#[We sure will see if I remember to commit to these

[honourablejester]

It feels slightly odd to be worried about all the cool mystery-solving spells and abilities when presumably your party want to play out a murder mystery and therefore want to have cool abilities to break out and have fun with? Like, the fun with a murder mystery is solving it, and the fun with a D&D murder mystery is solving it with all your cool D&D toys. I mean, that’s half of why I enjoy playing knowledge and divination focused characters. You want to be able to interact with the mystery, and look cool and spooky doing it. That’s the fantasy. Who doesn’t want to step into a cozy murder mystery as a goddamn necromancer who can just ask ‘hey, dead guy, who killed you?’, you know?

But also … the same cool magic that gives you all the fun tools to go digging with also gives your enemies cool tools to make your life difficult with. In particular, the illusion and enchantment schools of magic. Also certain transformation spells and abilities.

You have Speak With Dead. You ask the victim who killed them. And they don’t know, because the killer was invisible, so they never saw them. Or they were swallowed by a pitch black shroud of darkness, knowing only blindness and terror before a blade as cold as ice slid into their chest. Or they heard a strange skittering at night, as if some rodent had gotten into their room, but thought nothing of it, and then there was only pain (fucking druids using innocuous wildshapes to get in places and assassinate people will never not be my jam).

Or, on the flipside, they do know exactly who killed them, chapter and verse, name and occupation. They saw them clear as day. But that person, tearfully and desperately, proclaims their innocence long after the city watch has led them away, and they’re being completely truthful, because the killer was using the very basic first level illusion spell Disguise Self to take out multiple targets with the same knife. (Or they were a changeling. Or a doppleganger).

But, you say, surely Zone of Truth would sort that little snafu out instantly! Ask the suspect if they killed someone, they say no under enchantment, free and clear. The question there is, does anyone think to use that spell? Is your party going to suspect that kind of switcheroo the first time? Does someone get executed for a crime they didn’t commit, on your party’s word, before they realise what’s going on? (Yes, this is cruel, use cautiously).

Also on the subject of Zone of Truth, it only specifies that the person under the spell cannot tell a deliberate lie. As anyone who’s ever tangled with the fey would know, that says nothing about misleading truths and basic obfuscation. A little careful set-up, and a villain can blithely tell absolute truth while breezily skirting around some things that need not be mentioned.

Also also, on the subject of truth, D&D has a little spell called Modify Memory. Which. A person can truthfully say they didn’t kill anyone if they don’t remember doing it. Now, does this mean there’s multiple parties involved, one to kill and one to cast the spell, and if so, what exactly is the relationship between those parties?

Or … do you, as the GM, bend the rules of the spell slightly to allow the killer to have cast it on themselves? Not that I think that’s actually explicitly forbidden by the spell, though it does say you’re attempting to reshape another creature’s memories, but the only limit on that creature itself is that it has to be a creature you can see. I don’t think it’s bending the rules too far to say that could include yourself. So you can easily manufacture a situation where the killer themselves believes they are innocent, and can testify to that effect in front of a damned planetar if need be.

(Granted, if the planetar in question thinks there’s something fishy happening, then one little Greater Restoration or Remove Curse will sort that problem again, but that’s still steps and suspicion that have to happen before we get to that point).

You’ve also got all the nasty little enchantment spells that can influence and command people into doing things they don’t necessarily want to do. Such as messily kill their neighbour. Now, obviously there are limits on most of these, but it still invites complications when it’s easy enough to find the direct killer, but how willing a killer they were and who’s manipulating and/or commanding them is still a very prominent question.

Going back to Modify Memory, holy god that spell is paranoia fuel, especially in combination with other enchantment spells like Geas or Dominate Person. Because when the timers on those spells run out, after you’ve made them murder someone, you can just wipe their memories and they forget why they’re suddenly hostile to you. Which would be a fabulous clue for a party to pick up on, if some kneejerk distrust and horror at being magically forced lingered through the memory wipe. One or two people in the town, completely innocuous otherwise, just mention in passing that they’ve suddenly developed a mistrust and wariness towards someone, but they don’t know why. Maybe it doesn’t mean much, but if your party are in decent mystery-solving form, maybe it makes them take a look or two at that person, especially if one of those innocuous people gets pinned for a murder and is deeply terrified and confused about it, sure of their innocence.

Basically, if you want a horrifying serial killer in your D&D game? Druids, bards and enchantment wizards are great choices. What magic giveth, magic also taketh away. Such as nice, easy answers to murder mysteries. Heh. If you get to use cool toys, so do your opponents.

Also, nearly forgot, I actually remembered a game I played where there was a sort of a 'locked room' type mystery, where something had vanished from a locked box with no sign of what had happened except that a broken piece of lodestone had been found on the floor nearby. Which. Relies very much on people knowing and thinking about how to cheat using D&D spells and rules. Well. You might also need at least one player who chose a component pouch instead of an arcane focus/holy symbol. Because it's such a cheeky little clue, and such an incredibly simple use of magic. Cantrip level, even. Heh.

Magic is not an impediment to the mystery. Magic is the whole fun of a D&D mystery. Both villains and players have a whole smorgasbord of fun toys to play with and make each other's lives difficult.

How would you handle a murder mystery in D&D? A lot of spells would make short work of most mysteries (speak with dead, zone of truth, various command spells, etc). Now of course those spells do have limitations but still.

Does the party you're currently running the adventure for have access to these abilities? No? Then don't sweat it. Part of leveling up is gaining access to abilities that let you circumvent certain types of adventure ( such as teleportation letting you skip minor travel). Mysteries are best run low level when the culprits are mortal with mortal motives.

Agatha Christie It: one of the hallmarks of detective fiction is that due to circumstances, all the suspects of the crime are bottled up in the same location, letting the detectives ( and audience) have a limited number of targets to chose from as they build up a case. Have your mysteries happen in isolated places with a limited number of variables to sort through.

Magic can only go so far. Any society that knows about magic is likely to have laws about when/how that magic can be used, especially in matters of law. Cornered your likely suspect and used dominate person to force out a confession? A) the party aren't lawmages recognized by the magistrate, that confession isn't reliable in court B) someone ensorcelled could be compelled to say anything, so enchantment isn't trustworthy. C) Using magic against someone in that way is tantamount to threatening them with a weapon, hope your party is prepared to also go to court.

A good mystery is all about piecing together incomplete information, meaning that no one person ( and thus no one spell) contains the complete truth. The dead person won't necessarily know what killed them, just who they suspect, and any good killer would know they needed an alibi/decoy in order to throw off witnesses. Having your party pick through these clues is the fundamental fun of solving mysteries.

Likewise, it's not enough to know that someone did the crime, the party has to PROVE it, which requires gathering more evidence than just a magically compelled confession. Sure a spellcaster could kit themselves out for solving crimes, but that just means the murderer is liable to take a swipe at them while the gang is split up and searching for clues.

[mariacallous]

As a member of ICE, you may be wondering: How are the people we thrust into our vans supposed to know that we are, in fact, acting under color of law and not just kidnapping them? Can I really do this job while wearing either an Army uniform that I have assembled myself in a confusing, over-the-top way or the same T-shirt I just wore to my failed custody hearing?

Sure! Here’s what to wear to let everyone who interacts with you know that you are an agent of ICE!

Do we have a uniform? No.

Uniforms show that you are part of something and that there is someone to call if anyone interacting with you has a complaint. A uniform indicates that you are not a rogue criminal seizing someone’s mom and hurling her into an unmarked van without reading her her rights: You’re an officer of the law doing that.

Who are they going to call about some guy in an ill-fitting T-shirt and long shorts? Why, behind that face covering, he could be the billionaire Mark Zuckerberg! Better treat him as though he is worth billions and accountable to no one, just in case!

If you’re wearing a uniform, people will be disappointed when you fail to show them an arrest warrant before entering their place of work. If you’re not wearing a uniform of any kind, they won’t know whether to be disappointed until it’s too late!

If you decide to wear some sort of uniform anyway (Army Surplus? January 6 Surplus? Your choice!), you can still send the message that you intend to be accountable to no one by wearing a face covering.

A face mask can say so many things: “I’m trying to do my part to protect those around me,” or  the exact opposite. A balaclava can say, “I’m skiing!” or, “I’m about to commit a jewelry heist,” depending on how you accessorize it.

The point is, we want you to feel free to express yourself! ICE believes in freedom of expression, except for graduate students who want to lead protests or write op-eds. Your clothing should tell a story about you! Just not who you are or that you are acting in any kind of official capacity. Wear a pink button-down, a shirt, a jacket, and some sort of backwards hat. Wear something that looks like what Ben Affleck would wear if he were really going through it and was visiting the Dunkin’ drive-through on foot. Wear something that, if you showed up at a costume party in this outfit, would make people say, “A soldier, but wrong somehow, like he’s in a video game,” or, “Did I see you at Charlottesville?”

If the person you are shoving into a van has any inkling that you are an officer of the law, you are doing it wrong. You should look like someone who is going to Home Depot because you forgot something (what you forgot was an arrest warrant for your next stop).

As Coco Chanel said, whenever you assemble an outfit, before you leave the house, look in the mirror, and take one thing off! Specifically, your badge identifying you as an officer of the law. Coco collaborated with the Nazis.

Remember, the right ensemble and accessories can say: I’m accountable to the people of the United States, and we are still operating under rule of law. So before you get dressed each morning, think about the message you want your outfit to send. It shouldn’t be that.

[val-of-the-north]

Most of the "lesser" Nightlords are creatures who think differently from humans, with the clear exception of Fulghor, Libra and Caligo.

Among the three, Fulghor is the odd one out, as he is a warrior and champion of an ancient age who lacks the inquisitiveness of the other two. He is there to fight on behalf of the ancient gods he worshipped, and I am not sure if he is on the side of the Night or if like Adel he has simply found himself in this position due to his sheer power allowing him to claim the title. He did gain a new arm out of it, but he is also not the "Champion of Night" but the "Champion of Nightglow", in stark contrast to everyone else. He even wields a "sacred form of the Night's power", which is interesting since the true Nightlord and Gladius, his personal companion, are both really weak to sacred power... he is also the only Nightlord visibly affected by the Night's power, as his skin features blueish spots all over it. Perhaps he isn't as willing as the others to see the world vanish, but he is too prideful to side with the people who replaced his pantheon. After all, it seems the Nightfarers are drawing from the power of Grace left behind by the dominant culture of the time. Maybe he could have been an ally, but he couldn't forgive the changing of the ages.

This leaves us with Caligo and Libra, who are both very intelligent beings with a wealth of knowledge, acquired for vastly different reasons. Caligo seeks to know and remember, observing history and committing everything to memory, while Libra seeks to reach balance and enlightenment, walking a thin line between blessing and madness. Both also have the ability to pretend to be human, but while we see it for Libra, it is only implied for Caligo, since she is an Ancient Dragon, judging from her appearance, and they could all shape-shift into a more humanoid form if they wanted. However, I believe they are kind of opposites in the way they operate.

Libra, as the Baphomet-inspired creature that he is, gives me the vibe of someone who was there for many points of history, and maybe even interacted with some of the more important people when they meant nothing yet. I can imagine him knocking at Midra's door or meeting a young Marika before she is pulled away by one of her elders who knows the guy is bad news lol. However, he does not seem to be on board with the whole "Lord of Frenzied Flame" thing. He is just as susceptible to madness himself, and something like that would tip the scales on one side rather than the other, which goes against his desire for true balance. Libra's choice to peer into madness is simply a way to reach enlightenment, as it brings you closer to the concept of the One Great.

