there looking so smug, pretending you don’t need me?”

Your hips rocked against his hand, desperate and involuntary.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice lower now. “Look in the mirror.”

You did.

Your mouth was parted, eyes glazed, face flushed. You looked wrecked. Beautiful. Hungry.

His fingers picked up pace, and your breath hitched again, a small whimper breaking past your lips.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathed. “Dripping for me. Needy.”

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Don’t stop—”

Then came a knock.

Sharp. Two quick taps on the door.

You froze.

His fingers didn’t.

The door cracked open a few inches.

“Hey—” Jiyong’s voice. Casual. Oblivious. “We’re on in five. Don’t take too long.”

“Got it,” Seung-Hyun said smoothly, without missing a beat. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers still buried deep inside you, still moving—but slower now. Teasing. Maddening.

The door closed.

And he pulled his fingers out.

You whined—quiet, desperate, betrayed.

He turned you to face him for the first time, hand still resting at your waist. His eyes locked on yours, smug and dark and far too calm.

“You wanted to play,” he said. “Now you can go onstage thinking about how close I got you.”

You stared at him, trembling slightly, still breathless.

“That’s not fair,” you hissed, voice low and sharp.

He leaned in close—not kissing—just letting his mouth hover by your ear. “You look so good when you’re frustrated. I want you ruined tonight.”

Then he stepped back, straightened his jacket, and walked out.

Leaving you there—wet, throbbing, and one heartbeat away from losing your mind.

The lights hit like a tidal wave—searing white, full intensity, washing everything else away.

You stood under it, chest rising and falling with adrenaline, body already slick with sweat before the first beat even dropped. The crowd was a blur behind the spotlights, thousands of people screaming. But none of it touched the tension tightening your body like a noose.

Because he was there.

Seung-Hyun stood just meters from you, wrapped in shadows and smoke, every inch the image of restraint. Black tailored jacket, shirt open just enough to tease his collarbone. Hair slicked back, lips unreadable.

No one would guess the things he whispered to you less than an hour ago. No one would see how your thighs still pressed together when you moved, trying to soothe the ache he’d left behind.

The music started, thunderous and pulsing.

You moved on instinct—every sway of your hips, every sharp snap of your legs wrapped in choreography. But inside, you were coming undone.

Because you could feel him watching.

Not the way he watched when you first joined the group—curious, cautious, and a little annoyed. No, this was different. This gaze was ownership. Memory. Hunger barely leashed.

At the chorus, you dipped low, knees wide, thighs spread just enough to make it obscene if you held it one second longer.

He was behind you now. You didn’t need to look to feel his eyes on the curve of your ass, the slow grind of your hips to the beat, like you were doing it just for him.

Because you were.

You heard the breath he let out over his mic—just barely.

And then, right before the bridge, as you passed him in the choreography, his voice slipped low into the in-ear comms. Meant for you. Only you.

“Still wet for me?”

Your heart stumbled. Your body didn’t.

You hit your mark like a pro, face flawless, smile cocky.

But your core pulsed, hot and alive.

He was playing with fire.

And you were ready to burn.

You didn’t wait after the curtain dropped. The roar of the crowd still rang in your ears as you stormed off-stage, ignoring the calls from staff, the offered water bottles, the wide-eyed glances.

You needed air.

You needed him.

But he found you first.

You didn’t hear his footsteps—just felt his hand on your waist, spinning you and pushing you backward until your spine hit the cool wall of a backstage storage room. Somewhere dark. Dusty. Hidden.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask.

His eyes were wild.

Yours were daring.

“You’re playing dangerous,” you breathed, heart pounding.

His voice was gravel. “You started it.”

“You left me on the edge,” you hissed, breath ragged. “You think I’m just going to let that go?”

“You loved it,” he said, stepping closer. “You walked on that stage dripping for me.”

You pushed him, hard. Not away—just enough to press his back to the wall opposite yours.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your hands were in his hair before you realized it, tugging hard. His were gripping your hips, pulling you against him, and fuck—he was hard. So hard you could feel him through layers of stagewear.

“I was trying to focus,” you snapped, even as your hips rolled forward against his.

“Liar,” he growled. “You danced like you wanted me to drag you off in front of everyone.”

“Maybe I did.”

He let out a shaky exhale and kissed your throat—open-mouthed, no softness. Just teeth. Tongue. Heat. His hand dragged up the back of your thigh, pulling it over his hip.

“I couldn’t think of anything but this,” he murmured against your skin. “The way you sound when you moan. The way you clench when I curl my fingers just—”

He shoved his hand down the front of your shorts.

Your head snapped back with a gasp, one arm flying out to grab the nearby shelf to keep your balance.

Two fingers—already finding your sweet spot—curled with maddening precision. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling, stroking with slow, lazy control.

“So wet,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “You didn’t even fix your panties, did you? You liked feeling it all night.”

“Fuck you,” you gasped, but your body betrayed you—hips rolling into his palm, your breath turning to soft, desperate sounds.

“Not yet.”

He kept the rhythm torturously slow. Deep. Inescapable.

“You gonna come just from this?” he asked, his mouth barely moving against your ear. “From my fingers? Pathetic.”

Your knees buckled.

He caught you, kept you upright with a firm hand around your waist.

“Say it,” he ordered. “Say you need it.”

“I need—” you gasped as he curved deeper. “Shit—Seung-Hyun—”

Then: a knock.

Two sharp taps.

The door creaked open, only a few inches.

“Hey!” Jiyong’s voice. Casual. Oblivious. “We’re headed to press in five. Don’t take too long, yeah?”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move.

Seung-Hyun didn’t stop.

“On our way,” he said smoothly, never pulling his hand away.

The door shut again.

You clung to him, your entire body trembling.

But he was already slowing his hand.

Then stopping.

Then pulling away completely.

“No—” you whined, barely able to think.

He slid his fingers out, pulled your shorts back into place with infuriating care, and pressed one slow kiss to your cheek.

“I said you could come,” he murmured, voice silky and cruel. “I never said when.”

You stared at him, dazed, legs shaking.

He smiled—dark and pleased.

“Now go smile for the cameras, baby. I want everyone wondering why you can’t walk straight.”

Then he opened the door and left you there—aching, panting, and dripping with frustration.

And maybe just a little in love.

You made it through the press line, somehow.

Camera flashes blinded you. Questions blurred. Your smile was flawless, but your insides were chaos.

You could still feel him.

The slick heat between your thighs. The twitch in your muscles every time you thought about how close you were—how close he got you, only to leave you there. Shaky. Exposed. Seething.

And he? He was cool as ever. Standing behind you, perfectly composed in his black-on-black suit, sunglasses shielding those sharp, knowing eyes.

But you knew he was watching.

And he knew you were boiling.

It was a game.

And now, you were done playing.

You waited.

Waited until the after-party had started. Until the others were busy in interviews, drinks in hand, laughter echoing down the corridor of the hotel suite booked for the night.

You knew where he’d go to escape the noise. He always did.

So you found him alone.

In the empty side lounge, low-lit and quiet, an untouched drink in his hand and his jacket thrown over the back of the leather sofa.

He looked up when the door clicked shut behind you. No surprise. No panic.

Just that look.

That look that said he knew exactly what you came for.

You crossed the room in silence, slow and purposeful, every sway of your hips deliberate.

His mouth parted just slightly, eyes dragging down your body and back up again.

“You look pissed,” he said smoothly.

You didn’t answer.

Just climbed onto his lap.

You could feel his body tense beneath you, muscles tightening under the silk of his shirt as your knees straddled his thighs, your palms planted flat against his chest.

You leaned in, lips a breath from his.

“You think you’re in control?” you whispered.

His jaw ticked.

“I was.”

You rolled your hips against him once—slow, heavy—grinding just enough for him to feel the ache he’d left in you. He inhaled sharply.

“You don’t get to leave me like that,” you said, voice low and venom-laced. “You don’t get to wind me up, then disappear.”

His hands gripped your thighs, hard.

“I warned you,” he growled. “You kept pushing.”

“And now I’m pulling,” you snapped.

Then you kissed him—biting, open-mouthed, no room for air. His hand came up to your throat, not hard, just enough to still you.

“You gonna punish me?” he breathed against your lips.

You smiled. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

And you did.

Right there on the couch, in the dark, with the door unlocked and danger on the other side.

Clothes half-off, lips nowhere near polite. You didn’t even get his shirt fully open—just enough to run your nails down his chest, to leave marks he’d have to hide later.

He was rougher this time.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

“Don’t make me beg,” you gasped.

“You already are.”

You rode him with purpose, not grace—chasing the edge he stole, dragging him to his knees with you. Every grind, every curse, every hiss of breath between your teeth was war.

When you finally came—loud, messy, full-body—it was with your fingers digging into his shoulders and his name on your lips like a brand.

He followed with a groan that shook through you both, his grip tightening around your waist as he spilled into you, head falling to your shoulder like he couldn’t hold it up anymore.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Just breath.

Sweat.

Stillness.

Then a voice.

Too close.

Too casual.

“…What the fuck.”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned slowly—so slowly—to see Jiyong in the doorway, holding a drink, mouth parted in shock, eyes wide and blinking like maybe if he stared long enough, the scene would disappear.

You froze.

Seung-Hyun didn’t.

He didn’t even flinch.

He reached forward calmly and tugged your skirt back down your thighs with one hand, the other settling protectively on your lower back.

“Close the door,” he said to Jiyong, voice low. Firm.

Jiyong blinked. “Are you—what the—”

“Close it.”

There was a pause. Then the door shut quietly. Not slammed. Not panicked.

Just shut.

You turned your head toward Seung-Hyun, eyes wide. “He’s going to tell.”

Seung-Hyun met your gaze.

Not afraid.

Not sorry.

“Let him.”

It started with the silence.

Not tension. Not anger. Not even curiosity.

Just a silence so cold it felt like a wall between you and everyone else in the room.

When you entered rehearsal that morning, the weight of what happened the night before hung off your shoulders like a loaded coat you couldn’t take off.

You and Seung-Hyun didn’t speak on the way there. You hadn’t spoken since Jiyong caught you. The only communication between you had been a look—one of those quiet, dangerous ones he was so good at. A look that said: I meant it. I’d do it again.

But the others? They weren’t as easy.

Jiyong barely looked in your direction.

Youngbae gave you a half-hearted nod, like he wasn’t sure what team he was supposed to be on.

Hyo-rin, mercifully, was the only one who dared to speak.

“Hey,” she whispered while tying her laces. “You okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

She paused. “Just so you know… I’m not judging you. Or him. But shit, babe—on the couch?”

You cracked a smile. Barely. “Didn’t hear you complain when you walked in on me and that backup dancer two years ago.”

“That’s different. He wasn’t T.O.P. And I wasn’t in charge of press cleanup if things go nuclear.”

Before you could respond, Jiyong’s voice rang out.

Louder than necessary.

“Maybe we shouldn’t pretend everything’s normal when clearly it’s not.”

Everyone stopped moving.

You straightened, slowly turning toward him. “You want to say something, say it.”

He crossed his arms. “You made it everyone’s business the second you brought it into a public space.”

“It was after-hours. Empty room,” you replied coolly.

“I still saw it. Heard it. Seung-Hyun, you didn’t even flinch when I walked in. You didn’t even try to explain.”

Seung-Hyun looked up from where he was lacing his boots. Calm. Collected. “Because I don’t need to explain.”

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Jiyong snapped. “This group doesn’t survive scandals. If the wrong person finds out—”

“Then they’ll find out,” Seung-Hyun said, standing up. “I’m not ashamed of her. I won’t hide her anymore.”

You blinked.

There it was. In front of everyone. No hesitation.

And suddenly, the others weren’t watching him anymore. They were watching you.

Waiting to see what you’d do with that kind of declaration.

You stepped forward. “I didn’t plan this. I didn’t want it to become a thing. But it did. And it’s real.”

“And if it blows up?” Jiyong asked, voice lower now. “If it wrecks everything we’ve built?”

Seung-Hyun looked at him—not cold, not combative. Just… steady.

“Then we build something new.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time.

It was freeing.

Because for once, the truth was out.

And you weren’t alone in it.

It started with a headline.

“T.O.P. heart was stolen? Unnamed Source Confirms BigBang Member’s Secret Relationship with Dancer.”

You didn’t have time to panic.

The article dropped at 8:14 AM. By 8:30, your phone had twenty missed calls. Managers. Stylists. PR. Your name wasn’t in the article—but the implication was clear. “Long legs,” “feisty onstage chemistry,” “rumored tension backstage.” They might as well have used your name in bold font.

And Seung-Hyun? He didn’t answer his phone either.

Because he was already standing in front of your apartment door.

No disguise. No hood. Just him.

Holding your name in his mouth like it was a decision he’d already made.

You yanked the door open. “You saw?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped inside without being asked. His jaw was tight. His hands clenched at his sides.

You stared at him, trying to read his silence. “Are you freaking out?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because everyone else is.”

He stepped forward.

“I’m not.”

You blinked, taking a step back. “We can fix it. We can deny it. Say it was a misunderstanding. Let the company clean it up. We’ll go back to being careful—”

“I don’t want to be careful,” he snapped.

You froze.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “I’m tired. Of hiding. Of pretending I don’t want to touch you every time you walk past me. Of acting like you're not the best part of my day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“You said you were scared,” he continued, stepping closer. “I am too. But I’m more scared of losing you than I am of headlines.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re not a rumor to me,” he said. “You’re real. And I’m done acting like you’re not.”

And then—before you could respond—he kissed you.

Hard.

No build-up. No slow burn.

Just fire.

His hands found your waist and pulled you in, lips demanding, breath hot. He kissed you like the world could burn and he’d still choose to go down with you in his arms.

You kissed him back just as hard.

Because you were tired too.

Tired of silence. Of half-truths and shadows. Of walking past him in public like he didn’t ruin you in private.

When you finally pulled back, your breath was ragged.

“What if they ask us directly?” you asked.

He looked you dead in the eye.

“Then I’ll say the truth.”

It came faster than either of you expected.

A press conference.

Scheduled “to address the rumors.” PR offered a dozen pre-written statements. Scripts. Polished denials. Just say it was misinterpreted, they said. Just say it’s nothing.

Seung-Hyun read none of them.

You stood behind the curtain, palms sweating, heart racing like it wanted out of your chest. He stood beside you, calm as ever—but his hand found yours and didn’t let go.

When the lights came on, and the crowd of journalists surged forward like wolves scenting blood, he stepped up to the mic.

And shattered the silence.

“I’m not here to deny anything.”

Flashbulbs exploded. Shouts rose from the press line.

He waited.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said, voice steady. “She’s a dancer. She’s strong, smart, and no—this isn’t a scandal. This is real.”

He turned, looked straight at you behind the curtain.

And smiled.

“I don’t want to hide her anymore.”

The fallout was instant.

The group trended globally. The internet split in half. Support poured in. So did backlash. But none of it mattered the way you thought it would.

Because when you walked out after the conference—hand in hand—he didn’t let go.

Not when the reporters screamed questions. Not when the managers whispered warnings.

He kept holding on.

Later that night, the two of you lay on his bed—sheets tangled, your head on his chest, legs knotted together.

He ran his fingers down your spine, gentle, slow. Different.

“Still scared?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

You looked up. “Do we regret it?”

He shook his head.

Then, softer: “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You smiled. “So what now?”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Now?” he whispered. “We stop burning quietly. Let the whole damn world burn.”

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Taglist: @janie-osuih@szonyix6277@chrypir@redhoodedtoad@sherrayyyyy@mirahyun@sherxoo @dilfismz@forevervibezzzz1@lariem-blog2 @infinetlyforgotten @maskedcrawford @httpjiprk @youlikeex @twilght-talks @emmiesoverthemoon

[weixuldo]

Out Back

Linecook! Anakin x F!Reader

a/n: lol this literally took me so long I’m so sorry!! But I’ve been craving a lil modern ani WORKING MANNNN anyways hehe here it is.

NSFW mdni!

Anakin is in a mood and you intend to get to the bottom of it

Warnings: gn!reader, cursing, banter, hand job, unprotected sex, cum, outdoor sex, almost getting caught, anakin is a moody brat

________________________

“Yea- I got it!” Anakin annoyedly shouted through the window for the nth time as waitresses flew through the kitchen shouting changes to orders- changes Anakin had to fix. 

More char, too rare, more seasoning, no tomatoes in the salad, parm crust

Anakin was more irritable than normal today for some reason but no one could quite pinpoint why. He was usually a flirty “know it all” but today everyone was walking on eggshells around him. 

He brushed his sweat sheened forehead against the sleeve of his black t-shirt before continuing to flip the line of steaks in front of him. He wasn’t the only one in the kitchen, but today he was working with a bunch of newbies and he was struggling to correct their mistakes while keeping up with demand. 

“Shit! Watch where the fuck you’re going!” Anakin yelled when one of the new cooks crossed over from the salad station to the grills without letting the others know. 

“Say behind if you’re gonna be crawling around people- Fuck!” Anakin shouted angrily. 

The other cook bit his tongue and nodded like a puppy that had just been scolded for chewing on the furniture. 

The manager had been watching Anakin’s increasingly bad mood and was debating stepping in. 

You arrived for your shift 15 minutes early, just like always and headed to the POS station to clock in. Your manicured nails clicked against the greasy screen before logging you in. 

“Finally- Bout time you got here, rush has been killin’ us today” Hera said in passing as you tied your server's apron around your waist. 

“What do you mean “finally”?! I worked night shift and had to stay to help Ahsoka close til 1 am and I’m still 15 min early” you half laugh- half snapped back at the older server. 

You passed by the food window to see if a certain someone was working; lo and behold he was. Anakin always looked so focused when he was in the kitchen, you could say that after months of observing the slight furrow of his brow when mixing the salads or when his tongue peeked out of the side of his mouth when he was plating dishes to run. 

But what you noticed most of all was his alluring appearance; to you, it seemed he should be on the cover of a magazine rather in a small dingy kitchen in the back of some random restaurant in the city. 

His angular face and sharp features had every new waitress fawning over him- and of course he flirted right back; no one knew his relationship status but one could only guess he had none. 

When you first applied, he flirted with you during your interview before being swatted away by your manager. You left feeling as if you were special based on how he acted. 

But once you actually started working there you heard all the rumors. He had gotten with most, if not all of the other waitresses (even some of the married ones). The other woman warned you not to get too attached because he never stayed in one place long and was seemingly scared off by commitment or anything other than maybe a two time hook up. 

That wasn’t really your thing so you decided not to get involved at all- of course you still flirted with him, but you kept the extent of that in the kitchen. 

“Hey hotshot- how’s rush serving ya?” You joked through the window as you grabbed the newest salad to run to table 10. 

Anakin had been so focused that he barely registered anyone was even in front of him but once he picked up on your sweet voice his head snapped up. 

He was about to respond in his normal flirty manner but then he remembered what had him in such a bad mood in the first place… you. 

Servers get discounted meals if they come in on their days off and the last time he worked it just so happened that you were not. When he overheard the other girls talking about your appearance he was going to go out and chat it up- that was until he saw you sitting across from another man. 

From further observation he deducted that it wasn’t a cousin or brother, nor was it a long term friend… you were on a date. And Damn did you look good.

Anakin was no stranger to the fuck boy lifestyle and keeping a nonchalant attitude about others; but something about you sitting there with someone else struck a chord in him. 

He realized that the past few months of “flirting” with the new girl had turned into actual pining.

As much as he hated to admit it- he was attached. 

At first he chalked the unfamiliar feeling of desire to being annoyed that you weren’t falling for his normal tricks that worked on everyone else.

But then he actually spent more time with you; accompanying him for his smoke breaks out back, complimenting him on his precision and skill in the kitchen, when he drove you home when your car was in the shop… 

Somewhere in between all of that he found himself really wanting something more than just a hookup with you. And everyone in the kitchen could tell, except you. 

He never flirted with anyone else when you were around and kept his other comments to a minimum even when you weren’t there. He stopped answering any of the late night texts asking for him to come over from other waitresses (causing a few to quit). 

The other cooks in particular noticed how much he blushed when you entered the kitchen- and no, that much redness was not just caused by the heat of the grill. 

All of his suppressed feelings came to a head when he saw you smiling away in that booth yesterday with a guy that wasn’t him. 

“Fine.” He grumbled out to you as he tossed up the next plate to the window. 

You took his cold response as him just being tired and swiftly ran the food. 

Once you came back he had moved to the grill station with his broad back to you.  

A bit odd- Anakin never gave up an opportunity to talk to you. But whatever, he was just in a mood. 

The rest of the day went by with the normal rush but once the clock hit 4:00 pm, you clocked out to take your break. You passed the cooks area on the way to the back and didn’t see Anakin, he must be on his break too. 

Instead of sitting on your phone, scrolling through your friend’s posts- you set out to find the sandy haired cook. There really were only two places Anakin would be on break: the bathroom or out back to smoke a cig; the latter being more likely. 

The cool fresh night air was a relief compared to the stuffy hot kitchen that you had been running around all day. Without having to even look over you could already smell the tell tale smoke of Anakin’s Lucky Strikes. 

You approached the moody cook quietly and took a seat next to him on top of the transport crates. 

“Finally found you- have you been avoiding me, hot shot?” you joked, using a nickname you had been calling him since you knew that the flirting wasn’t anything to read into with him. 

He took a long drag before exhaling the smoke out of his nose and slowly turning towards you. 

“No but if I were trying to, it obviously didn’t work,” he said coldly. 

Maybe he actually was upset…

“What's going on with you today Anakin?” you asked, genuinely concerned. 

“Since when do you care?” he snapped, making you instinctively pull back. 

He noticed your aversion towards his words and immediately cursed himself; he took another drag and hung his head. 

“I-I just wanted to check on you… but I’ll leave you alone now” you said solemnly as you stood from your place beside him. 

Before you could get your hand on the door he called out your name, making you turn to see him looking straight at you. 

“What Anakin?” you sighed, no matter his attitude you just couldn’t get rid of the soft spot you had for him (maybe deep down you still liked him). 

He took a deep breath and put his cig out on the side of the crate he was sitting on. Was he really about to reveal the real reason he was being so dramatic? God, how embarrassing. 

“Friday… who was that guy you were with?” 

It took you a minute to even remember who he was referring to but once you did you groaned and hid your face in your hands.

“That’s my best friend’s older brother- he’s been trying to get with me since I was a sophomore in high school”.

Anakin felt his heart skip (now he was really embarrassed).… He didn’t fuck up his chances, but he needed to act quickly- that was too close. 

You cringed at the memory of the date until you realized why Anakin would have asked that in the first place and a playful smirk found its place onto your face: “But why do you ask?”.

“Cause I want you” he said, eyes filled with passion. 

Wow. You really weren’t expecting him to be so forward. 

“Well you want everyone” you brushed it off with a light laugh.

“No. Not like this.” He could feel his body heating up- he hadn’t genuinely confessed to anyone in ages nor had he wanted someone so bad. 

“What are you talking about Anakin?” you asked shyly as he guided you back to your place beside him. 

“Ever since you walked through that door on your interview day… I just can’t get you out of my mind and I just…” he trailed off before looking back down at his calloused hands. 

“Do you say that to every girl who doesn’t immediately fall for you?” you scoffed as you shook your head. 

It sounded so cliche and honestly you weren’t convinced. But maybe it was also because you were realizing how much you wanted him… you just couldn't afford to be hurt. 

“I’m being serious- and no… I don’t” he said seriously- he was deeply regretting the persona he had been assigned with. 

Anakin watched anxiously as you sat quietly, lost in thought. Eventually he had a juvenile idea (but it might just work), he pulled out his phone and went back to a text conversation he had with his best friend, Ben Kenobi, and showed you the screen. 

You’ll be fine Anakin, about time you actually get your feelings in check

What do u mean?

I just mean it has been awhile since you’ve actually shown genuine interest in someone

…

Exactly. 

Once you scanned those he took the phone back and scrolled further down. 

Fuck Ben, I feel like i’m losing my mind I cant stop thinking abt her. 

Anakin, just ask her out.

Dude, its not that simple… like she thinks I’m just a fuckboy, idk every time I try to get more serious she just brushes it off- It just sucks cause I’m the one that made this image of myself

You know I cannot lie to you, you did. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t fix it now. 

You really didn’t know what to say… he seemed really genuine. In a way you felt a small bit of joy that he had been in his head about you because he had been doing to same to you. 

“Anakin… I really don’t know what to say?” You mumbled softly. 

“Say you’ll give me a chance- say you feel the same-“

His vulnerability was endearing and something in you just felt he was truthful and quite frankly, you did feel the same. Anakin watched with bated breath as he scanned your face for any sign of answer. 

His lips parted as he was about to ask another question when you grabbed his face and pulled him into a deep kiss. 

His blue eyes widened once he realized what you had done, but soon closed them in contempt, desperately returning the passion. 

You were about to break away when he pulled you into his lap without breaking the kiss, his experience was definitely evident now. 

Soon he stood and motioned you to wrap your legs around his waist as he took you behind the shipping containers so that you weren’t directly in the line of the door. 

He held a strong hand behind your head as he pressed your back against the brick wall and began to move his kisses downwards. 

“Oh Ani” you moaned as he nibbled and sucked the most sensitive parts of your neck. 

He felt his dick twitch at the nickname, “Fuck, call me that again beautiful” he groaned into your neck as you raked your fingers through his sandy locks. 

“Ani-“ you gasped as he pressed his muscular thigh right against your throbbing core. 

“Ride it, babe” he huffed through his nose. 

And ride it you did. He knew just what angles to move his leg to make it the most pleasurable for you. 

You worked your clit against his tight muscles and felt your panties becoming soaked. Whimpers and pathetic mewls escaped your throat each time he tensed. 

Anakin could hardly contain himself as he watched the scene in front of him unfold. The way your smaller hands pawed at his biceps, the way your cute little thighs tensed around his much larger one, your absolutely beautiful expressions- after imagining what you would look like for so long, none of his fantasies compared. 

Soon his attention was pulled back to the present when he felt one of your eager hands tugging off his leather belt. Oh shit- this is really happening.

“My God Ani” you gasped once you pulled his jeans down enough to see his straining erection. 

He had on basic black briefs but what wasn’t basic was his size. Of course in the past you had imagined what he might look like outside of work (or outside of clothes) but none of that could have prepared you for the reality. 

“What?” he asked with a confident tone. 

You halted your movements on his thigh to really focus on what you were seeing. His rock hard member throbbed in anticipation of your soft touch; a small wet patch formed around his tip. The sight mesmerized you; you couldn’t count how many times you had imagined how he would look and finally… you were about to find out. 

“You can touch it, you know,” he said, tilting his head slightly. 

Of course you wanted to touch it- you wanted to touch him more than anything, but suddenly you were feeling shy. What if he had better in the past? What if you weren’t good enough for his liking and he took everything back?

Anakin must have noticed your wonder and hesitation because he guided your smaller hand towards his clothed cock with a smile, “it’s alright, you don’t have to be shy”. 

Once your warm palm wrapped around the thinly clothed member, Anakin sucked in a sharp breath and closed his eyes- his cock throbbed in your hand as you tested the waters by sliding your palm against the fabric. 

When you felt you were ready, your fingers creeped up towards the elastic waistband and nimbly gripped the edge. You watched intently as every drag of your finger revealed more and more of Anakin’s tanned skin until a few wiry hairs appeared and finally his fully erect cock popped out from its confines. Anakin gasped as his cock slapped the side of your hip. 