I think Libra is a force that tips the scales in favor of whatever power is lacking at the moment in an attempt to reach balance. So in an Age where Frenzy is at its lowest, he'd stir up chaos and madness, while in one where Frenzy rules and begins melting the world away, he'd show people the boons of gold and order. He wouldn't necessarily be the one who shapes the course of history, but rather someone who can guess based on his calculations, simply "nudging" others towards the direction he thinks would be best for achieving true equilibrium, which he finally found in the Night that he views as the equalizer of all things. He basically wants a world of unity but without individuality being destroyed, believing balance can exist in the current state of the world without having to renounce it. Quite an insane thing to aim for, but it's respectable in its own right, especially since he did manage to marry order and chaos into his own form of alchemy.

Meanwhile, Caligo is a watchful eye that has probably been around since time immemorial, possibly even being a contemporary to Metyr, or someone born very soon after her arrival on their world. She has observed history and sometimes shows up for its most important events so that she may remember them. In stark contrast to Libra, who feels like he'd be considered a mythological figure, historians would know of Caligo and her importance. And again, unlike him, she would show up when events are already in motion and worth memorizing. She could even show up in her human form to converse with the current world leaders, hear their side and maybe even impart wisdom if they choose to listen to her words. But maybe her years of witnessing cycles upon cycles have made her detached, which just leads her to make either cold or sardonic remarks on certain things she knows for a fact will happen, and they often do just as she predicted. Because she has learned the pattern of history and can correctly identify how things will go.

Maybe in endings that aren't the Age of Fracture, Stars or the Lord of Frenzied Flame, the Tarnished protagonist would be visited by her, curious of the new developments. Maybe she even paid a visit during the Shattering, if only to laugh at how predictable the civil war between Demigods was. The Night, however, seems to be something new and worth investigating, which is no doubt a source of great relief for someone who must have been growing weary of the stagnant nature of Marika's reign.

-

Now I am wondering if Gideon Ofnir looked for either of them in his quest to be all-knowing... he seems smart enough to have found a way to peer into the mind of Marika and discover the truth of the Fingers, so he could have communed with either Caligo, or Libra, or both in an attempt to expand his own knowledge. Cool to think about.

[maybellewriting]

Prisoner! Mark x Pregnant! Reader

This blurb was inspired by @michaelmyerspersonalslut and their post that I came across.

TW: Angst, scars. If I'm missing anything, I apologize. Word Count: 800+ Which Mark is next?

He’d come to this dimension full of rage. Mark had sworn that he’d burn it all down and rip this Earth apart from the roots. His dissection had been careful and cruel, like a child plucking a butterfly’s wings just because they could. Yet the wind was knocked out of his sails when he saw you. You were panicked, not quite able to get to the bathroom to try and call Mark. Your Mark. One hand clutched your phone, the other held your gravid belly. He’d come here simply on a whim. That perhaps there’d be a memento. Something he could hold to remember why he was doing this outside of the pain that shot through his temple when his heart beat furiously against his chest, or what he saw when he looked in the mirror. Mark was just as shocked as you were. His head tipped enough that you could see how he looked from your face to your pregnant belly, and then back. The dumbfoundedness evolved into elation. His marred features didn’t show his snowballing joy. Not yet. There was probably only one person in the universe that could make him raise his hands as gently as he did. “I’m not here to hurt you.” “Okay.” Your voice was soft as fear gripped your throat, nodding despite a part of you not quite believing him after what you’d seen on the news.

He took a step forward and you couldn’t press any further into the bathroom door.

“Are they mine?” The question comes out choked as you catch the more scarred side of his face redden. You pick up your fiance's cadence, his tone. It held the same joy of your Mark’s ‘Are you sure?’ when you’d flashed the pregnancy test. It had filled you with the reassurance that while you both were young and dumb, that he had you. It makes your chest ache.

You know that he isn’t yours and that this baby isn’t his, yet looking at him as he begins to crumple has you nod. “She’s yours.”

She. That’s what floors him. You were so put together in his dimension. He was ready to be a hero and had looked forward to starting a life with you. You see his lip wobble even if he would never admit it. His jaw is tight and his hands ball into tight fists at his sides before Mark slumps in one big, shaky exhale. He closes the distance one step at a time.

Maybe it’s just a love for Mark in general that has you drop your phone when he kneels in front of you. His mantras of ‘please’ are a whisper. His hands are soft, softer than your Mark’s, when he holds your belly. As if you’d break and he’d be to blame. Again. Another sick joke from the universe to rub in that he was simply too strong this time instead of not strong enough to stop his father.

Your hands smooth over his head, wondering just what could have happened to scar someone like Mark so badly. He’d looked worse for wear, sure, but he always bounced back. “Do you… have a name for her?” He asks.

An embarrassed chuckle bubbles up your throat. It’s corny, it’s lovely, and a surprise for your soon to be mother-in-law. “We were thinking about naming her Deborah.”

“That’s perfect.” His forehead meets your belly. The way Mark kneels before you is almost reverent. As if you would cleanse him, as if you would pardon him of whatever sin he’d committed before he was dragged into the white walls of the Viltrumite prison.

You both sit like that for a long moment. You, smoothing over his rough edges. Mark, attempting to compose himself. He clears his throat and stands. He looks up. You assume it’s to blink away the tears, yet you can’t see where his goggles end and where his skin begins. As if they were fused. Feeling his scars? They likely were. “Do you want a picture?” You ask a tad sheepishly.

He simply nods at first, unable to speak just yet.

You take the moment to break away, waddling over to the fridge. There’s an array of photos. You’d told yourself over and over that you’d begin scrapbooking once you simply couldn’t work anymore, but prepping for your baby had consumed your life. You pluck two pictures carefully from the fridge. One that your Mark had taken of you during the date for your first anniversary and one of the copies of your latest ultrasound.

You place both in his hand.

Mark stares for a long moment at them. Rage blooms in his heart along with a bitterness and a jealousy that he hates. This version of him has everything. You, your apartment that he’d obviously moved into, and a child. “Thank you.” He folds his new and only treasures and places them into his uniform sleeve, tucking the fabric around them tight for a makeshift pocket. “You were- are everything, you know.”

That’s the last you hear of him before he’s gone just as suddenly as he’d broken through your door.

[endwersed]

WIP Wednesday 🐫

Happy middle of the week, everyone! I'm currently working on the next chapter of my Sterek High School AU, call it off - so please enjoy a li'l snippet from that 😊

-

“Well, as fun as that sounds,” Lydia monotones, “we’re actually busy this weekend – sorry.”

“But thanks for the invite!” Scott jumps in with. “We hope you have a fun birthday.”

The smile on Paige’s face dims, just slightly, a faint crease appearing between the twitch of her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. No slump of accepted defeated crosses her lovely features, though. Instead, her petite shoulders push backwards, her chin tipping up into the air as her mouth purses together. Her sharp eyes narrow just a moment before they lock onto Stiles.

He has not said a single goddamn word since she arrived at their table. Even so, his careful silence does not keep her focus from shifting over, her sights fixating onto him as her next target. Her gaze stays steadily on him as she speaks.

“My cousin will be there,” she tells him. “Luke. You remember him, right?”

Stiles blinks. His mouth is desert dry as he ignores the burning hole that Derek is staring right into his skull, and his lips are chapped as his tongue darts out to wet them. He tips his chin in a slow, stiff nod.

“I remember him,” he says.

Her smile brightens once again, the tug at the end of her fishing line swiftly lifting her mood.

“Cool,” she says, before her head tilts slightly to one side. “He said you never texted him after he gave you his number.”

A vague grimace settles onto Stiles’ face before he can stop it. Of all the atrocities that he has committed against this poor girl, ghosting her cousin is probably pretty fucking far down the list. Still, guilt prickles underneath his skin as he lifts his shoulder in a brief shrug.

“Yeah,” he admits croakily. “Sorry about that. I just got – busy, I guess.”

“It’s fine,” she says, and the breeze of her tone sounds like she really means it. “He’s cool with it. But he did mention that he’d really like the chance to see you again, if you’d be there this weekend.”

The abrupt turn of Scott and Lydia’s heads towards him in perfect, uncanny sync is predictable enough before it even happens. Together, they stare at him, one at each of his sides, his immaculate plates of armour boxing him in. Lydia’s eyes on him are hard and intense, and Scott’s gaze on him is open and pleading, but Stiles does not look back to either one of them.

They want him to say no, of course. They want him to the bigger man; the better person. They should really know by now how awful Stiles can truly prove himself to be.

Jolting his leg, he knocks the reassurance of Lydia’s hand away from his thigh, rolling his shoulders and staring forwards at Paige’s innocent, earnest smile. He does not let himself even glance over to the deep, affected twist of Derek’s features as he puts on a smile of his own, sickly with insincerity.

“Sure,” he agrees, his voice bright, barely steady. “I’d love to see him again, too. We’ll definitely be there.”

Instantly, Paige claps her hands together in squealing excitement. Derek’s fingers are still all tangled up in her tight grasp, shaking and twitching but still staying right in fucking place as she drags them up and clutches them against her chest.

“Awesome!” she laughs giddily. “Luke’s gonna be so happy. You really made an impression on him, you know.”

And Stiles has not thought about that hot, single athlete even fucking once since they first met. When he had Derek, he never thought he would need to. He was a goddamn fool.

“Awesome,” he parrots back at her. “You can tell him I’m looking forward to it already.”

-

No pressure tags! @crownofstardustandbone @patolemus @pointbreak-down @renmackree @violetfairydust ❤️

[aliciavance4228]

Let's get this shit done!

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Danaë wakes up on that ship and remembers what happened last night. She's now mourning Polydectes (Ugh!) and muses about how she lost both her husband and the innocence of her son, and how her gentleness wasn't able to protect him from the dangers of the world. (Are you kidding me?!)

Also have some "Danaë being racist towards Andromeda instead of befriending her." bits, because of fricking course!

That ship is now approaching the shores of Nauplia, Tiryns, and they discover that Proteus is currently king instead of Acrisius. Danaë gets surprised, then asks to have a conversation with her uncle.

Chapter Fourty

Danaë enters her uncle's palace, emotioned by the idea of seeing him again. Meanwhile, Perseus isn't as exited as her:

This version of Perseus on his calmest, most zen day:

Proteus is very happy to see his niece again (😒), so he invites them to dine and rest at him (if his wife is somehow there and at it again then I'm gonna commit first degree murder).

Proteus discover later that Danaë's husband died, and he immediately starts pitying her:

After comforting her Proteus then tells Danaë about his life ever since her father tried to kill her, and discovers that her uncle has two daughters married, one six feet under the dirst and a son not much younger than Perseus. He also treats Perseus like his own son and is the only person so far who calls Andromeda a "lovely lady" instead of making any racist comments. Friendly reminder that this men is a disgusting piece of shit in the original myths.

Chapter Fourty-One

Not much to say about this chapter, honestly. Proteus decides to give them a tour of the city just like any nice, totally not pedo uncle, and him and Danaë start having cute uncle/niece moments together (Bleh!). Also, remember how Polydectes receives a dead wife and newborn in this retelling for a sad background story? Now we have Proteus telling Danaë about how his wife and one of his daughters died, as Danaë tries to comfort him.

Proteus then asks Perseus if he would want to see his houds and hunt with him, and he accepts his proposal. Meanwhile, Danaë considers that her and Andromeda should go to the Woman's Hall since this is a men's sport and stuff.

Chapter Fourty-Two

More xenophobic Danaë content y'all!

Danaë finally decides to ask Andromeda about her past and how did she met Perseus, since he told her that she's a princess he rescued from a sea monster and she wants to know the truth. Andromeda tells her about how Perseus murdered her spouse, kidnapped and raped her, and Danaë instantly start to feel sorry for her after three chapters of starring at her as if she was some sort of an exotic animal exposed at a museum.

And if fricking course we get this wanna-be profound and feminist dialogue between them two after all the shit we went through. Also, not sure wheter or not part of the reason why Medusa is berber here is because the author considered that in this way her Andromeda would give a fuck about a woman she never met before.

Danaë then assures Andromeda that, while she still loves her son, she understands her pain and suffering.