You wasted no time wrapping your hand around him and running a gentle thumb over his slit. Soon Anakin shoverd your bottoms off as well and began running his skilled fingers between your folds. He was mesmerized by you and couldn’t decide where to look; your hands pumping his long member, his hands between your shaky thighs, or your pretty face twisted in pure ecstasy. 

You couldn't take it any longer, you needed to feel him- feel every vein, every groove, every pulse-

“Anakin, need you in me” you whimpered into his ear as you rested your head in the crook of his neck. 

Anakin thought briefly about the possibility of security cameras catching the two of you, but he figured if they were working- they had already seen enough to know what was about to happen. 

“Fuck it” he muttered before flipping your around and lining himself up with your dripping heat. In one swift movement, he entered you and moaned at the feeling of your tight, gummy walls enveloping him. He thrusted in and out of your hole with wild ferocity as he chased his long awaited high. But once you began lifting your hips to angle him deeper, he lost it. 

“Fuck- Fuck!” he swore while he braced himself against the wall with one hand to regain his composure. 

His thighs trembled as he reluctantly pulled out of you and flipped you around to face him; never had ANakin looked so focused- not even in the kitchen. Suddenly he slammed you back down onto his cock with a guttural moan when the back door busted open and your very frantic manager called out, “Skywalker, you back here?! We need ya back on the line”. 

Anakin grit his teeth and buried his face into your neck to let out a few more grunts before clearing his throat and exclaiming, “Yea- sorry, lemme just put out my cig”.

You struggled to keep quiet as Anakin’s skilled fingers worked your clit as you bounced on his dick. When he deemed you too loud to stay discreet, he placed an uncalculated hand over your mouth in an attempt to silence you. 

“Alright- just hurry it up” your manager yelled before rushing back in. 

Anakin barely had time to turn his head back to you before you took one of his slender fingers into your mouth, sucking and sliding your tongue around it as you made intense eye contact. 

“Ohh fuck” Anakin groaned under his breath before his beautiful blue eyes rolled back. 

And with a particularly tight spasm of your core, he felt himself letting go- 

“-m gonna- I’m gonna cum… shit- I’m gonna cum” he babbled as he jetted in and out of you in his final stretch. 

“P-pullout? D’ya need- need me to pull out?” he whimpered in desperation- if you didn’t give an answer soon, he wouldn't be able to help but cum inside. 

You nodded your head, partially expecting him to be annoyed with you, but he just nodded and quickly halted his movements and effortlessly lifted you off of him. Anakin’s eyes darted between your lower stomach, pussy, eyes and ground as if to ask where he should finish. You signaled to your stomach because that would be the easiest to clean up. Once he got your answer he almost immediately came; ropes of his warm, thick seed landed on your soft skin causing you to tense at the sensation. Anakin pumped his dick a few more times before leaning into you with labored breaths. 

“Holy shit” he breathed, causing you to laugh a little. 

Once his high washed over him and he stood without being dizzy he kissed you- “I’m so sorry I made a mess, I’ll clean you up with my apron”. 

He searched your eyes for just a moment before saying, “I know we got cut short and I'm so sorry that I have to go back in, but you should meet me after work so we can have all of the time in the world”. 

You smiled at his words and kissed him again as he cleaned up his spend. 

“And next time I'll take you on a proper date… I’m sorry our first time was out back- I fully intend on making that up to you. So what'd ya say? Give me another chance?” he said with a genuine smile. 

“Of course Ani- of course I will” 

***

Hope that was enjoyable for I guys haha- ik I liked it ;) also sorry again for my long wait periods 😭

[phoward89]

Based on this ask

You work as an aide in the Presidential Palace. It's not your cup of tea per say, but it's a job. A job with crappy pay, but a job nevertheless.

Your father was so proud of you for getting the job after your fall out with your ex. Yea, after you broke up with Odysseus Odair there was some tension at work, since you worked on the marketing team for his father's luxury cruise line company. So, you quit your job. You had to find a new one and a new place too, since your breakup had turned your life upside down.

Your father offered to let you move back home, but you wanted your independence; turned down his offer. He did help you find a new apartment and pay your deposit along with the first month's rent.

And after scouring the help wanted ads and job posting boards, you received a call for an interview for an office aide position in the Presidential Palace you applied for. You went to the interview and got hired right on the spot.

But, although you work in the Presidential Palace you've never come face to face with President Coriolanus Snow.

Or at least you haven't until the day you're running late.

The line in the coffee shop was ridiculously long. So long, that by the time you get your morning coffee you're a few minutes late for work. And, since you don't have a car, you have to run in heels to the Presidential Palace to prevent yourself from being too late.

As if 10 minutes late isn't bad enough.

But you're afraid of getting fired. You really need your job as an aide. Your savings account isn't very large, so if you lost your job you'd be screwed when it came to paying the rent.

So, you run a few blocks in your black kitten heels- paper coffee cup tightly held in your hand. You feel a sense of relief as you reach the large wrought iron gates and the hedges that surround the palace that you work in. Quickly, you rush thru the open gate and down the long pathway that leads to the large ornate entrance doors of the Presidential Palace.

The grip on your paper coffee cup is like a vice as you scurry inside of the palace. Your heels loudly click against the marble floor as you rush down the huge hallway, heading towards the fork in the road that’ll lead to your closet of an office that's right next to Chief of Staff Festus Creed’s office.

You're speed walking and just turned the corner to your office whenever you smack right into a towering solid wall of a man. You wobble slightly, nearly twisting your ankle due to your heels, and accidentally crush your paper coffee cup against whoever you ran into. The hot latte spilled onto your hand, your white blouse, and the jacket of whomever you accidentally bumped into.

“Watch where you're going, you clumsy, silly girl.” Berated a smooth, but low baritone.

You look up to apologize to the man you accidentally collided with, only to come face to face with the President of Panem himself.

President Coriolanus Snow.

And was he even more handsome in person then he was on tv, posters, and campaign ads. Platinum blonde hair, perfectly slicked back in a coif, striking icy blue eyes, clean cut angular jaw as sharp as a diamond, prominent nose, tall with broad shoulders and a thin waist; one that would be considered sluttty- President Snow was the whole package.

And as your bad luck would have it, you just collided with him and accidentally split your entire flimsy cup of morning coffee on him. Oh, how embarrassing.

To say you're flustered and embarrassed would be an understatement. You wish that the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

Feeling like you’re currently under a microscope, you ramble out an apology of, “I'm so sorry, Mister President. I was rushing and didn't see you.”

“Yes, well, you just ruined my sports coat by not paying attention. It's a Tigris design and now I'll be attending a very important luncheon looking like a fool because I can't wear it.” President Snow complained, his voice cold and insulting.

“I'm so sorry; I can always buy you a new one so you won't be embarrassed about having a stained jacket during your luncheon.” You offer, feeling horrible for ruining President Snow’s suit jacket.

“Very well, go buy me a new jacket.” President Snow tells you in an aggravated tone. “Tell Tigris at her boutique that you need a man’s medium sports coat in royal maroon.” He instructs you before walking past you with regal grace.

Great…

Now you have to go out and buy a jacket that'll most likely deplete your savings. All because you accidentally spilled your morning latte on the president; ruined his jacket.

You step into a posh boutique and immediately start to hear your checkbook crying. Oh boy, the atmosphere just reeked of high end couture; of things you'd never be able to buy. But here you are, in a place you can't afford to buy President Snow a replacement jacket.

A tall, slender woman with warm blue eyes and a few black streaks in her otherwise light blonde hair approaches you. Her plum painted lips smiled as she greeted you with, “Hi, are you looking for something in particular? I have a few pieces that would look fabulous with your complexion and hair color.”

“Oh, I'm not here for myself. I'm just here to buy a men's jacket.” You tell the woman, that you assume is Tigris from how her hair’s styled.

“Are you looking for something in particular for your partner?” The fashionista asked while leading you towards the men’s section of the store.

“A royal maroon sports coat in a medium.” You tell Tigris what President Snow told you to in order to get his replacement coat.

She nods as goes to a rack that's against the wall where a bunch of jackets are. You see her go to one of the lower racks where jackets are in various shades of red. Tigris skims thru the jackets, only to pull one out that's a perfect match for the one you accidently ruined.

And when Tigris tells you she'll ring up your purchase you know it's time to walk to the gallows; to accept the syphoning of your savings.

Although you work in the Presidential Palace as an aide you've never been in his office. Yes, you knew exactly where it was, but never had a reason to go into it. Your boss, Festus, was the Chief of Staff so he was the one that went into the office for things.

And you should be knocking on President Snow’s office door, considering you need to give him his new jacket, but you can't do that. You're still embarrassed by the incident this morning and, to be completely honest, the platinum haired president intimidated you with his stoic, cold demeanor. Thankfully, you're friends with President Snow's secretary, Leo Davis.

The man's nice and befriended you in the staff’s break room during lunch shortly after you started working for the Snow administration. He's a family man and gives out good advice.

“Leo, I need you to give this to President Snow.” You tell the lanky man, who's sitting behind a desk a few yards away from the large mahogany door of the president’s office, as you place the boutique bag on his desk.

Looking between you and the bag, Leo asks, “What is it?”

“It's a new maroon jacket for President Snow. I bought it to replace the one I accidentally ruined by spilling coffee on it.” You honestly tell Leo, who just nods.

“I’ll give it to him.” Leo assures you.

“Thanks.” You gratefully tell him before pivoting on your heel and going back to your own wing of the Presidential Palace to work in.

“Coriolanus, here's the replacement jacket that you made Y/N buy you.” Leo tells his boss, the President of Panem, as he walks into the office with the Tigris Boutique bag in his hand raised high up in the air for the most important politician in the country to see.

Coriolanus nods. Gesturing to a sitting chair in the corner, he says, “Please, put it over there.”

“Tigris is your cousin, you should've just called her for a new jacket instead of sending Y/N out to buy you one with her own money.” Leo tells his boss while going over to the corner chair and setting the bag down on it.

“She offered to buy me the jacket to make amends for foolishly colliding into me and ruining my sportscoat with spilt coffee.” The president defended himself against his secretary. Honestly, the cold blonde didn't see the problem in letting you buy him the jacket. You offered, after all.

“Y/N can't afford the fashions in your cousin's store. She's borderline broke despite being the daughter of Colonel Javani Halvir.”

“Colonel Javani Halvir's daughter works here? On my staff?”

“Yes.” Leo nods. “She's an aide for your friend and Chief of Staff, Festus Creed.”

“Send for Festus, I want to know everything about Miss Y/N.” Coriolanus orders Leo, causing the man to just nod and do as he's told.

President Coriolanus Snow found out very little about you from both Leo and Festus. Just surface level stuff, but nothing he truly wanted to know. The president want to know every single thing about you.

Apparently, hearing that you're the daughter of his late father's bestfriend (who had been deployed between a couple of district bases after the war) and stirred a lowkey obsession over you inside of Coriolanus soul. The cold hearted man never thought he'd meet anyone with a link to his past, a link to a time before the war. But then he met you in a whirlwind of colliding bodies and spilt coffee in a hallway.

Coriolanus, having a teeny tiny obsession with you, began to stalk you. He even felt bad about ordering you to buy him a new jacket since you truly couldn't afford it. Your purchase at Tigris' boutique had drained most of your savings.

Yes, he used his closeness with Livia Cardew to scour through bank records until he found your account.

But, although he felt bad about the jacket, the president wasn't going to reimburse you the money. He was too proud to do that. Coriolanus had an image to uphold and admitting he made a mistake in allowing you to spend your own money on that royal maroon sportscoat would destroy his image. President Snow's a cold, callous, and calculated man; nothing can change that.

He won't let it.

But, to make up for the whole jacket incident, Coriolanus does leave a large cup of coffee on your desk on morning. And under your cup’s a napkin with a tiny note scribbled on it in his flawless flourish.

Miss Y/N, please accept this coffee in replacement of the one our collision made you spill on me the other day. Please, come by my office at noon. We need to talk.

Coryo

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @princess-harvey @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @zombicupcake3 @jacesvelaryons @tempt-ress

[daisykihannie]

𝙰𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚎 | 𝙷.𝙷𝙹

pairing: auntie!Hyunjin x afab gn!reader

warnings: smut, NSFW, fluff (if you squint), established relationship, crossdressing, mommy kink, spit, exhibitionism, public sex, choking, mirror sex, degradation, praise, etc.

a/n: a huge thank you goes to @httpdwaekki for helping me proof read the final draft since my ADHD refused to focus <3

Hyunjin has always been so pretty. He was the definition of a pretty boy, your pretty boy. His slender figure was accented with lean muscles, his angular face. He had a sharp and strong bone structure that was contrasted perfectly with more soft and feminine features. His eyes were catlike and striking, making his expressions almost dangerous. He truly was the most beautiful mixture of feminine and masculine beauty.

It didn't matter if you were backstage for one of his performances or on the sidelines outside the scope of the cameras during the filming of SKZ code episodes, interviews, promotions, or even live streams. You could always be found watching in awe as stylists crafted stunning outfits that painted him as their muse in a creation of elegant gender neutrality, highlighting his most feminine and most masculine assets. Using makeup to sketch the most breathtaking images of pure unfiltered beauty directly onto his features.

You were staring at your boyfriend in awe as he got dolled up for the newest Skz code episode, the return of Skz Family. You'd expected him to yet again be put in that god-awful, insulting black bob wig that always pissed you off as it hid just how beautiful Hyunjin was. Instead, the stylists began to tie his gorgeous golden brown locks into an elegant but messy bun, adding accents of wispy waves that framed his face in a way that added to his femininity in a way you'd never expected.