You are not wretched,” she said gently, pulling the trembling girl to her with shielding arms. “Not anymore. I will not let it be so. You are my daughter now, by the laws of gods and men.” She felt Andromeda’s rigid body give way a little, and held her tightly. “I will help you,” Danae whispered. “We will do what we can."

Friendly reminder that this is the exact same woman who was wondering wheter or Andromeda is a witch who seduced and put her son under some sort of sexual spells and influenced him to murder Polydectes about twenty pages ago.

Chapter Fourty-Three

Reading Shadow Of Perseus So You Don't Have To

Okay, before starting to actually dissect this book I cannot help but notice that the author inserted these fragments in her novel:

"Oh, look at me! I just copy n' pasted some random ancient texts in my shitty retelling to prove that I did my own search and I know what I'm supposed to write about. I'm so smart y'all! 🤓"

Anyway, this book is written from the POVs of different women from the life of Perseus. First we have Danaë's POV, then Medusa’s, then Andromeda's and then Danaë’s again. *sighs*

Chapter One

Danaë has a handmaid named Korinna. Which yes, I know that it's actually a greek name and that it comes from kore, but it's kinda funny to me since here Corina is that one middle-aged woman who sits on the balcony while gossiping the entire town and spitting seeds in your head.

Danaë is currently in Larissa, giving offerings at the temple of... Apollo and Artemis?! I'm sorry, but the author does know that these two generally had separate temples, right? Right?!

Are you gonna tell me that Danaë's mother is dead or something?! Or that Acrisius wants to remarry a girl who's probably younger than his own daughter instead of expecting a grandchild from her instead?! Bitch, that man was probably so old he needed two packages of Viagra™ and a hot chick to put a finger in his ass in order to get a boner if the best he was able to do in his prime was one or two daughters.

Side Note: We're still at the second page of this retelling, by the way...

Okay, we're told that Danaë never left Argos before but would want to travel around the world because... her cool uncle told her many stories throughout time. Are you gonna tell me that you're going to turn even Proteus into a nice guy just so that your Perseus would look like the ultimate Genghis Khan with a personality disorder?! Really?! I mean, SERIOUSLY?!

After leaving the temple the two women make their way to the city. But Danae knew they had no reason to fear. No one in Argos would dare harm the daughter of Akrisios, nor one of his slaves. Alright, quick question: How do people, who lived in an era where stuff such as television, photography, posters etc. didn't exist, knew how does the princess of Argos looks like unless she traveled so oftenly that citizens got used of her face? Especially considering the fact that back then women usually had a more secluded life.

"Argos had no shortage of men hoping to marry Akrisios’s only daughter. But as each one presented himself, her father found a reason to reject them. They were too fat, too thin, too poor, too wealthy, too foolish, too clever."

Sooo... basically any average balkan father? I'm confused, is this supposed to depict him in a worse light? Anyway, Danaë is now musing about how many men her father rejected even when she found them handsome and wanted to marry them for the rest of this chapter or so.

Chapter Two

Danaë turns back to the "Golden House" (which honestly sounds like some sort of a hotel which makes this retelling even more absurd) where she finds her father and uncle complaining again.

Not gonna lie, this is the most accurate fragment from this book so far.

Danaë then joins her cousins at the table, which by the way have the exact same personality (none, that is), divided into three.

"Like his twin brother, Danae’s uncle had begotten no sons, and yet he did not seem to resent the fact. He doted on his three daughters as if they were the greatest gifts the gods could have bestowed."

First of all, Megapenthes is right here! Second of all, the greatest irony out there is that Acrisius DID love and care for his daughter before finding out about the prophecy, which makes her imprisonment even more tragic. Sanitizing the exact same depraved fossil who assaulted Danaë and even his own daughter in one obscure source in a so-called "Feminist" retelling should perhaps make you consider to abandon writing this book. Unfortunately we're only at chapter 2 and there are 44 more chapters that will follow. *sighs*

"Her grandmother used to say that they had quarreled even when they were in the womb, and although Danae knew she was joking it didn’t seem improbable."

Oh trust me, she was NOT joking! By the way, did you know that Danaë’s mother died when she was little? Because why would one explore the bond between a mother and a daughter when you could have her be in a good relationship with her pedo uncle? Booooooooooring!

Acrisius' chief emissary then suddenly appears, telling him that they received a message from the Oracle and has to talk to him in private. Acrisius then finds out that he won't be the one who'll have a son, but his daughter, and that said son will eventually kill him. Acrisius is not so happy y'all.

Chapter Three

Danaë is currently in her prison for two days. I'm sorry, but this is supposed to be a disturbing, hearbreaking moment and yet this is how it reads like:

Her uncle shows herself to be appalled by his brother's actions and wants to see his niece, because of fricking course! 🙄

Because sitting in a room all day is boring and she runs out of hobbies Danaë asks one of her servants to bring her a lyre to occupy herself with, which she does. This chapter ends with Danaë playing the instrument while crying because of her paranoic father.

Chapter Four

One week later Danaë receives a visit from the baker's son named Myron, which turns out to be some uncooked OC (pun intended). By the way, Myron is a stupid name to choose for someone from the Late Bronze Age (we have it too under the variant of Miron), since it literally comes from myrrh which has a greater importance in Abrahamic religions especially. Back to the plot, Myron tells Danaë that he has heard her playing the lyre and fell in love with her music so he decided to visit her, and gave her a cake as a gift before leaving, promising her it's not the first time when he'll pay her a visit.

This is the dumbest chapter so far, because what do you mean Acrisius is senile enough to let his daughter in a chamber anyone could enter in without much difficulty if the entire point of her imprisonment was to keep her a virgin so that she won't give birth to a son?! And before asking: No, that guy didn't came in through the window, because that room has no windows to begin with; he simply used the door just like any normal person. At this point I'm wondering how is Danaë supposed to be isolated if all she would have to do to escape is to open that fucking door, and those guardians are clearly not doing their job.

Chapter Five

Danaë is now waiting for the uncooked OC to come to her that night (pretty sure the accidental innuendo was actually intended). He turns back with another piece of cake, then starts to tell her about his family drama, poverty and how he intends to live Argos with a ship. Danaë is all in heat because it's the first time she's so close to a boy, and he's also quite nice and handsome too.

"friend" pretty sure this guy will soon father Perseus, so before reaching another chapter here's my advice:

Chapter Six

The uncooked OC is visiting Danaë every night. Danae realized she had never really had a friend before. A true friend. Not her cousins bound to her by blood and forced proximity, or her handmaid bound by servitude. Myron owed her no loyalty. He asked for nothing from her. Don't you guys love it when a supposedly feminist retelling has a woman having a stronger bond with a male OC than with the canonical female figures she might have actually been close to? I know!

One day Danaë receives a visit from her father, after about a month or so ever since he locked her away. Danaë then begs him to release her, telling him that as long as he rejects any suitors or makes a priestess she won't bear any children, to which he makes it clear that she could still get pregnant via seduction or rape and this is the safest possible way to avoid the prophecy, then leaves.

"And it was then that she knew his true fear. He did not fear her but her body—the life it could bring, and the death. Its permeability, its fatal fecundity. This was no new threat. He had defended against it all her life. The oracle had only made his fear greater, the stakes higher. And with that realization she knew she was lost."

Something tells me that the author was thinking "I'm a genius." while writing this and started to self-compliment herself as if she wrote Oppenheimer's "Now I am become Death." speech.

The uncooked OC visits her that night again and Danaë tells him about her conversation with her father. He then tries to comfort her, and they start to kiss and fuck.

Chapter Seven

This chapter is only three pages (not that the other would be much longer anyway), and it's basically just the uncooked OC telling Danaë that he could help her escape, and run together far from Argos. But they don't really come with any plan at all, because Danaë still hopes that her father will change his mind one day and free her anyway.

I'm sorry girl, but just because you don't believe in prophecies or in getting pregnant after the first time that doesn’t mean that your father shares the exact same beliefs as yours, nor that he will free you for asking him politely.

Chapter Eight

Danaë discovers that: "Oh well, you could ACTUALLY get pregnant after the first time!" and realizes how stupid and desperate she was all this time. Her servant is the one who observed her nauseous moods sooner and informs her father about it, and he quickly realizes that his daughter might be in fact pregnant.

But Danaë still didn't figure out that the handmaid already suspects something, so she cuts her tight with a knife and stains her rags and wool with blood so that she would believe she didn’t lose her periods. But exactly in this moment her father enters her chambers and discovers her trickery.

Friendly reminder that the original Danaë managed to keep Perseus hidden for three or four years, while this one wasn't able to hide her pregnancy in the first place.

Chapter Nine

Danaë is held captive for a while, this time in her older bedroom instead of her prison, crying about how she can no longer see her beloved uncooked OC boyfriend again until her father asks her to come with him. They travel during nighttime in a wagon for a while, before they stop nearby the sea. Acrisius then asks his men to bind his daughter and throw her in a boat, then cast the boat into the see because he is a "pious men" and would rather know his daughter killed by the waves of Poseidon than his own hands. Danaë begs for forgiveness when her pedo uncle suddenly appears:

Proteus wasn't able to save his niece, so she's tied thrown into the boat anyway.

Chapter Ten

Danaë bemoans her own fate while pregnant and tied into the boat, praying that Poseidon won't cast any storm. I'm sorry, but this chapter alone is only three or four pages, and extremely dumb for numerous reasons:

1) The chances of a pregnant woman devoided of any food to not die are very low, let aside to not lose her pregnancy. Perseus was already a baby or a small child and Danaë wasn't tied in the original myth. Not to mention the fact that here she isn't in a chest but in a boat, making her more vulnerable and exposet to any danger.

2) Danaë and Perseus weren't completely abandoned, but protected and safely carried away by Poseidon and the Nereids. But because in this shitty retelling there are no gods the fact that her and her fetus somehow survived is less credible.

3) This is the distance between Argos and Seriphos, by the way:

There's no way that trip lasted for only one day or a few hours.

That boat is eventually found by Dictys and other fishermen, who manages to safely rescue Danaë.

[allseeingharlequin]

So we all remember in season 3 when John lost his memory but he didn't actually lose his memory because it wasn't John? But it still hurt because right before that John said "whatever happens I'll never forget you"

I know this probably won't happen but right after that, Arthur said "me neither John" and I just think it would be really interesting and fun if ((52spoiler) because Arthur got annihilated in the latest episode) John got stuck in an Arthur from another timeline meaning Arthur would "forget"

Now I haven't bothered to think about anything that would happen after that logistically and I'm not going to lmao honestly I just wish we could have gotten that parallel (edit: we technically already got the parallel in Intermezzo, explanation in the comments of this post in case you don't remember like I didn't lol, so I'll just revise and say I wish we could have gotten a better parallel/j not really tho)

[templeofvengeance]

[Tagdump...]

[kaeyacollection]

Hey so uh

Are we being normal about this?

"In those days, a crimson moon shone down upon the subterranean realm, and not the dark sun of latter days." (Perinheri book)

And like the wiki says Kaeya's passive was changed from "Heart of the Abyss" because it unintentionally conflated with the Abyss in game and not the metaphor of "walking on thin ice over an abyss."

But I mean

For an unintentional connection it sure does come up a lot

But even if we do disregard that and go based on the intended meaning (via the wiki)

"The Book of Songs·Xiaoya·Xiaomin": "It's like standing on the edge of a deep abyss, like walking on thin ice."

I mean on one hand, yes we already knew about Khaenri'ahs connection to the abyss long before the Abyss Order was founded and before Khaenri'ah got nerfed for crimes against Celestia (fuckin Gold had rift hounds like this isn't new)

BUT this is the first solid confirmation that the Abyss wasn't a side note some (lookin at you 5 sinners) dipped their toes into but a defining part of the dynasty if it was named after the damn thing, right?

From the book of The Little Witch and the Undying Fire:

You see, we also call a will that comes down from the heavens an "archon." They are normally planets that have sentient life on them, and they number seven, and therefore they are called the "seven archons." As for the virtuals, their number varies between one, two, and four. The planet the little witch was on may well have been one. And in the case of such a world, the "virtual" would be the "dark sun."

"The planet the little witch was on may well have been one." Has become such an important line in connecting the abyss as a guiding force, that was not just used by khaenri'ah, but influencing them even if the people didn't realize it

Walking on thin ice over the abyss, believing they could balance that danger, but the ice cracked and Celestia responded

King Irmin was indisposed, we saw the kind of madness that overcame Chlothar, who only got the second hand abyssal experience from Mr. Crystal himself (Vedrfolnir), Gold went Mold for a second if her chapter in The Little Witch has any accuracies to herself (also one of her companions becoming a pirate - I see you Kaeya's Grandpa)

For the Sinners to be seeking perfection when the Abyss Order talks about their guiding force being something of chaos

Idk it's just neat that one line can solidify and make sense of previous tales within the game that we didn't technically have the context for previously and I'm excited to see what the rare disease mentioned at the end is going to be

Also just as a bonus note

Celebration: Fruit of Wisdom

What knowledge might the fruit of wisdom bring, were it to descend upon the land? Either way, it'll taste good as a drink if left in Diona's hands.

I wasn't part of the event, but if they straight up saw fruits of wisdom and the first thought was to consume it then I just wonder if fruits of the abyss looked just as appetizing

[vanishintoyou]

alright making a pact w myself i will try bg3 A LITTLE BIT.... only a little bit not too long.... and Only If i can write this thing and email it to (redacted) tomorrow.

[libingan]

—no questions asked.

you’ve always been his, even before the words were ever said—no labels needed when everything else speaks for itself.

i remember candace and jeremy's relationship in phineas and ferb. i liked how jeremy assumed they were already dating and thought to myself "simon riley" so here it is.

it’s always been this way with simon.

the little things you’ve shared, those moments that nobody else gets to see, have slowly built up over time. long drives where the silence is comfortable, quiet moments when you’re wrapped up in a blanket together, his arm draped around your shoulders. you’ve shared soft kisses in the early morning light, whispered words when you think no one’s listening, and occasional touches that linger just a second too long to be deemed innocent. his gruff voice calling you his—just “his,” as if you’re already a part of something bigger, something unspoken.

but the question always lingers in the back of your mind: what are we?

because in your head, you’re not his girlfriend. you never really were. sure, you’ve done couple things—spent hours together, laughed over inside jokes, shared moments that feel like they belong to only the two of you. but whenever you think about it, you can’t quite place a label on what you are. you never had that conversation, the one where he asks you out, where you define what this thing between you is.

and deep down, you’ve always known. maybe it’s not meant to last. maybe simon’s just passing through your life like a storm, wild and unpredictable, leaving you wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again once the dust settles. you’ve never asked for a commitment. it was enough for you to just be close, to keep things easy and fluid, without any promises that might eventually break.

but then, everything changes the moment you decide to confront him.

it’s a quiet night, the kind where the world outside seems to stop, and you’re sitting in the living room, the only sound being the soft hum of the kitchen light. simon’s sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded as he scrolls through his phone. you’re sitting on the floor in front of him, leaning your back against the coffee table, and you can’t stop your thoughts from swirling.

the truth has been eating at you for weeks now, months maybe. you have to ask. you need to know if this is really what you want, and more importantly, if it’s what simon wants. so, you let the question slip, unsure of how it’ll come out, but it tumbles from your lips all the same.

“simon,” you begin, your voice quiet but firm, “what are we?”

he doesn’t immediately look up from his phone. it’s as if the question barely registers, but you know he’s heard it. you can feel his attention slowly turning your way, as if his brain needs a second to process the weight of your words.

he puts the phone down, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at you, his gaze soft but intense. he doesn’t say anything at first. instead, his lips curl into a small, knowing smirk.

“what do you mean?” his voice is low, almost like he’s testing the waters.

you swallow, feeling a tightness in your chest, and you try to make your words come out right. “i mean… we do all this stuff, simon. you call me yours, and i… i don’t even know where i stand. we’ve never really talked about what this is. are we… are we dating, or what?”

he blinks at you for a moment, clearly taken aback by your words. it’s almost funny, how much you’ve thought about it, how much you’ve analyzed your every interaction, while simon has likely never questioned it. it’s simple to him. and that’s when it hits you—he’s never even considered that this could be anything other than what it is.

he sighs, a deep, exasperated sound, and leans back into the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering. “what are you on about, woman? you’re my girlfriend.”

the words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t quite process them. you blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. it almost sounds like he’s stating a fact, like it’s something as simple as breathing. his voice is firm, unwavering, as if this was always meant to be the case.

you feel your breath catch, the weight of his words sinking in, and then—just like that—all your worries melt away. you don’t even know why you were so worried in the first place. the uncertainty, the anxiety, it all seems so silly now. you’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all. simon is, as always, so simon about it. there’s no drama, no overthinking, no need for big conversations or declarations.

you’re his. you’re his girlfriend. and there’s no debate.

the relief hits first, followed closely by a mix of amusement and a small flash of annoyance. you try to hold back the grin tugging at your lips. “wait... just like that? no question, no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ just… you’re my girlfriend?”

he meets your gaze, nonchalant, and shrugs. “that’s right. you’re mine. no need for any of that nonsense. i’ve already decided.”

you stare at him, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. it’s the way he speaks, like he’s already certain, already claimed you. and it feels… good. reassuring, even. but also, just a little bit frustrating. because, honestly, how do you even argue with that?

“god, you’re impossible,” you mutter, a grin breaking through as you roll your eyes. “seriously. you’re so damn sure about everything.”

he just smirks back, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “you should be glad i am, sweetheart. now, come here.”

he pats his lap, and before you can protest, you’re already moving toward him, the tension from moments before completely gone. his arms pull you close, and you settle against him, feeling his familiar warmth. you don’t even need the words anymore. somehow, just being with him like this is enough.

and that, you realize, is exactly what simon’s always known.

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ PHONE THEFT TO F1 WAG PIPELINE | #FC43

pairing. franco colapinto x tifosi!reader

synopsis. charles and carlos accidentally steal your phone. chaos is bound to ensue as you meet franco during the race charles invited you to as an apology for the phone theft he committed

warnings. like one (1) swear word

note. there's a lack of franco fics out there, so i'm fixing it

MASTERLIST ; requests open

to: yn yln (yn.yln@gmail.com) from: Ferrari PR (ferrari.pr@ferrari.com) subject: Invite to the Monaco Grand Prix 23.05.25–25.05.25

Dear Ms yln,

We heard about the incident with our driver, Charles Leclerc. On behalf of Mr Leclerc we would like to offer our sincerest apologies. Mr Leclerc has expressed a wish to invite you to the Monaco Grand Prix, or any other Grand Prix if you are unavailable for the Monaco Grand Prix.

Please let us know your availability and we will provide a paddock pass for the entire weekend.

Best regards,

Ferrari PR

yn

liked by user1, alexandrasaintmleux and 97 others

yn and to think this all happened because charlos stole my phone (thank you alexandrasaintmleux for taking the first picture)

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alexandrasaintmleux it was lovely meeting you 🫶

yn it was so nice to meet you too!! i cannot wait to meet you for lunch later

charles_leclerc ?? what

alexandrasaintmleux don't worry about it, amor

user1 remember me when you're a niche internet celebrity

yn niche internet celebrity for going to one race once 😀

carlossainz55 again, i'm so sorry for stealing your phone

yn i got it back, so no hard feelings (and charles got me a paddock pass, so i won't slander you on the internet)

charles_leclerc thank god

user2 did you forget we had an exam the DAY after the race?

yn whoops? but at least i got to go to an f1 race?

francolapinto

liked by pierregasly, alpinef1team and 501,123 others

francolapinto Monaco Grand Prix. It was a tricky weekend, but back to work and we'll be stronger in Barcelona 👊

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user3 i really hope alpine keeps franco for more than five races

alpinef1team ¡vamos!

yn it was so nice talking to you, thank you for carving the time out of your (undoubtedly) busy schedule to do so!!

francolapinto the pleasure was all mine, even though you wore the wrong team colours

yn well, if alpine had invited me and not ferrari then maybe i wouldn't have worn red

francolapinto maybe i'll just have alpine invite you to barcelona

yn a, i have university, b, i would still show up in red because that is the only right colour

francolapinto what a shame, you'd look stunning in blue

yn 😳

user4 is that franco… flirting?

user5 sorry, he's just like this

user6 so proud of you for p13!!

user7 can't wait to see what you do in barcelona next weekend 🫶

pierregasly let's go, barcelona ‼️

yn

liked by francolapinto, user1 and 85 others

yn a week ago, i was at the monaco grand prix, now i'm back at uni 💔

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carlossainz55 stay in school kids, it's important

yn did you even finish school?

carlossainz55 i did, actually

user1 so, coffee date when

yn you're literally sitting next to me, we could go right now

francolapinto you could always come to a race (and ditch uni)

carlossainz55 DO NOT LISTEN TO HIM

yn CARLOS?? i thought you liked having me around 😔

carlossainz55 I DO, but don't ditch university for a race

francolapinto we have strayed so far from the original plot of the movie

pierregasly no, we're sorry, please continue with your pathetic attempt at flirting

yn i think it's cute

francolapinto at least someone here appreciates me

francolapinto hermosa 🤩

yn my face isn't even in this??

francolapinto i can still tell, it's the vibes

user8 you know what, sure

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, alexandrasaintmleux and 869,495 others

charles_leclerc i accidentally stole a phone one time and now i've got an annoying little sister who won't leave me alone

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yn oh, i look good in that picture

francolapinto you always look good

yn 🤭

pierregasly you need to heighten your standards if that makes you blush

yn you should've included some pictures from the yacht outing in this 🙃

alexandrasaintmleux agreed!!

user9 yacht outing?? girl is living the dream

user10 phone thief to unwilling older brother is real and thriving

user11 FORZA FERRARI

user12 i want to BE her

yn probably not, uni is killing me 👍

yn reply to my text, charles, please it's an EMERGENCY

charles_leclerc is the emergency in the room with us?

yn YES??

charles_leclerc you asked for a paddock pass so you could, and i quote, "talk to franco again"

francolapinto i'm flattered, hermosa

francolapinto give her the paddock pass charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc oh god fine i'll get you a paddock pass

yn thank youuu 💕

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, francolapinto and 102 others

yn highlights from the race: conversations with franco and FERRARI P3!!! FORZA FERRARI SEMPRE 🏎️

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user13 what is that picture of franco?

yn i just found him like that

user1 forza ferrari or whatever

yn put some more enthusiasm in it???

francolapinto maybe we can go on that date soon ☺️

yn what date? i don't recall a date

francolapinto 🥹

charles_leclerc DATE? DATE? mon dieu

yn please calm down, i don't want you to get a heart attack especially at your old age

charles_leclerc …

yn i also haven't agreed to a date, but that is mostly because franco has been a COWARD and hasn't ASKED

francolapinto would you say yes if i asked

yn yes ☺️

francolapinto

liked by charles_leclerc, yn and 450,653 others

francolapinto argentina, baby 😉

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user14 FRANCO COLAPINTO IS THAT A GIRL??

user15 THE FLOWERS ‼️

user16 this is not a drill, i repeat, this is NOT a drill

user17 francoooo, you can't just do this

francolapinto actually i think i can hehehe

user18 he said fuck subtlety

user19 as he should

carlossainz55 happy for you, hermano

pierregasly how did this happen

alex_albon i'm just as confused as you are

charles_leclerc more importantly when did this happen

yn more importantly who is she

charles_leclerc 🤨

pierregasly what do you know

francolapinto 🥹 heart: broken

yn

liked by francolapinto, alex_albon and 163 others

yn hehehehe

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francolapinto what is that last picture i look like i don't care which is WRONG

yn you look cute in it

francolapinto the cute one is you, me thinks

yn psa: franco does care he was just busy finding a restaurant in the last picture

pierregasly we were getting a little worried he didn't

francolapinto YOU'RE MY TEAMMATE??