It wasn't anything new for the members to witness you being transfixed and nearly hypnotized as the stylists worked their magic. What was new was the way your eyes darkened as you watched it happening. You could feel your mouth salivating at the sight of the stylists adorning him in elegant, golden jewelry and soft makeup to make him look so utterly female.

He was still seated in the stylist's chair as they worked on him when your gaze traveled over him hungrily. Desire began settling into your bones, unlocking something so new and raw inside of you at your boyfriend transforming into such a gorgeous woman and it took you completely by surprise. Your gaze had caught his fiery one that was staring back at you through the mirror, a curious smirk settling onto his plump lips that were glossed in a sticky pink sheen.

You had to forcefully pry your eyes off of him as the stylists were adding the finishing touches. You trained your eyes to the floor, the feeling of slick heat sticking to your underwear was now painfully obvious as you shifted in your seat, still feeling his burning gaze on your skin making you shrink into yourself. You had to squeeze your thighs together to try to calm the arousal pooling in your lower abdomen.

You almost jumped out of your skin when you felt the burning touch of Hyunjin's fingertips gently trace lines across the expanse of your shoulders. You were wearing a tank top so you were able to feel every tingle that erupted into goosebumps on your skin that followed his touch from your right shoulder, across the nape of your neck, and ended at the other shoulder when he sauntered behind you and landed at your side, the one furthest from the stylist chair.

You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, still refusing to look up when his long slender fingers wrapped delicately around the back of your neck, squeezing slightly at the veins on either side of it causing a blissful head rush to form. You were already crumbling under your pretty boyfriend's touch and he'd barely done anything. It was very rare for you to become this weak so easily and it took both of you by surprise but Hyunjin seemed to be enjoying your loss of composure significantly more than you were.

He kept his advances subtle, targeting every single one of your weaknesses throughout the filming. During every break, the other members would chat with each other, drink water, eat a snack, or check their phones but Hyunjin would always land that piercing gaze on you. The fire of desire that burned through his irises left you feeling hot to the touch, exposed, vulnerable, and oh-so weak.

Sometimes he'd find his way back to your side and you'd feel a large hand landing on the top of your thigh, down by your knee while he continued chatting with the members. Those long slender fingers drawing patterns on the skin of your inner thigh with featherlight touches. The intimacy of the action, as he trained his attention on his members, was causing shivers to run up and down your spine.

The filming seemed to drag on painfully slow while your boyfriend continued to tease you in ways that no one would be able to catch onto. It was like a naughty secret spoken without words between the two of you as your arousal continued coursing through your veins and you had to fight every single tell of your body to keep anyone from catching on.

You were squeezing your thighs together the best you could without having to shift in your chair, and you were biting back soft whimpers that threatened to escape every time Hyunjin displayed his masculinity while appearing so unbelievably feminine. That was accomplished through his man spread, sitting unladylike the way he knew you loved, flexing his arms that were displayed past the loose sleeves of the blouse he wore when he grabbed something, or raising his voice in a deep and domineering tone.

"Cut! Okay, good job boys. That's it for today. So after you're ready to leave, go ahead and go out to the vans, and everyone should go get a nice dinner while we pack up here. Then you can all go back to your dorms since you guys have the rest of the night off." their manager told the group of boys who erupted into their usual post-film banter. Minho was first to go to the stylists, getting his wig and makeup removed, changing out of his Hanbok, and changing into more casual clothes.

You helped the staff pack up in the meantime. They were all telling you that you didn't have to help but you insisted just like with every single shoot in the past. You'd grown pretty friendly with their staff and managers having been Hyunjin's partner for a while now so it was easy to fall into casual conversation while you worked with your back turned to the boys.

"Hyunjin-ssi, let's get that makeup off and get you into your casual clothes." the stylist said while using a hand to call the taller man over. He stood up and was about to walk over until his eyes landed on you, the red blush still very obviously painted across the back of your neck and reaching the tips of your ears. A smirk pulled at the corners of his lips and he began to make his way towards you instead of going straight to the stylist.

You jumped slightly when you felt the featherlight touch of his fingertips graze the slightly exposed skin of your lower back where your tank top had ridden up as you helped the staff. A tingle shot up your spine and once again you had to bite back a whimper. "Noona, I think I wanna keep this on, is that okay?" he purred.

His hand landed on your right hip as he stood behind you with his right side facing your back, looking at the stylist. His hand on your hip was hidden by being on the opposite side from the staff you were helping and his grip became tight on your hip bone as his fingers dug into the supple flesh, sure to leave bruises.

You couldn't help but stand up a bit straighter and look over your shoulder to see your boyfriend beaming brightly at the stylist, standing tall and looking so nonchalant. There was no sign that he had such a powerful hold on you as his Noona just hummed softly, nodding at him and calling Felix over instead to get his Makeup off and fix his hair.

Throughout the rest of the members getting undressed and dressed in more casual clothes, you could feel Hyunjin's eyes burning holes into your flesh, unaware if his eyes ever left you. Even as the nine of you filed into the vans to go get dinner, his eyes were trained on you and his hand naturally found its home on your upper thigh.

"How's that pretty boy fetish of yours doing hmmm?" he hummed into the shell of your ear. His warm breath fanned over the skin of your neck and a shiver ran through your body as your head snapped in his direction. A pout on your lips and your big boba eyes meeting his feline ones.

"It is not a fetish." you quietly hissed through clenched teeth, ignoring his actual question since you already knew he was only asking because he knew how poorly you were holding up.

"What? Not gonna answer me?" he egged on and you rolled your eyes at him before returning your attention to scrolling through TikTok on your phone as you were doing before hearing his snide remark.

You heard him huff out a chuckle right next to your ear and he looked back out his window in the van, squeezing the flesh of your inner thigh making you jump slightly, having to bite your tongue to hold in the yelp that threatened to escape.

When you guys arrived at the restaurant, there were masks and hats fitted to everyone's face including your own as you were guided to the section of the restaurant the company had rented out to ensure privacy while you all ate. Hyunjin sat on your left side and Minho was seated on your right, your body being comfortably fitted between the two men.

Everything went on as normal during dinner, conversations floated easily through everyone at the table while everyone was eating to their heart's content, some pulling out their phones at times while they ate. Hyunjin's hand was still settled on your upper thigh as always and you could still feel him watching you at times but everything felt normal for the first half of dinner.

That was until you felt Hyunjin's fingers slowly snake their way further up your leg and his fingertips slipping under the fabric of your shorts. The tip of his middle finger was not even a millimeter from your clothed core when you caught his wrist in your hand, stopping him from being able to move. You held his hand in place and shot the taller man a glare to say 'not in front of them' which he only smirked at before turning back to his conversation and continuing his advances.

He was stronger than you so your grip didn't stop him from lightly running the pad of his middle finger over your drenched slit, not that you tried very hard to stop him in the first place. Your arousal that'd been building all day was now painfully obvious to your boyfriend as he touched you over your soaked underwear. You could hear a soft groan escape his throat as he felt your arousal drench his fingers instantly. Luckily Changbin was shouting at the perfect moment, his groan going undetected by anyone but you.

You had to put all of your focus on chewing the food that was in your mouth while breathing normally, making sure you didn’t choke on the food as you ate. Not letting out any of the moans or whimpers bubbling in your throat as his fingertips slipped under the fabric of your underwear and began to slowly drag through your wet folds. Although it was easier for him to remain calm compared to you since he wasn't the one being teased and toyed with under the table, you could still see he was struggling a bit too. The tent in his pants that was twitching painfully as he remained present in his conversation was a dead giveaway.

Hyunjin's fingers were beyond drenched by now, your grip on his wrist was tight as your nails dug into the skin on the inside of his arm, creating small red crescents indented into the paler flesh. He played with your clit for a while, causing your legs to twitch under the table, luckily going unnoticed by Minho who was sitting closest to you aside from your boyfriend, before sliding his middle finger inside your desperate hole and curling his finger to press against your plush walls.

Feeling the wet silk of your walls wrap around his digit made his eyes roll back slightly, a growl coming from his chest as his adam's apple bobbed in his throat with a harsh swallow. He leaned over you, pressing a kiss into the hair at the top of your head before leaning lower to whisper in your ear. His self-control was about to snap and he knew you were about to cum on his fingers from the way you clenched around him. He couldn't have you cumming in your pants, it'd make too much of a mess and he couldn't live with himself if he let all of your delicious fluids go to waste, so he decided that needed to do something about this.

"I think I'm ready to eat my dessert. Meet me in the restroom." was all he whispered against the shell of your ear before removing his finger from inside you, a quiet but desperate whine escaping your lips at your denied orgasm and he slipped out of the booth. Your glassy, half-lidded eyes watched him as he left and shoved his middle finger that was just buried inside of you into his mouth to suck your juices off of it while he maintained eye contact and disappeared around the corner. Luckily the entire exchange went completely unnoticed by the rest of the group.

When Hyunjin got into the bathroom, he locked the door behind himself and leaned against the sink, waiting for you as he palmed himself through his pants. Missing the taste of you, his fingers made their way back into his mouth, a deep guttural groan ripped through him in response to the addictive taste of you exploding across his taste buds as his eyes rolled back in bliss.

After a couple of minutes, he heard you knocking a beat on the door so he'd know it was you. You didn't even have a chance to finish the beat before the door flew open and you were yanked into the bathroom roughly by the wrist and your back was slammed against the door. Hyunjin was ravishing your mouth in an instant as he pushed his thigh between your legs and caged you against the door with his body. You could feel the wet spot forming on the fabric of your shorts and meeting the pale skin of his muscular thighs. The shorts he'd worn for the shoot had rode up his thighs a bit when he pushed his leg flush against your core causing the exposed skin to be in direct contact with the now soaked, thin fabric you wore.

"Are you gonna be good and let me taste you hm? Let Auntie Hyune make you feel good?" His voice was deep and sultry as he spoke his words against your swollen, spit-slicked lips as the two of you separated from the heated kiss. You let out a whine and nodded frantically in response, a small broken "p-please?" fell from your lips in the form of a whimper as your lust-filled eyes landed on his own set of red and swollen lips, the lip gloss making the spit that covered them look even messier.

He wasted no time sinking to the floor on his knees as he used his fingertips to slide into the waistband of your shorts and underwear, pulling them down to your ankles in one swift motion. He quickly got to work, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses on the inside of your right thigh while he lifted the other one to place it over his shoulder. Your back was still pinned against the door for support and the scent of your arousal was flooding his nose, making him feel intoxicated.

His kisses continued for a bit longer on the inside of your thigh and the hand that held your other leg on his shoulder squeezed and kneaded at the flesh. Getting lost in the feeling against his hand while sucking hickeys to the inside of your thighs when a long, needy whine left your lips. His eyes finally met your glistening core before flicking up to your pleading expression, a smirk on his lips when he saw just how fucked out you looked without him doing much to you yet.

"P-Please Jinnie... touch me..." you whimper while maintaining eye contact and watched intently as he brought his face close to your core. Not yet allowing himself to taste you while his nose nudged softly at the hair on your pubic bone, teasing you a bit. "I don't think that's what you should call me right now baby~" he purred as the air from his words fanned across your throbbing clit, a shiver running through you and a whimper that matched it falling from your lips.

"Try again and if you get it right, you'll get a reward. Auntie will make you feel so fucking good~" he purred out and his eyes met yours, his gaze was borderline feral, and his need was written all over his face as he licked his lips. He needed you in his mouth right that second and you were taking a little too long to think of what to call him. His patience thinning, deciding to pinch the flesh of the thigh on his shoulder, eliciting a yelp from you.

"Mommy! please... please touch me mommy..." you begged the man on his knees for you. A low primal growl filled the small space of the bathroom before his self-control snapped and he dove into your heat like a man starved. His skillful tongue was lapping at your juices while he was grunting and groaning against you, your addictive taste filling his mouth once again.

His hands moved to your ass, nails digging into the plumb flesh and pulling your heat impossibly closer to his face as his tongue swirled around your sensitive bundle of nerves. Your thigh that was planted on his shoulder was beginning to tremble and your fingers wrapped around his hands that held your ass firmly. You didn't want to mess up his pretty hair by locking your fists into his hair like you normally would so his hands were a good substitute.

High pitched whimpers fell from your lips as he quickly worked you close to your orgasm, that knot in your abdomen tightening when he started pushing his tongue in and out of your heat, fucking you open on it. Your soft "ah ah ah"s began mixing with Hyunjin's deep groans and the sound of him slurping and lapping at your sloppy cunt.

"M-mommy fuck... I- I'm..." You were close, so painfully close but you knew you didn't have his permission to cum so it took all of your remaining effort to hold it all back as his tongue never slowed down against you. Your head lolling forward as you tried to hold yourself up on shaking legs.

"So good for mommy~ go ahead, Angel. Cum on mommy's tongue." he cooed against you before resuming his desperate feast of you. That's all you needed to let that knot finally snap and you doubled over, cumming all over your boyfriend's pretty face as he slurped, continuing to work his tongue inside and against you through the aftershocks of your orgasm. His tongue settled into a lazy pace as he watched your face that was painted with that beautiful fucked out expression he loved so much. After a short while of this, your breathing started to settle again and he pulled away.

He hadn't realized that you were using him to hold yourself up until your thigh was removed from its place over his shoulder and your knees buckled, causing you to almost fall to the ground but luckily he caught you easily. His cock was still painfully hard in the gray shorts he wore as he scooped you into his arms, moving the both of you so you could sit on the sink as your legs trembled.

He took his place standing between your legs as he began planting soft kisses on your head, temple, and cheek to bring you back to reality. Aftercare was his specialty, it didn't matter if it was a quicky, oral, or him ruining you and fucking you dumb on his cock, he always made sure to give you the best aftercare. "That's it my pretty baby, you did so good for me. I'm so proud of you love." he praised you and continued his soft kisses all over your face as his hands gently massaged your hips.