pierregasly i still like yn better

user1 so this is why you suddenly left for argentina

yn yes 🤭

charles_leclerc as your older brother i'm obligated to be protective (i'm very happy for you)

yn thank you, charlie 🫶🏻

charles_leclerc does this mean i don't have to sit and listen to you talk about franco anymore

yn no

alexandrasaintmleux ❤️

carlossainz55 so this is why i caught you sneaking around in that hotel hallway that one time

yn you promised not to speak a word of it

carlossainz55 oops?

yn you're legally required to pay reparations now, sorry i don't make the rules

francolapinto to both of us ‼️

oscarpiastri i support extorting carlos sainz

carlossainz55 can you come get your kids charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc only oscar is my child, yn is my sister 👍

francolapinto

liked by yn, pierregasly and 457,896 others

francolapinto she wore red to our first date because "you have to know that my allegiance will always be to ferrari"

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charles_leclerc i don't see the problem??

yn that's because there is no problem

user20 is franco dating the girl who got her phone stolen by charlos lmao

user21 that's charles' little sister

charles_leclerc i stole her phone and then she leeched onto me until i (reluctantly) accepted her as my sister

yn you love me

charles_leclerc i do

user22 my husband has a girlfriend 🥲

yn ferrari is forever, boyfriends come and go

user23 how does this season make you feel

yn terrible

francolapinto amor ☹️

yn i love you, i just don't like alpine

yn give my boyfriend a seat for the next season alpinef1team

scuderiaferrari don't forget your roots 💔

yn never ‼️ FORZA FERRARI SEMPRE

scuderiaferrari FORZA FERRARI

alpinef1team don't forget who provides your paddock passes yn

scuderiaferrari if you no longer want to, we'll gladly provide them

user24 not ferrari and alpine fighting over yn LMAO

yn i love you, amor ❤️

francolapinto i love you the most, estrella 🩷

[itzpookiepooh]

Don’t Touch It

You try to pump your own gas

Rafayel is fed up to the tip of his head with you. He feels like he’s teaching you to breathe when he sees you do things you aren’t supposed to be doing. You pull up to the get out. Rafayel tries to pull up something on his phone as he gets out. You thought he was going to get snacks. You should have known better than that. You press your card to the reader, select the grade, untwist the cap, and go to pump, everything was going smoothly until he appeared on the other side of the tank.

He looks you up and down and then looks around. He opens your jacket, stares at you then pushes your front to the car and looks your backside up and down. You were getting irritated with this foolishness. What could he possibly be doing at a gas station of all places?! You swat his hand away shooting an evil glare his way.

“Are you dying?” He asked with wide eyes, his hand on your forehead. “No?” You answer taking his hand off of you.

“Would you like to?” He deadpans. No blinking. No moving just straight up staring at you.

“What is wrong with you?!” You snap foxing your clothes. You let go of the gas pump making him quickly grab onto it. A win is a win.

“I was wondering if we switched roles overnight. I don’t remember you having…other facilities when I went to bed last night.” He gave a fake smile making your eyes widen.

“What are you talking about?” You tilt your head at him making him do the same but sassier.

“You don’t need me anymore?” He accused you making you fumble over your words. “Because it seems like you don’t if you’re out here pumping your own gas!” He snaps staring at you like you committed a crime.

“Rafayel—“ You sigh, defeated when he puts his hand up, not wanting to hear anything else from you. He waved you away to get back in the car.

“I was just trying to help.” You call from the drivers seat but your statement only aggravated him more. “Help someone who needs it!” He shouts back watching the gas tank fill.

“Love you!” You call to him, he glares at you once more. “I love you too.” He snaps before going back to ignoring you.

How dare you insult him like this!

Zayne is the perfect boyfriend, a textbook example. He cooks for you, drives you everywhere, and doesn’t let you so much as open the car door if you don’t have to. So why in the hell did you think it would be a good idea to pump the gas while he went inside to get a snack? Only you know the answer to that. It’s not a good one but it’s an answer.

Zayne nearly dropped his grapes when he saw you by the car pumping gas. He blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing. There was no way the love of his life was pumping gas in his car. He must be dreaming…or having a terrible nightmare.

“What are you doing?” He asks you placing his hand over yours that’s on the pump.

“Pumping gas?” You ask as if it were obvious. He didn’t understand the problem.

Zayne waited a beat in silence, the only sound is the gas pouring in and city life. He pushed you gently out of the way holding onto the pump where your hand once was. You just stared at him in confusion. What was his problem?

“It seems you believe my hands don’t work.” He told you as he watched the tank fill up. You cock your head back in confusion.

“I never said that.” You tell him in disbelief that he put words in your mouth. He glances at you his same expression on his face.

“It must’ve been what you thought if you believed it was okay to pump gas on your own.” His tone the same as it always is. You put your hands on your hips in a huff.

“You were in the store!” You reason but he shakes his head. “For a moment. Now get in the car it seems I have to teach you about what you need to be doing.” He lectures you pointing to the car.

You got in the car but not because he said so.

You thought you were so slick, waiting for him to pull his card out of his wallet while you went to go pump it yourself. Sylus pushes you back into the car causing you to pout. You were only trying to help. You look up at him like a pouty hamster to which he gives you a bored stare. He didn’t need you to lift a finger when you were together much less for something as small as this. Were you raised in a barn? Why would you pump his gas? He’s right there.

“Do you always try to inconvenience others?” He teased leaning against the passenger’s side door. You glared at him going to open the door but it wouldn’t.

“Did you put child’s lock on!” You yell through the window while he snickered.

“Did I? I don’t recall.” He chuckled watching you scramble to the backseat only to find those also have a child’s lock on them. Sylus couldn’t stop laughing at you. You looked like a hamster in a cage.

You weren’t able to exit the car as Sylus ignored you while he pumped the gas. You were so mad when he got back in but it didn’t matter. He told you about yourself on the way.

Please for the love of all things holy, don’t play with him like that. He nearly fell out and died because he saw you pumping his gas. You were lucky he even let you drive, he loves driving you around and only rarely does he let you drive him around. He went to run to the restroom real fast when he came back you were filling up the tank. He popped your hand so fast, his eyes narrowing at you.

“I just saw it needed a top up so I decided to do it.” You whimper rubbing your hand. He shakes his head at you.

“You don’t ever pump my gas, understand?” He lectures you as he crosses his arms. You pout, what was so wrong about pumping gas anyway? He leans closer waiting for you to agree.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m just tryna help.” He sighs feeling bad about scolding you.

“I understand that. It’s about manners, you shouldn’t be pumping gas if I’m sitting in the car. It’s rude.” He explains ruffling your hair making you push him.

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes at him. He ushers you back into the car so he can finish filling the tank. His gesture did warm your heart though. The thought of him not wanting you to do things you don’t have to was heart warming.

He glares at you. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes say a lot. He feels like you’re disrespecting him in a way. He gently pries your hand off the pump even while you protest. You guys were pushing your hips against each other like siblings. Some people looked at you all with a confused look except a singular old woman who thought it was cute your boyfriend wanted to pump your gas.

“Sweetheart your boyfriend is so polite.” The older woman giggles softly. You both freeze and smile at her, Xavier decides to use this to his advantage.

“She’s so stubborn and doesn’t let anyone do things for her.” He smiles sadly at the woman making her gasp. She gives you an eye as her hands fall on her hips.

“You should let him! It’s rare to find someone like this! Take it from me!” She scolds you making your jaw drop. How did he manage to get this random old lady on his side? You tried to protest but she barely let you.

“I understand.” You sigh in defeat, your head hanging low. She huffs before giving you a talk about how you should let people take care of you sometimes.

Xavier was behind the woman with a small smirk. You side eye him trying to ignore him. This was his fault anyway how did he slide from punishment? The woman leaves you two alone allowing you to finally glare at him.

“You did that on purpose.” You tell him. He shrugs finishing with the gas. He turns to you, kissing your nose.

“You shouldn’t have tried to do it on your own. I’m here for a reason.” He teased. You pout getting in the car along with him.

I feel like I started running out of ideas for this one somewhere but it all came together 🙂‍↕️

[k-hotchoisan]

hiiiii <333 I have lovedddd lovvvveeeddd alll of your works I actually spent my day reading each and everyone of them I love it so muchhh!! 😭❤️

I have a request teehee, could you write one where Sannie is like a professor in your college and there’s little teasing here and there and where he ends up having her alas!! DOM - SAN ‼️💋

his favourite

<prof!san x fem!reader>

Prof Choi likes playing favourites.

You’re his favourite.

Genres/Warnings: smut, dom professor Choi San, pwp, face fucking, unprotected sex, oral (m receive) ,mutual pining, age gap, size kink, cream pies, mild jealousy plot, sir kink, light bondage (just tying up reader) teasing, sexual tension, teaching assistantxteacher obv forbidden but we still eat it up anyway!

Word count: 12.3K

a/n: happy birthday to the man of my dreams </3 enjoy this little choi san birthday treat. i put my love into this so please love this as much as i did! and thank you @bro-atz for the tidbits of help as always 🩷

apply for taglist here!

You stare at the laptop screen, scanning through your details on the application form, double, and triple checking that everything was filled in correctly. 

“Which professors are you trying as a teaching assistant for?” Your roommate asks, her neck craning over to see you attaching the file to six different emails, to six different professors within the department, pretty much answering her question the moment she reads off each professor’s email. 

“Why not try for the department chair?”

You scrunch your eyebrows as if it’s the first time you’re hearing that. 

“Who?”

“Professor Choi?”

Your eyes widen, your neck almost getting whiplash from how fast you turned to your roommate at the sound of his name. 

“Why the fuck would I try him?” 

Your roommate shrugs in an attempt to hide her amused reaction from your reaction at his name. 

“Who knows? I’m confident he remembers you even though you spent only one semester with him”, she hums turning away to pour herself another ice drink from the pitcher. “On a serious note, you may as well just get all the help you can get. Besides, what are the chances that Prof Choi sees your email? He’s the department chair. I’m sure his mailbox is just flooded anyway.” 

True, you think to yourself, turning your head back to your laptop, and adding the professor’s email address in. But you still hesitate, staring at the application form, your cursor hovering over the send button. Your roommate looks over at you, and she decides that your wishy-washy behaviour is just being the biggest nuisance on earth, so her hand flies over yours and helps you to press send, and she watches you freak out at her while she giggles and escapes after committing her crime, chasing your roommate around the kitchen island for a good seven minutes.

Settling back down in defeat, you sigh in your hands, giving yourself pep talks. 

Right. 

The chances are close to zero that Prof Choi will see my application anyway. 

The chances of him remembering me are close to zero anyway. 

You shut your laptop, and the applications are completely erased from your mind. 

“Yo, check your emails, babe. The application results are out for me”, your roommate says, her eyes glued to her laptop screen. 

You settle yourself down across her, a chilled drink in your hand, pulling up your email inbox. As you expected, you see the subject headline ‘Teaching Assistant Application Results’, and you expand the email.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, you mutter, loud enough for your roommate to hear. Her head pops out from behind her screen. 

“Who did you get?”

“Choi San.”

Professor Choi San. His classes weren’t the bane of your existence—but he, himself was. 

And the fact that it only took one semester to solidify that claim. Almost everyone wanted to get into his class, so fucking many of them just squealing over how he looked almost god-like. You wonder how much of a swoon he would be, how much of the rumours that travelled down the stream were factual, though with thousands of students constantly fighting for a spot in his class, you sure were coloured surprised when you landed a spot in Professor Choi’s class. 