"Hey baby?" he cooed after a few moments as you came back down fully, his comfort helping you not go into sub-drop and you hummed in response, looking up at him with heavy and almost sleepy eyes. Your juices still covered his nose and chin as he looked at you with so much love and adoration as if you'd hung the stars in the sky.

"The only thing here to clean you up with is paper towels and that's gonna be too rough on your pretty skin. Can mommy use her tongue to clean you up?'' His words were filthy but the deliverance was sweet and loving, almost innocent. "Yes... Mommy can." you cooed back and he smiled softly.

He gently licked the skin on your thighs, around your still pulsing core, and along your folds, being careful not to go crazy from the taste again and push you into overstimulation. Once he was satisfied with his job of cleaning you up, he came back up to stare into your eyes and one of his large hands were resting on your cheek as his thumb rubbed softly across the pink blush that'd settled there.

"My turn to clean you up. Can't have mommy going back out there with her pretty face covered in my juices." you cooed and pulled him into a soft but heated kiss, your tongue tasting yourself on his lips first before making its way around his chin, jaw, nose, and cheeks with small kitten licks to make sure there was no evidence left of what had just happened.

The exchange was loving and innocent but you knew he wasn't done with you. He hadn't even gotten to cum yet and you'd never let your beautiful boyfriend go without his release after he's earned it with the performance he'd just given you. When you were about to ask him if you could suck him off there was a banging at the door.

"Oi! Y'all need to hurry up and quit fucking in there! some of us actually wanna go home." Chan's voice boomed and the both of you stared at each other with wide eyes, having been caught before you both erupted into laughter. Your legs were more stable now as you hopped off the counter and got dressed again. His cock was now mostly soft in his pants, and his face was clean again, both of you perfectly put back together as if nothing had happened aside from the sheen of sweat on your skin.

When you both made it back to the table, hand in hand, you were met with some teasingly annoyed faces and some mischievous smirks as you both were eyed up and down before everyone stood, filing out of the restaurant with hats and masks back in place before climbing back into their respective vans to head back to the dorm. The ride back was silent with everyone full from the filling meal, some napping in the car, and others on their phones.

When the van you and Hyunjin were in, along with Chan, Changbin, and Jisung, arrived at the dorms, you all climbed out and grabbed your bags. The four of you climbed up the steps to the front door with Chan leading the way and unlocking the door for the rest of you. Once you were all inside he locked the door back and you all took off your shoes and put on the slippers at the door.

You were the last one in and as you stood up straight once your slippers were fitted perfectly to your feet you noticed that the other three were staring you and Hyunjin down. Eyeing you both up and down and you suddenly felt shy under their pointed stares.

"So, Jinnie..." Chan hummed out, gaining your attention and your boyfriend's. Chan had his arms crossed against his chest, looking like a dad who was about to scold you. "Is there a reason you suddenly wanted to keep your Auntie outfit?" he asked, his suspicion showing in his tone.

Hyunjin couldn't help but smirk and look at you where you stood stiff, eyes wide and avoiding everyone's eye contact. Seeing you like that made a huff of laughter leave Hyunjin's nose before he looked back up to Chan. "I think Y/N-ie could answer that question a lot better than I could. Isn't that right Angel?" his hand landed on your hip, pulling your body close so your sides were pressed flush together.

"I- it's... N-no um..." you were mumbling and trying to come up with any words to say that wasn't "apparently I have a mommy kink and like to fuck my boyfriend while he crossdresses." but your mind was blank, unable to think of anything except getting wrecked by Hyunjin while he was dressed as Auntie Hyune.

The three producers continued to stare you down and a flush rose along your neck reaching your cheeks and turning your ears a bright shade of red. Jisung's face contorted into an expression of disgust as he was the first to realize, being the horniest person to exist, of course, he'd be the first to figure out the kinky shit.

"OH MY GOD- EW! I DIDN'T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR CROSSDRESSING KINK HYUNG!" Jisung whined and covered his face and Changbin and Chan seemed to realize then, a smirk growing wider on Hyunjin's face and you shrunk into yourself in embarrassment.

"Soundproof headphones and locking ourselves in our rooms. got it." Chan groaned and turned to hide in his room, the other two following suit and leaving you and Hyunjin standing there alone.

"Well, we've got plenty of time and no need to stay quiet baby~ now, let mommy take care of you," he growled as he pulled you by your hips flush against his hardening cock, lips attacking your own in a feverish kiss, tongues dancing together outside of your mouths for a moment before your lips connected again.

"THEY WEREN'T EVEN ON YET!" you heard Changbin's voice carry through the dorms, a chuckle leaving both you and Hyunjin in response before he lifted you by your thighs, earning a yelp from you in surprise as your legs wrapped around his waist and he carried you to his room, his lips attached to your neck. He kicked the door shut behind him once the two of you were inside before he let your back land on his bed.

He climbed over your body, caging you against the mattress while he nestled himself between your legs. He continued painting your skin in gorgeous blooms of red and purple. His hips were languidly grinding into your core, his needy cock finally getting the friction he'd been craving, his movements eliciting a high-pitched whine from you as your hands slipped their way under the billowy white fabric of his blouse.

Your fingertips explored the pale flesh stretched over his sharp dancer hips before moving a bit higher. Your fingertips were light, barely making contact with the skin making the touch tickle but in the most intimate of ways. The tips of your fingers settled on the last rid of the cage you'd found home in, the one that held you inside his heart and safe from the world.

Your thumbs rubbed circles into the muscles of his abs, pushing in periodically to massage the tender flesh, the feeling causing Hyunjin to let out a moan that was swallowed by your feverish kiss that hadn't broken since he'd gotten you on the bed.

Both of you feeling dizzy from the lack of oxygen was the only reason the two of you separated. He continued the movements of his hips that matched your hips rolling against him as his forehead came to rest on your shoulder. He let out a shuddering sigh mixed with a moan, the noise becoming one of your favorite ones he'd ever made.

"Does Mommy need a little help?" you purred, suddenly feeling a bit more dominant than you had in the restaurant bathroom. Your words caused Hyunjin's hips to stutter momentarily as a broken whimper fell from his swollen lips. You felt him barely nod against your shoulder, your hands continuing their massaging of his sides until the pad of your index finger grazed his sensitive buds.

He let out another whine, allowing you to take over the grinding as he kept his focus on not cumming in his pants yet and keeping his body weight supported by his arms as they trembled.

"Mommy, can I please take off your clothes? I need to see mommy's pretty cock." Your words were a sweet mix of desperate, submissive, dominant, pleading, and demanding. The subtle authority in your voice was met with Hyunjin moaning before pushing himself up off the bed to sit back on his haunches, keeping himself nestled between your thighs, home to him, exactly where he belonged.

"Please, angel? I need to feel you so bad, I need your skin on mine. I need you so fucking bad." His sentence was almost a whine at first before shifting into a deep growl on his last sentence. He was actively fighting an internal battle of wanting to dominate you in every way and have you fucked dumb by his cock and wanting to give you all the control and beg you to use him as your toy until he can't even remember his own name.

Having noticed the struggle, you carefully removed each article of his clothing, pressing soft kisses along the flesh as more and more of his gorgeous body was exposed. You didn't wanna do anything to force him into a decision that he may not be happy with so you were giving him a moment, using all of your self-control not to jump on his cock the second it was exposed to you.

His cock was so so pretty.

A pretty, pale cock with a blush pink tip. It was leaking pre-cum as he watched you taking a moment to just admire his body. The way your eyes shone with love and adoration, lust and hunger, was something he'd never get used to.

Hyunjin carded his fingers through your hair, his eyes never leaving yours when you looked up at him with the softest, most innocent look while drooling over the sight of his cock, finally making a decision.

He didn't voice his choice, primal urges taking over as his hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed the sides enough to cut off blood flow. At the same time as an almost pornographic noise left you, he was leaning forward as he pulled you in closer by your throat. His lips on yours again with a growl and you opened your mouth to get oxygen again.

He took your open mouth as an invitation to lick into your mouth with his lips separated from yours. Both of your tongues fought for dominance in a messy drooly battle that had saliva drenching both of your chins as it leaked down from your lips and tongues. It was so unbelievably hot, you didn't think kissing could get any more filthy and arousing than this until Hyunjin pulled away just enough to spit onto your tongue that was still out for him and a shudder ran through your body.

"Now, why don't you be a good fucking slut for mommy and let me use that sloppy cunt of yours huh?" His words were harsh, in the best of ways. Before you could choke out a response, you were pushed back onto the bed and Hyunjin ripped your clothes off of you, hating how you were far too covered for his liking and the barrier of clothes didn't let him get close enough to you.

Once he had you completely exposed to him, he manhandled you into the position he wanted you. He sat on the edge of the bed with both feet planted firmly to the floor, you were kneeling over his lap with both knees on either side of his thighs. You were holding yourself up over his cock facing the giant full-length mirror that faced the bed, your eyes meeting each other in the reflection as you both silently devoured the lewd sight.

"You're gonna do exactly as I say, got it?" he asked in a deep tone, a whimper escaping your lips in response before nodding and maintaining eye contact in the mirror. You were biting your bottom lip as you awaited his instructions but you saw his large hand come up and be pulled back before it came crashing down onto the side of your ass hard and fast, too fast for your brain to even register it. A high-pitched yelp left your throat and your eyes screwed shut.

"Use your fucking words, Angel. You know better than to break the rules," he said through clenched teeth and your eyes opened again to meet his. Your breathing was a bit quicker and shakier than before as you opened your mouth to give him a proper response.

"Y-yes ma'am, I- I'll be good. I promise." you whimpered softly and a low guttural groan was ripped from his chest at the way you'd called him ma'am, the name making his cock twitch underneath your still hovering and dripping heat. Your hole acts like a faucet with a never-ending flow of your arousal in response to the pretty man behind you.

"You're gonna let me split you open on this pretty cock that you go dumb for and while I wreck you, you're gonna watch everything. You aren't allowed to look away or keep your eyes shut or there will be consequences. Understood?" his hands landed on your hips again as he awaited your consent. His words were a demand but if you genuinely didn't consent to this demand for any reason at all, then that would be the end of it.

"Please Mommy, I- I need you inside of me... n-need to be so f- ah!" when he slammed your hips down, stretching you open on his cock with so much force it felt like your ass would be bruised, you knew you didn't even stand a chance.

A growl erupted from his chest at the feeling of your silky walls wrapping around his length, clenching around his sensitive cock, and sucking him in further than he imagined possible. Considering you were sitting fully down on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt and his pelvis now drenched in your liquids. The feeling caused his eyes to threaten to roll into the back of his head, no matter how many times he felt you around him, he could never get used to just how good you felt.

"Feel that? Can you feel Mommy's cock carving out that sweet hole of yours? hmm? This hole belongs to me, it's fucking molded to the shape of my cock. All. Fucking. Mine." His final words were met with punctuation between them in the form of him lifting you momentarily before slamming you back down onto himself with an unrelenting force.

"All- fuck! all yours- ngghh- mommy. I'm mommy's- Oh my god! Mommy's t-toy..." you're words mixed with loud moans, sure the entire neighborhood could hear just how amazing your boyfriend was making you feel and surely 3racha's headphones probably weren't canceling enough noise as you were practically screaming for the man who was truly using you like a Fleshlight.

Your eyes never left the mirror and you could see Hyunjin was struggling to thrust into you in this position. You wanted to ask him if he wanted to adjust but you were trying so hard to catch your breath that you couldn't speak. Each harsh snap of his hips was met with him slamming you down to meet his thrusts, knocking the wind out of your lungs each time.

As if he could read your mind, he used his grip on your hips to lift you up till only half of his cock was buried inside of you and held you still. He leaned back and planted one hand on the mattress behind him to hold himself up and the other arm wrapped tightly around your waist as he pulled you back a bit to be supported against his chest.

"Knees up and put your feet flat on the mattress baby." you obeyed his damn and got into a squatting position, making sure to keep his cock from slipping out of you as you adjusted. In the new position you could see a small bulge in your lower abdomen under where his arm had locked you to his chest, his cock pressed so deeply inside of you that you could see him inside you.

"Would you look at that~" he cooed as he admired the bulge in the mirror, moving his hand so his fingers rested softly on top of it and he rolled his hips just a bit so he could see and feel his cock moving inside of you and filling you up. A growl left him and his eyes fluttered blissfully at the filth of what was happening.

"Just look at how Mommy's cock carves out your insides with her cock, so fucking perfect for me baby." he cooed, the flip between degrading you and praising you was making you feel a bit dizzy in the best way. He felt you clench around him and your juices flooding his cock in response to it all and he couldn't hold back anymore.

The new position allowed him to thrust up into you at a brutal pace, his tip slamming into that sweet spot inside of you repeatedly and abusing it. Wanton moans and whines were punched out of you with every slam of his cock, mixing with strings of curses and his name. His own animalistic groans and growls along with some more high-pitched whines and whimpers from him filled the room.

"F-fuck.. mommy that's so- ah! so g-good. L-look so good f-filling me up" Your eyes were fighting to roll back into your head as your brain started turning into mush with how incredible you felt and that familiar knot was forming again deep in your lower abdomen.

"That's my perfect slut, such a pretty fucking cum-dump. Want Mommy to fill you up hmm? Wan' mommy to pump you full of her babies? Breed you like the dumb pup you are?" his words came out a bit frantic as his cock was twitching desperately inside of you, his own impending release not far away.

"Please! fuck! wan' mommy's cum! please please please fill me up, I've been good!" you begged him, your words slurring together as you felt yourself close to going completely brain-dead on his cock. His release didn't take long after hearing you screaming and begging for him, his hips snapping into you one last time and pulling you down fully. You felt his white-hot ropes filling you up and your own orgasm ripping through you, squirting all over the reflective surface of the mirror and your eyes finally rolled back into your skull.