The moment he walked in, the whispers within the confines of the lecture hall erupted into gasps and squeals. Unfortunately, the rumours were right—the moment ProfessorChoi walked in, it was as if your eyes naturally followed his movement—confident strides in his steps dictated by his outfit—a simple dress shirt under a dark gray vest that accentuated his wide shoulders and skinny waist.  

He was so fucking handsome—his hair neatly slicked back, frameless glasses sat on his nose bridge, his sharp and small eyes hiding behind the lens. Undoubtedly, seeds of infatuation began lodging themselves in you. Well, it’s not like you had a chance with him anyway, especially when the gold band reflected from his ring finger being a huge indicator. Maybe keeping him as an eye candy would work out just fine. 

Prof Choi’s classes were interesting, and he as a professor, other than being a distraction during the majority of his classes, held his credentials. However, at times, some sarcastic comments would bubble to the surface, and even though he did tend to commend top-scoring students for tests, he still maintained professionalism for the most part—the content taught wasn’t rocket science anyway. You saw yourself being able to breeze through the syllabus for the most part until you received your grade for one of your essays. You stared at his comments, marked in red lines, circles, and words—tone cold and direct—not that you weren’t used to it, but this time? You felt his comments alongside him marking you down were completely unjustified. 

It was then that you pushed past the group of girls who would stay back after class to shamelessly flirt with him, under the guise of wanting to discuss more about the content taught that day, and you stood before the group, asking to speak to Prof Choi personally. Prof Choi did have people staying back after class to consult with him about grades, although they would stay shortly with him staying stern to his marking rubrics, but when he realised you weren’t backing down on top of the way you approached him so directly, it intrigued him.

His office was spacious, considering that he was the department chair—and without introductions, he had you dive in immediately in consultation. 

You wasted no time, flipping through the spent pages of your essay, pointing out areas where you felt his comments were unjustified. Prof Choi listened, and he refuted your points, some of which you decided to accept but not for one particular part;

“This part had no proper scientific support of your argument for this point-“

“Bullshit”, you cut him off. Prof Choi blinked, shocked at the blunt cut from you. His eyebrows were scrunched in confusion next, wondering if he heard right that a student not only just cut him off, but cussed at him.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s here. A small significance value is still something isn’t it?” You replied, pointing at the paragraph after. He glanced at the paper once more, forcing himself to focus while you fought back that your argument was supported. 

So you made Prof Choi sit before you and listen to your elaborations, and needless to say, he was rather impressed, although he had to hold his expression neutral. 

You came out of the consultation victorious—the day Prof Choi called you over after his class again, handing you your script, and you saw your total marks shooting up to a gorgeous score. Your head was so into the clouds that you returned a smirk along with a shrug—showing off your victory and satisfaction as your thanks—an I told you so, leaving the professor to stare after you in awe while you practically skipped to your seat. 

That sealed your fate. 

From then on, Prof Choi would have his attention on you—recognising which seat you picked to sit in in class, wondering why you hadn’t dared sit nearer. And when it came to picking people to answer questions, his gaze would fly to you immediately—either waiting to call you out once you raised your hand or simply calling you when he felt like it. For some sick reason, he finds the way your face scrunches up in stress when he calls your name in his honey-soaked voice amusing, and even adorable at times, though he would never admit it. But oh, did he love the comments and answers you would give him. 

Despite that assignment being the only one where you decided to consult Prof Choi, following every grade release of an assignment, he would single you out, especially after class, to fucking ask if you had questions regarding said assignment, which honestly started to freak you out—mostly because he never gave you the attention before, and you weren’t used to it. The whispering gossip in the class about you being the teacher’s pet slowly reached your ears too, and even Prof Choi heard it—and he only exacerbated that rumours by constantly giving you his attention. 

Every time you reached your dorm, the words that left your mouth which your roommate could recite verbatim, “I swear to god, Prof Choi has it out for me!”

Not to mention you were fucking relieved when the last day of his class rolled around, but unfortunately, his parting words to you were, “I’m sure I’ll see you around, y/n”. You did everything in your power to avoid getting into his class and even bumping into him, which seemed to work swell. 

Until now that is. 

Now here you are again, standing before the familiar heavy wooden door, staring up at the wooden plate, embossed with gold lettering “Department Chair Choi San” staring right at you. You had to physically drag yourself off your bed to prepare for the first day partnered with Prof Choi. And when your roommate’s words of “oh come on, he can’t be that bad. He’s hot!”, echoed through your ears, it all the more made you want to just ditch your first day by clawing your eyeballs out. 

You had to collect yourself before Prof Choi collected you. 

With a raised knuckle, you rap against the door, taking deep inhales in the process. His voice, which sounded deceivingly like honey, remained the same as you remembered. 

“Come in.”

You pause for a moment, embracing yourself before holding onto to doorknob and pushing his door open. 

There he was, Professor Choi, his eyes focused on the scripts on his desk, which had piled up. His space remained the same as you remembered, for the most part—shelves littered with awards and files, the same desktop taking up one-quarter of his huge ass desk, and the couch with the coffee table left to the side of the room. Prof Choi wore a stern look of concentration on his face, still preoccupied with finishing up marking his scripts. 

When his pen pauses and his gaze shifts towards the door, a small smile spreads across his face. He lifts his head and drops his pen, interlocking his fingers on his desk with growing amusement when his eyes meet yours. 

Fuck, he’s still so handsome.

“Professor Choi”, you greet, holding your expression neutral as you bow, forcing yourself not to fidget with your tote bag. 

“Y/n!” Prof Choi greets almost too enthusiastically. “I would assume you would be more than delighted when I picked you to be my teaching assistant.”

“Honoured, almost”, you reply. It’s taking all of your energy not to break his gaze. He’s staring at you with unreadable eyes, and you’re wondering if the fluttering in your chest is from the anxiety or the way Prof Choi is staring at you.

Prof Choi laughs, and it tickles your ears a little too good. 

“Sit. We have a lot to go through today”, he gestures to the seat before him, and you take it.

He switches on his monitor to his course syllabus and turns the monitor slightly towards you. 

“Oh, before we begin, it’s a pleasure meeting you again, y/n.”

Oh boy, was being Prof Choi’s teaching assistant a fucking handful. You knew it was gonna be rough, but to be assisting Professor Choi San? He was on another level—his schedule would be filled to the brim with meetings with the faculty on top of conducting classes weekly. You struggled in your first month, learning the ropes, especially from a busy and challenging professor like him. He wasn’t mean or cold at all, on the contrary, more direct and meticulous. Well, he had to be, considering his position. Nonetheless, it felt like he was always too busy to attend to your questions sometimes, and that would leave you to your own devices. 

You stand in the aisle, looking down at the assortment of foods lined up in the chiller. Has Prof eaten yet? Does he even eat? What does he even eat? By instinct, you pull out your phone and open his chat. 

[you]: Hi Prof. Have you eaten? I’m at the convenience store near the campus. I could grab something quick for you. 

A couple of minutes go by, but your phone doesn’t receive a ping, and you had to reach the office soon. So you pick up another tuna rice ball for the professor alongside yours before making a beeline for the cashier. 

Prof Choi hears the knock on his door and as usual, he utters his usual “come in”. His gaze lands on you, and he glances at the clock. 

“You’re on time today”, he points out. 

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. “I’m always on time, Professor.”

“You’re usually in a little earlier.”

“Right, because I got you this”, you reply, rustling through the plastic bag in your hands, fishing out the rice ball.

He looks up at you, confusion hinted in his expression. He doesn’t take the food yet. 

“What’s this?” 

“Tuna rice ball. Surely only having coffee in the morning is not filling your stomach.” 

You put the food in front of him. “Besides, I messaged you but you didn’t reply. So I just chose something safe. Unless you’re telling me you’re allergic to tuna or something.”

Prof Choi blinks. His hands reach out to take the snack from the desk, unwrapping the plastic packaging as he watches you leave his office to grab a mug of coffee. He glances over at his phone, and sure enough, your name is there with your message.

Since then, his reply would pop up in mere minutes whenever you asked him if he wanted anything to eat. 

Of course, the more you spent time with him, the more you grew comfortable, and all the thoughts you ever stressed about slowly faded off. Prof Choi grew more relaxed around you, internally grateful that you’re able to tank a significant fraction of his workload for him. Undoubtedly, you also come to realise that Prof Choi is human after all—he obviously would make mistakes, even as someone of his caliber, and deep inside, you found it rather cute, well, until you had to stop yourself from developing deranged thoughts. 

Not to mention, another problem seemed to pop up—his flirty banter. He likely picked up that it made you flustered sometimes, and since then, he wouldn’t let it go, relishing at the way pink creeps up your cheeks when he would say something that wasn’t like his ‘professor-self’, and at worst, feeding into your crooked thoughts. 

You stare at him as he types away, particularly, the metal band around his ring finger. You wonder who was the lucky lady who had the chance to be with him. You blink. 

What the hell were you thinking?

“It’s rude to stare, you know”, Prof Choi’s voice snapping you out of your daydreams. 

“I’m just wondering about your ring, that’s all”, you reply, forcing your attention back to your half-marked assignments.

“I’m not actually married”, he suddenly confesses, and for some reason, it makes your heart beat slightly faster. 

“Huh?” Is all you manage to reply. 

Prof Choi chuckles. He pauses his work on the desktop, turning his attention to you. Even though you have worked so closely with him for a while already, you can never seem to find your composure around him. 

Even though you see his face every week, you can’t seem to wrap your head around how insanely good-looking he is, how sometimes you struggle to maintain eye contact with him, because it doesn’t take long before you feel yourself slowly flushing. 

“I wear it on my ring finger so the students stop asking about my marital status”, Prof Choi clarifies. You watch him pull the ring from his ring finger and fit it over his index. 

“So you’re single”, you echo.

He nods, “I’m single.” 

What is this strange feeling of relief?

“What about you?” He suddenly asks. You’re not looking directly at him, and you don’t realise the way he’s looking at you attentively. And if you do, you just might combust.

“I’m…single too”, you answer, trying to meet his gaze, fidgeting with the red pen in between your fingers. 

“And why’s that? Too busy fighting with your professors for grades?”

You glare at him. 

“I think it was my professor picking fights with me”, you reply quickly, jabbing right back at him. 

You watch Prof Choi lower his gaze, a smile spreading across his cheeks—an actual smile—his dimples showing up. Oh fuck. Just when you thought you could depend on your ribcage to contain your heart properly, you found out Prof Choi could actually smile. 

When he looks up at you again, you break the eye contact, your gaze flying back to the papers before you. 

“You know, I’ve met many students, but you were the first to cuss out at me.”

You did? “I did?”

Your professor nods, cocking his eyebrow at the way you had seemed to have simply forgotten something as eventful as that. 

This time, Professor Choi bursts into a chuckle, completely amused by your reaction. 

“Is that why you kept-“

“Giving you chances to answer in class for credit? You should really thank me for that. Your grade for my class was one of the highest you know.”

You feel your cheeks flush. But before you can retaliate, Prof Choi cuts you off.

“Jokes aside, no. I think the discussion we had that afternoon had an impression on me. The cherry on top was you cussing at me. I liked that. Refreshing and endearing”, Prof Choi continues, his attention seeping back to the pile of scripts before him. 

“I think this side of Professor is pretty refreshing and endearing too”, you let it slip.

His pen pauses in mid-air. You don’t catch his gaze completely softening on you. 

As the semester continues on, you began easing into the class schedules. You watch prof get swarmed by a group of students, a usual ritual that happens right when the class ends. At this point, you had grown used to it. Sometimes the students would come and approach you instead, which honestly surprised you, but your heart would feel warm, knowing that these students trusted you.