You arched hard against Hyunjin's chest as you came and your head rolled back against his shoulder and his grip remained tight around your waist. Using his arm to rock you on his cock to work both of you through the aftershocks of one of the most mind-blowing orgasms you'd both ever felt, both your chests heaving desperately to fill your lungs with oxygen again.

You stayed like that for a few moments, your walls naturally fluttering around the cock still buried deep inside of you and pushing him to overstimulation. Letting out a hiss in response, he lifted you off his cock to lay you down on the plush mattress next to him. A whine leaves your trembling frame at the empty feeling, the noise earning a coo from your boyfriend and he lets his hair down from the bun before allowing himself to collapse back onto the bed again, next to you.

The both of you cuddled for a while, still sticky with sweat and Hyunjin's cum leaking out of you but you were too tired to care. He recovered a lot faster than you, noticing the puddle forming under you that was made of both his and your releases. He placed a lingering kiss on your temple and climbed out of the bed to grab a wet washcloth from the bathroom, returning to get you as clean as he could knowing you were battling sleep and unable to take a shower. It'd just have to wait until the morning.

He left your side again, placing the rag in the hamper before moving to your wardrobe. He slipped on some boxers and a pair of light grey sweats to sleep in and grabbed you a new pair of underwear and one of his oversized tee shirts for you to sleep in. He carefully got your almost asleep form dressed and climbed into the bed, avoiding the wet spot left over from his cum he'd cleaned up, and pulled you close to his body.

You fell asleep almost instantly when you felt his body wrap around yours. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep as well, soft smile on both of your faces.

You both woke up the next morning, entering the living area of the dorms to be met with a grumpy-looking 3racha.

"Really? Did you really have to fuck until damn near 4 in the fucking morning?" Chan groaned out.

"Seriously, we can't sleep with those bulky ass headphones which we could still slightly hear your screaming through with the volume turned up all the way." Changbin retorted.

"The last, and I mean the LAST thing I needed to hear so early in the morning is Hyunjin Hyung being called Mommy over and over again." Jisung finished off and he shivered dramatically and all three of them started fake gagging. A deep red blush painted your cheeks as you tried to shrink and hide your face in your hands with a groan. Hyunjin's cockiness never left him and he let out a laugh, making his way to the kitchen for breakfast. You trailed close behind him in shame, head still low as you looked through the gaps in your finger to watch where you were going.

Neither of you would be able to live this one down but it was completely worth it. You knew you'd get to fuck Auntie Hyunjin again and that alone was enough to make up for the embarrassment and teasing you'd be putting up with for the next few weeks.

[encachette]

smart mouth 1

Part 1 of 2.

❣ Professor! Bucky Barnes x F!student

❣ uni au, F! student is in her 20s (she’s meannnnnn to our boy, I’m trying to write an unlikable FMC ok)

❣ cw: this is just the build-up to a pwp ch. 2, mentions of university tenure system (sorry, I’m in academia), political science (derogatory), crackfic

❣ MDNI

❣ Word Count: 8.1 k

❣ Summary: The last year of your university career is spent figuring out your life and bickering with taking out your anger on a the new professor in your department. Completing your degree feels endlessly tedious amongst the pile of bills and low prospects of career advancement. So maybe you let yourself indulge in a little game of catch-and-release with a handsome professor who falls over his own feet trying to keep up with you. But sooner or later the man cracks.

❣ Author’s Note: heavily inspired by a professor I had in an undergrad class on “human rights in the 20th century.” The professor himself was a bit of a fuckwit, but still reluctantly very nice to me against all effort on my part. I just wanted to make him scream.

I honestly won’t ever watch superhero movies but I thought Sebastian Stan’s public personality is quite himbo-ish if not a bit shallow, so he was kind of perfect for this piece. (Sorry to his fans, but ain’t no way that man has read Marcus Aurelius. His copy of the book in that GQ interview advertisement had a perfectly un-cracked spine.)

smart mouth, part 1.

“Miss, would you mind taking those out of your ears, please?”

Dr. Barnes mimed at you with a tight-lipped smile, forefingers and thumbs of each hand plucking out wired phantom earphones. You look up him, cocking an eyebrow and trying not to give a smirk — too early in the class to start challenging the doofus — and repeat his motions back to him, making a show of rolling the wires around your slender fingers before shoving them into your jacket pocket. No need to start today’s little sparring session over such a petty attempt to annoy you.

There would be countless errors in his pedagogy or lecture for you to pick at during the course of the hour, no need to tear into him quite yet.

You pull out your notebook and pen, letting out a loud yawn before leaning back in your seat and hiking your feet up on the seat next to you. You’re front and center, your usual spot in every course. At the computer, Dr. Barnes was fumbling around, trying to pull up another one of his bland presentations that would inevitably regurgitate the reading material. You sigh, leaning back and lacing your fingers behind your head, scanning him as he’s trying to remember his password to his Google Drive.

Begrudgingly, you allow yourself to notice how handsome he was; especially so in today’s sky button down and perfectly tailored slacks. The sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, exposing a few veins snaking up his forearm before hiding again under a bunch of white fabric at the crook of his elbow. You follow along the hard lines, eyes dragging up Dr. Barnes’ muscular form and to his face — that creeping shadow from one or two missed days of shaving, angular lines framing downturned, pouty lips. You wanted to bite into them and see the blood rush to the surface.

“Alright gang, we’re up and running. I hope you all finished the book and the accompanying article about…” You tune him out, reviewing in your head the reading material and finding logical flaws with the arguments, preparing to play with Dr. Barnes a bit as he makes his way through his lesson plan.

Today was a particularly irritating day. Your boss at your part-time nonprofit job spent too much time berating you about incorrectly formatted documents, and you sat in on one too many meetings that should have been one email. Plus, you had a stack of reading you had to do for your lectures this week — for classes that actually nurtured your intellectual curiosity. Running on three cups of coffee, your meds, and a spiteful attitude (you had forgone breakfast in exchange for an extra five minutes of sleep this morning), you had skulked into the humanities building and jerkily settled into your seat without your usual patience. In retrospect, maybe this was why you were more ruthless than usual today. Unfair, if you really thought about it.

Dr. Barnes was a perfectly nice guy, when you were feeling generous. Not particularly bright, but still a hard worker who seemed to like teaching; rigorous intellectual interrogation wasn’t a prerequisite for a PhD, evidently. Armed with a travel mug of tea and that stupid leather messenger bag, he was always exactly five minutes early to class, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to prostrate in front of dimwitted little college students in exchange for the raving course evaluations necessary for tenure promotion. He was overeager, if you were totally honest.

Today, his tendency to prolong out his lecture — lingering on obvious concepts that any high school half wit would have understood — was grating on your last nerve. That slow voice he uses to read verbatim from his presentation slides (a sign of insecurity, in your eyes, that an alleged expert needed notes to prompt his lectures) to the class reminded you of the way adults spoke to you when you were five, shooing you away so you wouldn’t insert yourself into their adult conversations.

You’re leaning back in your chair, feet up on the seat next to you, scribbling a few chicken scratches of notes you have no intention of revisiting when you catch an opening in his lecture to interject. Perfect.

“And so, several scholars in the field have argued that practices in these countries have been unable to achieve the same standard of human rights that we find here in the United States,” Dr. Barnes finishes reading off of his lecture slides and aims a bright, toothy smile at the class. “Any questions before we get to discussion of the material?”

Your hand and a corner of your mouth shoot straight up, smirk deepening when Dr. Barnes’ eyes sweep over the class before reluctantly calling on you. You can almost hear his silent prayer, begging for any other student in the class to speak. You feel that beginning sparkling sense of fated victory bloom when he calls your name.

“So, these scholars…” you begin, voice saccharine and playful, “what methodologies did they use to get to that conclusion?” You start easy, asking a question you know he can’t answer, like circling around your prey pretending to decide whether to go in for the kill.

“Uh, well. I’m sure they used comparative methods and used the United States as a control,” he says, so unsure. Your eyes positively gleam at the opening he’s left for you.

“You’re sure, Dr. Barnes? So you’re saying that the United States gets to define ‘human rights’ in these studies?”

“Yes, that’s explicitly in the lecture today,” he says. Aha. He thinks he can rely on his little notes to save him. Too confident.

“So the United States should be the final arbiter of ‘human rights’ in the international political stage, is that what your lecture is arguing?” Fingers formed in air quotes, you’re practically simpering at this point, staring at his expression — he was too satisfied and sure that he had averted a land mine.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a stifled chortle, which seems to have an unnerving effect on Dr. Barnes. You make a note of how his shoulders have a tendency to tense upward when he’s defensive, when he’s faced with a challenge. So, with pure delight in your eyes as you raise an eyebrow, you challenge him to do something. Anything.

He clears his throat before saying your name, real nervous and slow, gravelly. Almost sexy in how pitiful it was. But you continue to speak, steamrolling right over his short-lived moment,

“Because the United States is famously really good at upholding human rights, right Dr. Barnes?” You relish in that little indignant flash across his baby blues, satisfaction dancing through your body the sight of your professor, squirming under your gaze. You made him squirm, someone who was ostensibly a figure of authority over you; some idiot who, by the skin of his teeth, might be a passable researcher but in no way possessed the chops necessary to be a good teacher.

It was cute, the few false starts Dr. Barnes stuttered through before fake laughing — nervous, pink-tinged cheeks curving upward. You almost wanted to flush yourself, a bit too focused on the scruff of his shadow, wondering what it’d be like for it to drag against your skin.

You blink that image out of your head, poised and ready to give your final contribution to the discussion,

“Weird that this is a lecture about the United States’ role in global politics and not a single reading about imperialism was assigned. Pedagogically irresponsible, if you ask me.” You bless him with your brightest smile, uncrossing your legs and crossing them again in opposite order — the sarcasm and smugness practically drips from your gaze. Dr. Barnes’ eyes flash indignantly, but you don’t miss that swift glance down toward your thighs, exposed under the skimpy hemline of your miniskirt.

The sound of laptops shutting and shuffling zippers and paper draws the both of you out of your staring contest.

Dr. Barnes clears his throat again, running his metal hand through his hair and pushing a few loose locks back from his forehead. Your bratty little demeanor remains undisturbed, and you think maybe Dr. Barnes is holding your gaze just a smidge too long before he tears away from you and back into his surroundings.

“Don’t forget to schedule your one-on-one office hour with me so I can approve your final paper research topics. Instructions are on the syllabus!” His last few words are drowned out by the hubbub of chairs screeching against the linoleum and students filling out the door.

Dr. Barnes turns toward you as you’re shoving your notebook into your bag, his handsome face shadowed in a scowl so childish you almost want to reach out and pinch his cheeks. Almost.

“That was extremely disrespectful conduct, Miss —“

“Hey Barnes, you got a minute?” Dr. Barnes’ fuming was abruptly cut off by a cheery masculine voice. You both turn to see Dr. Rogers — one of these days you’ll be able to snag a seat in his research class.

“Stark is asking everyone in the Department to turn in their syllabi for next semester by end-of-business today,” he continues, “Need you to look over my reading list, Buck.” Dr. Rogers stops for a second, clocking that you’re still in the room and clearing his throat, sheepishly correcting himself,

“I meant Dr. Stark; don’t tell him I forgot the ‘doctor’ part, he’s insufferable,” Dr. Rogers speaks to you, slightly nervous chuckle escaping as he offers you a good-natured smile. You make a gesture of zipping your lips, returning Dr. Rogers’ smile as you turn to leave.

Dr. Barnes looks between you and Dr. Rogers before calling your name again.

Hm. Stern, as if he were about to reprimand you.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Dr. Barnes glares at you, clearly loathing that smug look you’ve schooled yourself into maintaining. You make a show out of shoving your earphones in and paying attention to your phone instead of him, happily aware that his eyes were boring into your skull as you turn on your heel and strut out of the classroom.

Flippantly, you glance back through the door, a false little smile lighting up your face as you utter a phrase you know won’t do anything but rile up your professor,

“See ya later, Barnes.”

If the academic utopia is meritocracy, you’ll eat your shorts.

✶

To: jbbarnes@mcu.edu

From: waris_aracket@mcu.edu

Subject: Meeting re: research topic approval

Hi Dr. Barnes,

Can I stop by your office hours next Monday to talk about my research paper topic?

Thanks.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

To: waris_aracket@mcu.edu

From: jbbarnes@mcu.edu

Subject: re: Meeting re: research topic approval

Yes, please stop by on Monday.

Thunderbolt Hall, Room 616.

JBB

✶

You can’t help but snort as you close out of your email app on your phone, a bit taken aback by the bluntness of Dr. Barnes’ response to you. Half of the time, the man couldn’t stammer out two coherent sentences to answer your questions. The other half, his answers, delivered in clipped tones, were so cookie-cutter and shallow that you’d inevitably be left a little bored. Never were his responses so blunt.

Sure, maybe you were tiptoeing on that line between childish iconoclasm and outright insolence, but really, Dr. Barnes was an academic. He should be grateful that you were there to keep things interesting. At least your questions were generative for discussion!

Not that you cared, but did you push him too far during the last lecture?

Whatever.

Shoving your phone into your jacket pocket, you pack up your supplies and stumble from around the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, back aching from hunching over your books for the last two hours. Peter Parker is rounding the corner and bounding toward you as you hike your bag up your shoulder, two to-go cups in his hands. One for you, one for him. Thank God for that kid.

“Hey, Parker,” you relieve him of one of the coffees, glad you didn’t have to waste time picking up a source of caffeine before your next shift at work. “What’s going on?”

“Hiya. Locking in before my date with MJ later,” he takes a sip of his own coffee before slinging his backpack onto the desk and occupying the seat you just vacated — you would have complained that someone was using your sacred library work alcove if it were anyone other than Peter.

“Godspeed, buddy. Tell MJ I said ‘hi’ and that I’ll see her for Book Club next week.” You give Peter a goofy salute, stern face struggling to contain a smile, before making your way through the labyrinthine library stacks toward the more populated work areas in the front of the building.