It was then you became acquainted with another teaching assistant under Prof Choi, who joined shortly after you did—Choi Jongho. Initially, he came off as a rather shy individual, but the both of you warmed up quickly with each other, sharing the workload and bonding over gossip with each other. Gosh, was he fucking amazing with gossip, especially when it came to Professor Choi. Soon enough, the both of you were texting almost on a regular basis, the conversations weighing more towards academic topics sprinkled with a little gossip. 

“You’re going off with Choi Jongho?”

“Yeah”, you reply, bunching the papers in your hands. “I’ve got some things to discuss with him about.” Partially true. 

For some reason, even though your professor has been completely swamped with papers to grade and meetings to attend, you would always find him loitering around your desk from time to time. He seems to especially enjoy doing that when you’re around. 

“You’ve been spending an awfully lot amount of time with him”, Prof Choi points out, looking over your shoulder as he watches you scribble on another student’s paper. 

“Yeah, we get along well actually. Isn’t that a good thing, Prof? Both your teaching assistants are besties.”

For some reason, that makes Prof Choi frown, but you’re too absorbed in your work to notice it.

A couple of minutes go by, and you still feel his presence, not that you mind, but you’re starting to find it peculiar that he’s been hanging around your desk a lot recently.

“Do you have something to discuss with me, prof?” You ask, eyes still glued to the paper.

“Yes”, he replies, taking another sip from his mug. “What do you think of Choi Jongho?”

Such a random question to ask, you think. Maybe he’s just making sure you and Jongho get along well?

You pause, giving yourself to think, tapping the back of the red pen against your bottom lip, taken aback by Prof Choi’s sudden question, but the conversations you and Jongho had resurfacing into your brain, and a giggle escapes you, which makes Professor Choi subconsciously narrow his eyes and furrow his brows. 

“He’s fun to be around, and despite how he looks, he’s actually got a wicked sense of humor. Oh god, wait. Let me tell you what you he did that day while we were having lunch together-“

You turn your head to continue to run your mouth, only to slowly trail off when realise his face is just inches from yours, and you swear your heart is on a treadmill from the lack of distance between you and Prof Choi. It’s as if time paused, the both of you sinking right into each other’s gazes. You can’t help but notice how intense his gaze is, and you can’t seem to decipher his thoughts, but from the way this situation played out, you swore he’d just lean in and kiss you. 

Your heartbeat accelerates at the thought—why would he do that?

And when his fingers are on your chin, your rational thoughts are getting flushed out. 

“That’s an awful lot of cute things about Choi Jongho. I’ve never heard you talk about another Choi like that.”

You swallow hard, your body still frozen in spot. 

“What do you think about him then?” 

“Jongho? I was just-“

“No. Choi San.”

Oh god. You could only stare back at him. Prof Choi tilts his head, his eyebrows raised, waiting for his answer. His cologne floats and almost shuts down your senses—has he always smelled this good? 

The corner of his lips curl slightly at the way you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights. 

“I t-think Prof-“

“San. Choi San”, he corrects you. 

Another hard swallow the more you try to focus your gaze on him. 

“I think Choi San’s a great professor. He’s really competent, a lot softer than he presents himself as-“

Fuck you can’t think. Not when he’s staring down your eyes to your lips like that. 

“Mmhm.”

“And he’s really so-“

Then a loud knock echoes across the room, breaking the tension. Prof Choi’s body doesn’t shift, but he looks up at the door, shouting “door’s unlocked”, before he stands back upright, adjusting his glasses and walking back to his desk. 

Jongho’s head peeks in, then he bows at Prof Choi before he walks to your desk. You stare up at him with a forced smile. 

“Ready to go? I was waiting for your message”, Jongho says, his eyes glancing over the professor, then you, a strange feeling that he probably interrupted something. 

You nod, while shoving your belongings into your bag, then slinging it on your shoulder. 

Barely being able to look at Professor Choi, you still force yourself to, bowing goodbye to him. 

“Thank you Prof Choi. See you tomorrow.”

He looks up from his desk, right into your eyes. 

“See you too, y/n.” 

You can’t help but wonder how far things would have gone if Jongho didn’t knock the door.

Jongho isn’t an idiot. Initially, he assumes that you and the professor were on much friendlier terms considering that you came in before he did. Granted, the workload he would give the both of you was the same, he would take the initiative to have lunch with the both of you both individually and together whenever he had pockets of free time, but what roused his awareness was the lingering glances Professor Choi would cast at you from time to time, the way he seemed to relish the reactions you would give him whenever he teased you. 

He notices the way your ears would grow red even when you roll your eyes at the professor and jab him with another playful snarky remark. 

Though he wonders how dangerous things could get, Jongho thinks this could get interesting. 

The semester continues smoothly, the only change being that Jongho being absent from the office more often due to his other commitment to soccer. You remember him telling you he had quite a big match coming up, the sparkle in his eyes bright and twinkling whenever he talks about said sport. 

If he wasn’t in classes, he’d be off for training, hopping into the office from time to time to pass Professor Choi marked scripts and reports. Prof Choi pretty much didn’t mind—he stated as long as Jongho did his job, he could be free to do what he wanted outside of being a teaching assistant.

Needless to say, the office was mostly Prof Choi and you, now even more time spent with him with Jongho mostly being absent. By then, the both of you had grown so accustomed to being in each other’s presence that banters amongst each other became the norm—the both of you competing with each other with unserious remarks, laced with almost flirtatiousness, just to see who would back down first. 

Then came the proximity—since Prof Choi would wander over your desk as if he had all the free time in the world, he would somehow strike up another conversation with you, leaning over to hear you better, his arm bumping into yours to look over at the papers you were grading to check if you were doing them correctly. But what he absolutely adores the most is when you’d roll over to his desk to pester him with your questions—sometimes even testing him on his own content. 

He likes the way he gets to be closer to you. He likes the way your shoulders touch his when you lean in to push the paper towards him so he can see the script better. 

He likes the way you would finally look up and meet his eyes when you’re done formulating your question, waiting to hear his opinion.

Today is no different—Professor Choi being so used to the notion that he would only be seeing you in the office, the corner of his lips pull upwards at the thought of the types of banter you would have with him, the kinds of shenanigans you would bring into the office.

He hears your knock at the time you would always arrive, watching the way the door opens, and your head popping from the door, as you greet, “Hi Prof!” 

“Good morning, y/n”, he would greet back, sipping on his morning coffee. 

You walk over to his desk, dropping his tuna rice ball. “Here you go. Enjoy your breakfast, Prof!”

“You can stop calling me Prof”, Prof Choi suddenly says, twirling the pen in his hand. For a second, you wonder what triggered the sudden change. You’ve been calling him Prof since day one, pretty much used to it already, the only time you didn’t was when he—never mind. The thought of it is making your face flush again. 

“Is there something else you want me to call you?” You ask, trying to calm your heartbeat down when that memory suddenly resurfaces. 

“You can call me San. I’m fine with that. I know you’re still my teaching assistant but we’ve been working closely. I think it’s fine to drop the Prof honorific.”

You try out. 

“Sure thing San”, you reply. “Though it’s gonna take a while for me to get used to this.”

“If you’re able to cuss in front of me, calling me by my name should be the least of your worries, y/n”, San teases.

You raise your hand, feigning a stance ready to smack him before you lower your arm, listening to the way San laughs before rolling your eyes and sinking into your desk. 

The day marches on as normal—attending a class or two with Jongho before he’s whisked away to his soccer practice, leaving just the two of you for the rest of the day. 

San is leaning at your desk again, looking at you typing out your report. He squints slightly before he leans down to your shoulder, his finger pointed at one of the paragraphs, asking you about the content. You answer him, and when you turn your head once you’re done, you find yourself looking at San’s side profile mere inches away—his sun-kissed skin, his pretty lashes, his thick, well-trimmed eyebrows, and the way his lips protrude out a little—he always looked like he’s pouting in the most adorable way. 

That’s when you realise a problem seemed to be bubbling up to the surface, try as you might to ignore it, repress it—that you’re falling for your professor. Fast. 

You snap back to reality, finally aware of how loud your heart is beating against your rib cage, and your hand flies up in instinct as a divider between you and San. San blinks at the sudden movement, confused. 

“Y/n, what are you doing?” He’s not moving. 

“I think I’ve got something on my face.”

San cocks an eyebrow. “You do? Let me check-“ 

His palm covers yours, bringing it down to the table, and you’re kicking yourself for sprouting such a self-sabotaging lie.

Why? Because now San has his hand on yours on top of his face in full view of yours, his eyes meeting yours before his gaze flutters around your face, checking for whatever hell you said was on your face. 

His gaze meets yours and for a split second, something else glints in his eyes. 

The door swings open, and San straightens himself up, slightly irritated at the interruption, leaving you to spin your chair away from San, your hands cupping your cheeks, the heat warming you up against the cold air conditioner. The heat from his hand on yours lingers for a little longer. 

Jongho walks in, his duffel slinging on his shoulder with his shoe bag clipped. 

“Hey, Prof. Hey cutie.” 

San blinks. What did he just call you?

“Hey jjongie. Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on your colleague instead. 

“Supposedly, yeah, but there was a sudden downpour midway so training got cancelled. Might as well get some work done here”, he shrugs, dropping his bag onto the floor. 

San is wrapping his head around the fact that you and Jongho seem to have pet names for each other. 

“Didn’t miss me too much right?” Jongho teases. “‘Cause I did!”

“That’s a first coming from you jjongie”, you reply, surprising a smile. 

“Of course! It’s been a while, how could I not? We should go eat dinner together sometime.”

San only stares on in silence, pretending to sink back into his grading.

Jongho walks over to your desk, taking his turn to look at your report. San watches the way Jongho’s arm is comfortable over your seat, as he asks you about your report, talking to you as if San wasn’t just behind you seconds before. 

The fact you’re entertaining him—hitting his arm playfully and laughing at his remarks—all the more rouses some kind of irritation in San. It’s like a boiling pot. 

He pretends he doesn’t see the way Jongho leans in to whisper something into your ear although it’s bugging him so fucking much. For once, he wishes Jongho’s training didn’t cancel. 

“Oh right before I forget”, Jongho mutters, rushing back to his desk, digging through his bag. He walks back over with a paper in hand and places it before you. You glance down and your face brightens up—it’s a ticket to his game. 

“For real?” You exclaim, your eyes bright, taking the ticket in your hands. “I’ll definitely make time for you.”

“I’ll score goals for you, kay?” Jongho teases, his eyes glancing at San, who is progressively looking more irritated. 

“Ah, Is San not going?” 

“San? Since when were you on first name basis with him?” Jongho wonders aloud, the suspicion only brewing even more. 

“Jongho, don’t you have reports to hand in?” San asks curtly. 

You feel like you are caught in between crossfire for some reason. 

Jongho smiles, then has your head under his arm, which elicits another irritated reaction from your professor. 

You have never had Jongho done this before. In fact, you recall him offhandedly mentioning that he’s never a physical touch person, and that anything with physical touch makes him shudder. 

“Relax, Prof. You’d rather your subordinates get along than not right?”

Just when San is about to reply, Jongho suddenly exclaims. 

“AH, coach is calling me back to the field. Prof, I’ll send you the report by tomorrow okay? See you guys!”, Jongho hums as he runs back to his desktop to turn it off. 

“Has he always been like that?” San wonders aloud, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“I guess. It’s actually what makes him cute.”

“Cute? You think Jongho is…cute?” 

“Is he not? Doesn’t he remind you of a bear? Big and cuddly.”

San clears his throat, and you watch him walk over to your desk, his hand resting on the tabletop. He leans in. 

“So… you find it cute when he gives you pet names?”

“Well, I mean-“

“You find it cute when he plays with your hair?” San curls your locks around his fingers. 

You can’t seem to get words to leave your throat. 

“You find it cute when he has his hands all over you like that?” He’s leaning in even closer this time, arms trapping you at either side.

“Prof-“

“No. It’s sir.”