✶

Bucky Barnes is spending his usual Tuesday afternoon deep in the stacks of the social sciences library, cobbling together research for the manuscript he was working on. Piles and piles of dusty leather-bound books surrounded his work station, which rudely occupied an entire table that could have sat several other library patrons.

That day was particularly irritating. Nothing felt right. The deadline for a draft of an article was looming large, and the pressure to publish as often and as much as possible was slowly closing in on him. Helping Steve formulate two undergrad syllabi proved to be a several hour-long endeavor, so Bucky lost an entire morning that he planned on devoting to catching up on his reading. Too many papers to grade, too many faculty meetings to attend, too many articles to review: Bucky was on the brink of burn out.

Despite the organized chaos that was his life as an untenured academic, a significant chunk of that day’s irritation can be attributed to that fucking smart mouth girl in his first lecture of the day. He’d dealt with his fair share of knuckleheads throughout his few years as a young professor, always with an open mind and a kind shoulder — qualities that he felt were essential for a good educator to possess. But you, he pictured you in his head with a sneer.

It was always something with you —

“Actually, that’s the wrong year, Dr. Barnes,” or

“You don’t sound so sure about that, Dr. Barnes,” or

“Dr. Barnes, are you sure that’s how you want to structure the lecture today?” Of course he was fucking sure. He’d been teaching this course for years and his teaching evaluations were top-notch, no thanks to you and your attempts to shake his confidence. Where the fuck did you get off on questioning his authority?

Bucky had spent maybe the first few weeks of the semester mulling over what he had possibly done to provoke you into being such a thorn in his side.

He supposed the first incident happened when he made the mistake of giving you a 98% on a paper and you had decided to grade grub him into oblivion. He thinks about that moment with a derisive snort. Little Miss Overachiever. Bursting into his office, absolutely incensed that a — and this is verbatim — “second round draft pick hire” had the gall to give you anything less than a 100%, the stones to ruin her perfect record.

If he were being perfectly honest, you were much more intelligent than your peers, and part of him understood that your behavior stemmed from boredom. University hadn’t been particularly challenging for you and it seemed to him that you were fed up with it. Figuring out how to fulfill every student’s needs in the classroom tended to be easy for him — his course evals were almost always glowing with praise for his pedagogy. But you. He just couldn’t figure out how to channel all of your spite into something intellectually productive, not only for the sake of peace in his classroom but because he (quite begrudgingly) wanted you to feel like you learned something. That was his fucking job, for fuck’s sake.

Bucky shakes his head, as if his brain were a goddamn etch-a-sketch and he could erase the image of you, sitting so pretty with that petulant smirk that seemed glued to your face. Without fail, always front-and-center. Ready to taunt him, make him flustered, like he wasn’t good enough to be your academic superior. With a deep sigh and a frustration that didn’t seem to dissipate no matter what he did, Bucky tries to knuckle down to finish his task in the library. He would not let some tiny little know-it-all distract him from his work. A know-it-all with a pretty face.

No. Focus, Barnes…

Bucky had started off that day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having completed his departmental duties for the week. He even had the time to edit both his and Steve’s syllabi for the course offerings next semester. His house was spic and span, not a spec of dust or a cat hair out of place — no thanks to Alpine. (Bucky loved that little fleabag to bits but goddamn did she shed like it was her full-time job.) The quiet of his morning routine was perfectly routinized to prep him for the bustle of the day. It was almost ritualistic, the warmth of his coffee mug — “Professor of the Year, 2020” garishly printed in university colors — and an apple as he reads through the queue of journal articles he’s behind on editing. Alpine would undoubtedly be inhaling her food (top of the line, grain-free, high protein, expensive cat food) after screaming bloody murder because her kibble landed in her dish at 7:01 instead of 7:00 am on the dot. After breakfast, Bucky lets Alpine go outside in the yard to chase around the critters in his herb garden, which he admitted was wilting at a faster pace than he’d like. Every so often Alpine would up look at him while he flipped through his textbooks, bright eyes blinking at him slowly as he sat on his porch with his one allotted cigarette of the day.

That morning had proceeded like every other morning, calm and restorative. Nothing was out of place, and Bucky was feeling pretty confident in himself that day. Finally. The stress of working toward tenure was wrapping itself around him like a vice, a near-constant suffocation until recently. Bucky thought he was getting a handle on his career, surefooted in his future at such a prestigious research university.

That is, until the venomous game you insisted on playing with him in every lecture finally knocked him off kilter.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

“Everyone read the assigned text for this week, correct?”

A weak mix of murmurs and ‘yes’s answered his question as an incessant noise started to permeate through the classroom.

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

Dr. Bucky Barnes’ bright blues, followed the source of the tapping, up the slender hand of its owner before loudly clearing his throat, as was his wont, though he quite hated that habit of his.

“Great, can someone briefly summarize the author’s argument so we’re all on the same page?”

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. Perfectly polished nails wrapped around a pencil as its eraser end collided again and again onto the desk. Bucky’s quick to glare at you this time, one eye twitching as he called on some overeager student whose hand shot up immediately.

“Well, Habermas’ idea of the public sphere…”

You raise your eyebrows, but you don’t challenge him, placing your pencil down instead of tapping it harder. A-ha. Victory, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t quite understand why in that moment, but the thought of  that small, ever-so-slight advantage he had over you in today’s game sent a burst of warmth through his chest.

Overeager Try Hard pulls Bucky from his slight victory, and he trains his attention on the kid again.

“…and so liberal regimes tend to emphasize intellectual exchange in the public sphere as a basis for the educated voter.” Listening to this kid was such a fucking effort today, but Bucky forces a brighter demeanor,

“Yes, that’s correct —“ Bucky is cut off by a loud snort, much earlier than he expected. His eyes shoot straight toward you, as if he was willing you to combust in your seat. All you can do is roll your eyes at him, like a fucking child, he thinks. He almost bares his teeth when you dismissively mutter,

“Oh, please.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for about three seconds, desperate to keep his slender grasp on his self-control, before he draws out your name and practically snarls,

“Do you have something to say? Or can we both be adults and have a discussion without your attitude?”

A few mocking “ooh, she’s in trouble” ring out from the rest of your classmates, a low sniggering coming from Try Hard behind you. Bucky almost felt like he was winning — the teasing from your classmates, the brief shock at his assertiveness before your face breaks out into such a bright smile.

To Bucky’s great dismay, that mischievous, evil grin didn’t look anything like a conciliatory “You’re right, Dr. Barnes, I’m so sorry and I’ll never undermine you in my tight little skirts again” kind of smile. No, it was a “You’re in for it now, Barnes,” kind of grin, one that sent shivers up his spine in a way that left him almost… excited? Desperate for you to keep responding to him?

You only look at him, maintaining eye contact that felt much too intense for a lesson about what’s-his-philosopher-face and abstract political theory. Bucky swears he feels the tingles in his spine shoot straight to his heart when you respond in the most unexpected way: you back down.

“Aw, I’m sorry, Dr. Barnes.” That saccharine sweet voice, infused with the most malice he’d heard from you yet; and he almost short circuits when you push your bottom lip out into a pout. “Please, continue the lesson.”

What, no jab about his intellect? No undermining fucking snobby comments about his teaching methods? Bucky didn’t know how to respond, so he moved forward. “Just keep going, Barnes. Class is almost over,” he chides himself.

“Right. So,” Fuck. Stop stuttering, Barnes. “As we were discussing, Habermas’ ideas —“

Tap. TAP. Tap. TAP.

Bucky looks down at you again, no pencil in hand this time so his eyes travel down to the source of the noise. You don’t miss the way they’re caught on the skin left uncovered by your skirt, a sudden rush of heat flowing through your chest when your professor’s eyes slink down your legs toward the source of his annoyance. When Bucky’s eyes land on your boots, one of them tippy-tippy-tapping away in a  deliberate attempt to make him go insane.

“Are you kidding me, right now, Ms. LN!?” Bucky blurts out at you, clipped tone threatening to burst into something louder, more powerful in impact because you have needled him one too many times. The sheer delight in your eyes doesn’t do anything but completely infuriate him.

“Oh ho ho! Look who’s finally developed a backbone,” you actually jeer at him. That domineering little smirk that he’s become so familiar with. You stop your tapping, leaning back and folding your arms across your chest. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your chest is pushed against your arms, making them look bigger, big enough to fit into the palm of his hand, maybe. Fucking God, Barnes. Focus.

“You’re way out of line today,” Bucky starts, ready to tear you a new one, let you know how fucking irritating it is to have a know-it-all in a course that he spent so much time, so much meticulous attention into developing.

“I’ll step back in line when you can teach, Barnes,” you scoff. You actually fucking scoff. And Bucky is seeing too much red to pay any attention to the taunting and chittering surrounding the two of you. And maybe, (just maybe) Bucky would grow to regret the words that spilled, unrestrained and furious as he slammed down his pile of lecture notes on the table:

“Listen, you and your smart mouth have been nothing but disrespectful to me and your classmates every single day of this semester. If you don’t like my teaching style, drop the class.”

“This course is required for my major, Dr. Barnes,” you state, too smooth, derisiveness barely concealing a deeper anger. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be wasting my time listening to an ‘academic’ so clearly devoid of intellectual depth.”

Bucky swears he feels both of his eyes twitch as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, every drop of will he had channeled into remaining civilized. ‘She’s just a student. Don’t say anything you’ll regret,’ he breathes to himself, over and over.  The air quotes you placed around “academic” were too far.

Before Bucky could figure out the most civilized, but strict response, you stand up and turn on your heel, careful to tap your boots as annoyingly as possible as you leave in the middle of the lecture. You stop by the exit, turning around and calling over your shoulder to Bucky, again in that deceptively sweet voice, “Whatever, Dr. Barnes, see you in your office hours.”

In a move that was nothing short of uncool, Bucky calls after you, lacing as much menace as possible, as if he was issuing an ominous warning: “Fine! See you then. We’ll be discussing your unruly behavior, Miss LN.” You return nothing but a simpering smirk, fingers wiggling in a facetious wave that boils Bucky’s blood.

He does everything he can to ignore how shiny your hair is as you turn to leave, short skirt hiking up that much further as you tap, tap, tap down the hall.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

Even the quiet of the library, with its warm wood and cozy chairs, couldn’t soothe his mood. Bucky decides he needs a break, maybe a cup of coffee to wipe the mishap of today’s lecture from his brain. Maybe he’ll go down to the library café on the first floor and see if they had any of those blueberry muffins he liked so much. He stands up and drags one of the large leather armchairs near him closer to the large, arched windows. A hot cup of coffee and his books next to the window. Surely that’ll return him to some kind of equilibrium.

Bucky sighs and gives a yawn, arms up as he’s stretching out his back before he makes his way through the maze of shelves lined with rich leather-bound tomes, each in its rightful place. He lets that thought calm him. Everything is where it should be in the library. No nagging smart ass student. No irritating boss, because Dr. Stark would rather spend time schmoozing with department donors than in a classroom. No distractions — just Bucky and his stack of books, ready to be digested and organized into coherent research.  Nothing out of place in his library until he runs into you, that is. As Bucky rounds the corner toward the elevator, a flash of long hair and a familiar short skirt stops him in his tracks.

He pauses for a second before stepping behind the nearest immediate shelf, able to see you and Peter without being observed himself. Bucky doesn’t really process it in that moment, but a tug of adrenaline sends his heart rate up as he watches Peter hand you a cup of coffee. Your face — annoyingly pretty, Bucky thinks — lit up gratitude as your hands grab for the warmth of the cup. Peter leans in, surely too close for propriety’s sake, to hear you better as the last few whispers elicit a chuckle from him. He watches you give a stupid salute to Peter, and a strange, dark heat bubbling through him and tightening his chest.

That day, head hunched over a few archival parchment documents, all that pranced through through his brain were you and your little attitude and little fucking skirt, and the fact that you had picked the wrong fucking day to antagonize him.

Hours later when he retraced the events of the day before bed, Bucky still really couldn’t explain why he stopped so abruptly, why seeing you with that Parker kid was so frustrating for him.

✶

It’s fucking early. Too fucking early on a Monday for you to be dragging yourself out of bed to make your appointment with Dr. Barnes. Usually you wouldn’t bother getting out of bed before 11 AM, but today was a stacked day: meeting with Barnes, work, then a few hours in the library to finish a few assignments. First on the agenda: getting Dr. Barnes’ office hours appointment out of the fucking way.

Of course, you were aware that you were in for a rather unpleasant conversation with Barnes, but you knew that it was bound to come sooner or later. Your behavior wasn’t exactly exemplary of a bright student on track to attending an R1 research graduate program next year. Oh on the contrary, you recognized that your behavior wasn’t much of a deviation from that of a petulant child who had missed her afternoon nap — grouchy, mean, and desperate for calm. But you couldn’t help it. Every time Barnes wanted to explain something (something you already knew, most likely), he dragged out his words like you were actually four fucking years old, like you were just learning such big words and couldn’t connect ideas together with your own, undeveloped brain. Worse than the over-explaining, you supposed that his worst crime was that you had learned absolutely nothing from him throughout the semester. You didn’t feel intellectually challenged. In a course you PAID TUITION for, no less. It was completely unfair.

So, if he treated you like you were a dumb kid, then you’d make it as unpleasant for him as possible. He made it so easy to argue with him. Often wrong, always timid and slow to rebuke — quite honestly, sometimes you thought that you were doing him a service, pushing him into becoming a better teacher. Forcing him to prove his arguments rather than regurgitating outdated research that had no business being taught in the 21st century.

Obviously, this effort was to no avail.

The chill of autumn seeped into the brick walls of your tiny apartment, kicking on the creaky radiator that sometimes disturbed your sleep with its ghostly noises. Usually, the sounds and smells of your routine, the slowness of the morning, were enough to calm you: the burbling and snap of the electric kettle, fragrant coffee with a hazelnut creamer, your little mackerel tabby, Friday, mewing at you for her breakfast.

“Hi, baby,” you coo at her, all nine pounds of terror weaving between your ankles, “Momma’s gotta be out for the whole day today so you be good.” You scratch her one last time under her chin and pour kibble into her bowl, refreshing her water before you mentally prepare for the gruel of the work day. “Don’t try to chew through the treat bag again or we’ll have a problem.”

It was sluggish, the pace at which you pull on your clothes, guided by the weather app on your phone. With perfunctory, sharp motions, you yank on your knitted tights, skirt, and sweater, the second-hand cashmere a tiny comfort to you as you lock up and trudge to the bus stop, the weight of your school bag exacerbating your misery and irritation as your make your way to Thunderbolt Hall.

Earbuds blasted music through your ears, sunglasses blocking your stare. The scarf you’ve pulled close around your nose and mouth to keep in the warmth swishing in the air as you stomped through the university commons. Any excuse to avoid social interaction this early in the morning. Music gave you an excuse to keep walking, anyone stopping to greet you automatically assuming that you couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them, or didn’t want to be bothered. Your sensory-deprivation contraption, you think, amused as you trekked toward Dr. Barnes’ office.

✶

Dr. Bucky Barnes hears the tap of your boots before he sees you. He’d been dreading this meeting, unsure of how you’d react to him reprimanding you for your behavior. He was determined to remain civilized today. Last lecture was nothing more than a student getting to him and him losing his cool. It was unprofessional. It felt fucking good, but unprofessional, nevertheless. And Bucky was nothing if not professional.

Nested at the end of the hall on the fourth floor of an old building foisted aside to be used by underfunded humanities departments, Bucky’s office was lucky enough to enjoy the warmth of the sun streaming in from two wide bay windows. Surrounded by furniture of dark wood, a cozy living room setup sat in front of the fireplace, which would be put to use as the northeast winter arrives in full force. Bucky tried hard to make it comfortable, bringing in a blanket and a few photos that he framed and displayed on the mantle. One of him and Steve the day they both graduate from their PhD programs. A photo of Bucky with a tight smile while shaking Dr. Stark’s hands, taken against his will on the day of his “welcome” party that the department secretary insisted was earmarked in the budget.

In the corner, a coffee machine whirred as it made his usual second cup of morning coffee. Bucky scoots in his fancy leather chair over to retrieve his mug, sipping on it just as he hears your knuckles wrap on his office door.

He waits a second, placing his mug down on a coaster before arranging himself behind his desk, ready to be the responsible adult between the two of you. He has his hands around his coffee mug, the ceramic warming his hands, and clears his throat one last time,

“Come in.” He watches the knob turn before your head pokes in, looking left and right before stepping in, leaving the door ajar. You’re stone faced, making your way slowly to the seat directly in front of Bucky’s desk and facing him. Bucky notices your skirt… barely catching his disappointment when he sees that your legs are covered in cable-knit tights. God damn, focus, Barnes. You cross, and uncross your legs, fidgeting with your bag in your lap, and raise an eyebrow at him.

He doesn’t respond, but just continues to stare at you, challenging you with an arch of a brow. You can make the first move today. He wants to know which way you’re headed.

“Well, Dr. Barnes,” you sigh, “we have a laundry list of shit to get through on the agenda, so where do you want to start?”

He snorts, amused and unable to conceal it, so he smirks and just says,

“Why not the easiest task? Run your research paper idea by me first.” Just as he couldn’t conceal the fact that he found you amusing, you couldn’t hide your surprise at his choice. But you quickly school yourself into a stony face once again.

“Sure. I’m thinking of juggling several ideas in my paper...” you explain as you pull out your notebook, flipping a few pages before turning to a sheet lined with pretty, swooping handwriting. Bucky notices the neatness with each flare of your pen, how organized you are and how it tickles something in his brain when he sees your long fingers wrap around a pen.

“…hello?” You snap a finger in front of Bucky’s face, shocking him out of his daze. Shit, what did she say?

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Bucky lies, hurriedly trying to get a grip on himself. He was so determined to be in control of the conversation. “Your idea is good. No notes.” 

Your face wrinkles, confused and a little frustrated. That pouty lip pushes out a bit, just the way Bucky liked to stare at sometimes when he caught you zoning out in class. Oops. Wrong thing to say, Bucky winces.

“That’s it?” You spat out your words with incredulity, vaguely aware that you had crossed a line somewhere and giving over to your intuition, you tense; ever so slightly, but enough for Bucky to feel his eyes flash in defiance.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says as his brows knit together, crossing his leg to rest one ankle on the opposite knee; he can still salvage the situation. But what the fuck would he say? “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to a word you were saying, I was too fixated on your fingers and what they could be touching?” The thought of it was enough to make him blush.

“I mean, you have no suggestions at all as to how I can improve my research topic?” Okay. Don’t panic, Barnes. Double down. Just double down.

“I think it’s brilliant, actually,”

“Figures.” You scoff, murmuring under your breath, and by this point, Bucky knows that he’s completely lost control of the situation.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Figures that you’d have nothing useful to say. Thanks for the meeting anyway.” You look at your watch before adding, all lofty and slow, “I have somewhere to be.”

You’re spinning on the heel of your boots — much too smug for someone dangerously close to receiving a referral to the Student Conduct Office — before you stop in your tracks at Bucky’s next command.

“No,” he spits out, “We have one more thing to discuss.” He’ll be damned if he let you out of this classroom without some acknowledgment that you were a pain in his ass.

“And what would that be?” you whirl around, quiet, frustrated, and a little taken aback by Bucky’s harsh tone.

“Don’t start,” he commands. You notice his upper arms, muscular, veiny, flex as he grips the arms of his office chair.

“What, you want me to apologize to you? You want me to say ‘sorry’ to the big man whose ego can’t take a little bruising?”  you jab, but the confidence is not quite as striking as usual.

“Sit down,” he commands. Again. Much more assertive this time. He nods his head towards the seat you had previously occupied, and adds, “now.” You had frozen, midstep,  with your hand on the door handle, cold brass against your palm making your pulse all the more noticeable.

Bucky is almost gleeful when he sees the surprise on your face at his directions. So surprised. So pretty. He watches you slowly make your way back into the chair, setting your bag on the floor next to you and crossing your legs before leaning back.

“Yes?” You grit out, slowly dragging your eyes up to meet his. Arms crossed, you dare to pull that face that gets Bucky so riled up. He clears his throat before beginning,

“We’re not done talking. Your behavior in class has been disrespectful and disruptive. I know for a fact that you don’t behave like this with other professors. What’s going on?” This was the mature thing to do, Bucky had thought. To sit down, ask his colleagues for help, and talk to you like you were an equal. “What’s your problem with me, huh?”

You don’t react, at least externally. You only smile, that fake sweet smirk that he can’t get away from.

“Why, I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Barnes.” Bucky has to take a deep breath, reminding himself not to get riled up. Not to let you get to him.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Bucky responds, strict and to the point. He keeps staring at you, sure that he was in command of the situation. You watch as he gets up from his chair, making his way to lean back against his desk, directly in front of you. He crosses his arms, mirroring you. You don’t like the confident little attitude he has today. You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. So you keep poking at him, in a way that you knew, that you were sure would rile him up.

“Aw, Dr. Barnes. Why don’t you explain to me what you’re talking about? As clearly as you can, please?” You keep the shit-eating simper on, but it fades into confused intrigue as he moves closer to you, invading too much of the air around you.

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, and Bucky savors that innocent moment of shock on your face before he rests his hands, one on each arm of the chair you were sitting in, your arms and legs still crossed as you failed to keep your breathing even. A vague scent of man and aftershave sending an exhilaration through you and flooding you with a warmth. A familiar warmth you’ve only ever felt in your bedroom at night. After the long fucking library sessions and steaming hot showers, when you’d collapse into your bed utterly exhausted but mentally alert, you’d let your mind wander.

The closer Bucky got to you, the more you could see the little flecks in his blue eyes. He was angry. Furious, even. His mouth had set into a frown, and he was so fucking confused about how out of hand the situation had gotten, how out of control he felt in that moment. So he does what he feels is right, just like you always say what you feel is right. He leans in closer to you, nose almost touching yours as he breathes into you,

“I’ve been so patient with you, you know that Little Miss Smart Mouth?” Bucky looks down at your lips and back at your eyes, rasping, “Every fucking day. You come into my classroom and you torture me.” He watches you uncross your arms and legs, attempting to sit up straighter in your chair. He keeps waiting for you to push him away. For you to say something mean. To reject him.

But you don’t. You stare right back at him, demeanor so bewildered and at a loss for words, Bucky dares to let himself think that you were sexy. Pupils dilated, staring up at him, at a loss for words. Uncharacteristically quiet, and Bucky decides that he likes that look on your face, a little awed, a little defiant, but sexy. He watches you swallow, trying to grasp at words that usually come so easily to you,

“I —” Your stammer sounds so strange, and Bucky relishes in this moment, the chance to catch you off guard and unsure of where the dynamic between the two of you broke. He watches you, as you wonder how you have lost the upper hand.

“What, Miss L.N.? Cat finally got your tongue?” he teases, smirking down as he slowly, ever-so slowly, closes the gap between the two of you.

The press of his lips against yours is hungry. Electrifying. Hot. Bucky groans when you lean into the kiss, your hands coming up to cup his face and pulling him closer. Impossibly closer. He breathes you in as he kisses you, hands traveling up your back and bringing you to your feet. He feels a twitch in between his legs when you moan into his mouth, and he bites your bottom lip when you break the kiss.

Bucky stares at you as his chest heaves, your mouth swollen and pink where he had nipped you. Your eyes are glued to his lips, and he gives you what you want, with just as much desire and urgency as before.

“Can’t be a snarky little know-it-all now, huh baby?” Bucky murmurs into your mouth, fingers carding through your hair and working toward a firm grip at the base of your scalp. He gives a tug, and his cock hardens at the whimper that comes out of you when he turns your face to look at his, at the control he has over you in that moment, at the fact that you couldn’t escape him. You smirk up at him, still wild-eyed, and bite back,

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes, guess you’ll just have to see.” You giggle, that girlish teasing giggle that drove Bucky fucking crazy. Your hands, just as greedy as Bucky felt, ran up the length of his arms, squeezing his biceps lightly before they settled on his chest.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he sighs into you before capturing your lips again, desperate, savoring the feel of your lips on his. His cock demanded so much more when he felt you smile into the kiss. 

But no, he’s in control today. Even if he hadn’t planned for today to turn out the way it did,  he was still going to be in control of this. Of you.

The moment you both come up for air, Bucky steps back, trying to catch himself, to calm down. Your eyes trail down his body appreciatively, the glowing smile on your face brightening when you land on the bulge in your professor’s slacks and Bucky feels his cock betray him, twitching under his boxers and hardening even more under your observant gaze.

“Dr. Barnes,” you look up at him through your lashes, glasses slipping down your nose bridge when your lips perk up, “I thought you were an unremarkable teacher before, but now I’m thinking you’re dumber than I originally thought.”

Bucky tenses up even more, arms cross as he leans back against his desk. It’s taking everything in him not to pounce on you. You seemed to obey his commands earlier, when he was losing his grip on his temper. Bucky could do that again, he could be what you wanted, if it meant you’d stay.

If it meant you’d let him get you off.

“Stop talking, Miss Smart Mouth,” he sneers at you, in command of his tone — low, seared with lust when he sees you bite your lip, obeying him. God, fuck. You were just turned on as he was, he knew it. “Strip.” he says, more demanding this time, still not moving from his position against his desk. You weren’t more than a foot away from him. He could just reach out right now, give you both what you wanted.

But Bucky was patient. He was going to drag this out. For himself. For all the times you’ve gotten on his fucking nerves, undermining his authority during class, in front of other students. For getting to his ego, of all things.

He was patient as you stripped, one garment after another peeling off to reveal smooth, glowing skin that he was dying to lay his hands on. A glimpse of your clavicle here, soft thighs there, Bucky wasn’t sure where he wanted to concentrate his stare. Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks to himself when his stare lands on your cleavage; soft, supple, begging to be bitten. By the time you were down to just your bra and panties, Bucky catches himself just in the nick of time. 

“Wait, stop.”

You pause, looking up at him and arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, Dr. Barnes?” you ask, timid, in anticipation of what would happen next.

More often than you’d ever admit, your hands would wander under the cloud-soft cotton of your panties, fingers wandering toward your slit and smearing the wetness around your clit, determined to reach an orgasm that would put you into a deep slumber. You’d rather die than admit it, but sometimes, it was Dr. Barnes’ image in your head that brought you to your peak. His muscular forearms, lined with veins and evidently fortified by strength-training, would strain under your grip as he shoved himself in your imagination.

“Come here,” he gestures to you with one hand and moves to clear space on the desk before he taps the wood. The sight of his huge, toned body in front of you, out of reach and ready for you to touch — you felt the cotton of your panties dampen, just like you did on those nights you got yourself off to the image of Dr. Barnes. You take a step forward, hesitant, unable to keep your nerves reigned in.

“Finally found the stones to fight back, huh, Dr. Barnes?” you tease, attempting to get your head back into the dynamic you were used to. You were turned on, but not so much that you were willing to give up your dignity in that moment. 

Unamused, Dr. Barnes taps the wood again. His next command is huskier, like he’s not willing to play your game anymore.

“Bend over,” he says, muscles in his jaw jostling with the strength it takes to hold himself back. He couldn’t describe it, this energy between the two of you. A heady, lustful sheen had blanketed the two of you in your own little world. He forgot who he was. He forgot that you were his student. He forgot himself, and all he wanted to do was scream.