Your mind is in a whirlwind at the way he’s towering over you, his scent the only thing filling your olfactory senses, the way he’s staring right into you, gaze sharp as a blade. 

“You find it cute when his touches run up your body like this?” His fingers are trailing up your arms, every touch he burns into your skin, and when his thumb pauses at your chin, you realise you’re royally fucked.

Once more, his face is mere inches away from yours. You wonder if you’ll be teased like two previous times before. 

“Of course you don’t. You’d rather I do that to you, right?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Yes, sir.”

His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes downcast, staring at your lips like it’s his reward to claim. 

“Good girl.”

Of course, he claims it.

His kisses are so greedy—his lips prying yours open, and you feel yourself completely give in to him, surrendering whatever resistance, rationale, repression to Choi San. 

You want more—you want seconds. Every swipe his tongue passes your lip, it makes your head float. How does someone taste this fucking good?

He pauses mid-way—barely a couple of seconds, to pull off his glasses and strew them across the desk—then goes back to devouring your lips. 

San would smile in between kisses when he hears your whimpers. He thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you tremble slightly at his touch. It all goes straight to his cock. 

He thinks you’ll be even more adorable when he ruins you. 

When San pulls back, he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, watching your glazed-out expression with amusement. 

"I'd love to continue messing you up, but I have a meeting to attend. I’ll deal with you later, sweetheart. See you next week.”

His touch lingers on your chin for a couple of seconds longer before he pulls away and shifts to walk back to his desk, leaving your heartbeat wild and erratic, and your thighs squeezed tighter.

Since then, that was all you ever thought about—the slight smile before his lips collided with yours, the way his words rang in your ears. You could barely meet his eyes. 

In more instances than one and with any chance given to him, he’d close up any physical distance he had with you. Worried that your emotions would bubble and overflow when he does that, you developed a habit of avoiding his eye contact. 

Even after classes, you swore he was casting you glances even with lines of students waiting to talk to him. 

“Did you piss Prof off or something?” Jongho asks as he shuts his laptop. 

“Why are you asking?”

He shrugs. “It’s just that he’s been eyeing you down like a hawk recently. Did something happen between the both of you?”

You freeze when the flashbacks of the taste of his lips return to your memory when you remember how hungry he looked just wanting to devour you. 

“Y/n?”

You blink, then force yourself to meet Jongho’s eyes. 

“No. Nothing happened. At least I hope I didn’t make any mistakes.”

“You’re fine. There’s a reason why the department chair chose his teaching assistants.”

You laugh softly at his words.

But when you hear San’s voice from behind you, you almost jump. 

“Y/n, Jongho, the both of you can wrap up here and head back to the office”, he instructs. You feel his warmth radiating from behind, and it only makes your heart jump at the proximity. 

You watch Jongho slowly pack up, small conversations sparking between the both of you about his soccer practice. 

You glance at the door. San isn’t back yet. 

“I think it’ll take him awhile to be back. The students there seem to really like him.” 

No doubt, the female students for this class seemed a lot more assertive, almost always demanding all of San’s time. Well, not that it should matter. It’s not as if he should mean anything-

“Y/n? Are you okay? You seem pretty off recently. Even Prof’s pretty worried”, Jongho’s voice grounding you back to the cold office. 

You force a smile and shake your head. 

“I’m fine. I guess it’s just so much workload to deal with.” 

Jongho places his hand on your shoulder in comfort, “You’re doing fine. You know you can approach either of us if you’re struggling right?”

You feel comforted, even though your messy thoughts weren’t even about the workload, so you return an assured smile before waving Jongho off for his soccer practice. 

You’re wondering what you’re feeling nervous about, because when the door of San’s room opens, you jolt slightly. 

“You’re still here?” You hear San ask. 

“Yeah. Need to reply to some emails and double-check some of their assignments.” Not a total lie. It’s the swirling feelings he’s been giving you whenever that day surfaces in your mind, the small bouts of attention he pays you and the touches he lets linger a little too long that’s all a dopamine rush in you. You can’t help but want more. But in the same breath, meeting his gaze will allude doom for you. 

San nods as he sits back at his desk, going right back to his computer. The silence continues for awhile and you’re surprised that you’re even able to concentrate. 

“Y/n”, you hear San call you. 

Your gaze doesn’t break from your screen. “Hmm?”

“Come here. Help me look at this.”

You walk over, ignoring the way your heart is just pounding so damn loudly. It’s painfully obvious that San is staring right at your face, and it’s also painfully obvious that you’re avoiding looking at him. 

And it definitely seems to be ticking him off. 

Your eyes stay locked to his screen reading off whatever is on the screen, and nothing is processing in your brain. 

“It looks good”, you curtly reply, trying to ignore the fact that you’re being stared down by a certain professor. You turn away, your eyes still not acknowledging San, only for your professor to stop you in your tracks. 

“Now where do you think you’re going?”

He’s making you face him now. 

You’re still not giving him eye contact. 

“Back to my desk?” You say, looking off into the distance. But San seems to have other plans. 

“You know ‘looks good’ isn’t the feedback I’m looking for, right?”

Shit. You know that clear as day. 

Now San has both his arms trapping you on his desk. 

You somehow still manage to avoid his sharp gaze even when you’re backing up against him, easily letting him corner you.

His belongings are strewn all over the desk when he pins you down. By some miracle, only papers flutter down his desk. 

And you’re finally looking right at him. 

“You’re finally looking at me, y/n”, he states the obvious. “Now tell me, did I do something wrong?” 

“No, you didn’t, sir”, you reply curtly. 

He leans in closer. 

“Then why are you avoiding my eye contact?”

You shut your eyes and squeeze them. There’s no pure way out of this—your dirty thoughts are seeping into the smallest crevices of your brain, and the more San is prodding you, the more it makes you throb.

“It’s because that evening when we…” you feel your cheeks burn with every word leaving your lips. 

San is waiting for you to continue. 

“When we kissed…couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“And?”

“It made me want…more.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Has anyone told you how adorable you are when you’re honest?” He chuckles. “I’m gonna finish what we started sweetheart, like I promised.”

It makes your heart flutter. 

“Am I getting your consent for this?”, San’s voice rings in your ears. You’re finding it hard to focus, especially when his thumb is pushing past the corner of your lips, and you’re just growing wet as fuck. 

This is not right. This is so dangerous. 

“Yes sir”, you reply back, trying to ignore the way your cunt is just tingling from the feeling of San’s thick erection pressing against you.

“That’s my good girl”, he praises before he dives in for a hungry kiss, his fingers roaming around your body, squeezing your tits before he unbuttons your shirt at an agonising pace. He smiles on your lips when he hears your soft gasp, and he presses his lips down to your jaw and then to your neck, sucking and biting the soft skin against your neck, his erection growing tighter against his trousers when he hears you moan and squirm. 

When he’s satisfied with the light marks he decorated down your neck, his lips are pressed against your ear, and his hands are moving dangerously close to your cunt, and inevitably, your bottoms are off in seconds, leaving you in your pretty panties. 

“I would prefer fucking you on my bed instead for the first time, but taking you on my desk? Maybe not too bad.”

Your cunt squeezes at the sound of San cussing. You never thought he’d sound this fucking hot. 

He groans when his fingers press against the soaked patch of fabric hiding your pussy. All that wetness for him. He bunches up the fabric and rubs it against your clit, the friction drawing frustrated whimpers from you, much to his satisfaction. It feels so good but it’s not enough, and it’s driving you crazy.

San’s fingers finally hook against the waistband of your panties, sliding them off your legs, and pocketing them, much to your shock. 

And he doesn’t give you much time to focus on that because when he pulls his cock out from his unzipped pants, it makes your head spin from how thick Choi San is. 

“Sir, I’m not sure-“

“It’ll fit, sweetheart, like it’s made for me”, is all the warning San gives before he lines up to your hole and pushes his cock in. 

You can’t tell what’s fucking you up more—the way his cock is stretching you open or the San groaning in relief when he finally gets to stuff you full. 

You bat away your tears, his cock so fucking full inside of you, pressing against your walls, being squeezed so perfectly by you. 

God, Choi San thinks he’s in heaven. 

His fingers brush across your cheeks, collecting your teardrops. His eyes lack any ounce of empathy. 

“Aw, are you crying because it feels good? You look so fucking pretty crying when I’m stretching you open.”

You barely find the words to reply to him, all stuck in your throat, your mind only flooded by the way San’s cock is buried in your cunt, your thighs trembling from the pleasure. It’s almost sickening. You know you shouldn’t be doing this—not with your professor, not on his fucking desk, but when he has you wrapped you around his finger and cock fucking the daylights out of you, it’s a temptation you can never resist. 

A soft hiccup escapes past your lips when San pulls out almost all the way, his cock covered in a sheen of slick and precum before he pushes himself in once more, groaning when you clench around him for the nth time. 

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. God, I could just fuck you all day. You’d like that right?”

You’re barely keeping track, eyes rolled to the back of your head while your thighs twitch from the pleasure, but you manage to hold the eye contact, and through blurry tears, you mutter a weak, “Yes sir”. 

“Of course you do”, San hums before he pulls out once more and starts fucking you dumb on his desk. 

No matter how much you try to cover your mouth, bite your tongue or your lip, your moans only come out louder in defiance, the dopamine shooting up your pussy over and over again whenever San’s cock hits your pretty spots. 

Your mind is addicted to the way San’s shirt is buttoned down his chest, his cleavage almost fully out for you to gawk at, the way strands of his hair cling to his forehead because of the sweat, the way his eyes roll back when he feels you squeeze him with every loud fuck, and the way he looks down to you from time to time before he eats up your pathetic moans with hungry kisses. 

He fucked you up so good, you didn’t even realise it until now. 

“S-San”, you manage out a whimper, “please…”

“Please what, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what you’re begging for. 

“Please… you feel so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. It’s so fucking good”, you babble, trying to force your eyes open. 

San can’t help but smirk when his ego is being stroked so nicely like that, especially by you. He’s a good person, of course, he’ll give what his good girl wants. 

His thumb slides south on your body until you feel the ticklish sensation of him on your clit. Cream and precum pooling at the base of his cock makes it even worse for you—with every graze, his finger pressed onto your clit, the knot tightened in your stomach. 

Your nonsensical strings of words only push San to tease you more as he endearingly watches you break slowly when your orgasm builds up. 

Your body twitches, your back arches, your eyes roll back, white splashes beneath your eyelids. Your orgasm burning through you while you cry out San’s name and you twitch pathetically on his cock, letting your cream leak all over his wet cock. 

“Fuck. You’re such a good fucking girl for me, aren’t you?”, you hear San curse. He fucks you through your orgasm, the overstimulation building up. The sensitivity feels so fucking good. 

His hand catches your jaw, and he forces you to meet his eyes. 

“Wanna pump you full of my cum, keep you so fuckin’ full for days on end,” he huffs, “but not now, sweetheart.”

Not that you minded, but there’s a strange tinge of disappointment ringing at the back of your head. 

San thrusts into you a couple more times before he pulls out, his thick and wet cock resting on your pelvis, twitching as his hand takes over. 

Nothing can beat Choi San’s fucking face when he cums. He looks like he’s in fucking heaven, and he’s tearing up the sky because of you. His fingers leave light marks on your thighs, you hear him groan at such a low tone that your cunt flutters uselessly against the air. Translucent spurts land on your skin, but it barely registers in you—you’re too busy swooning over the way your Professor just cummed over your body. 

San’s high dies down, and he catches his breath, casting you a glance, red dusting his cheeks, before he reaches out for the tissue box to clean you up. 

A quick kiss on the lips before he goes on to collect all the papers all over the floor.

That night he drives you home, filling the space with light conversations as if he didn’t just railed you on his desk. 

It’s only when you reach home that you realise one important thing—San still has your panties. 

You know you shouldn’t be telling secrets to your colleague, especially when it’s about your fucking boss. But here you are, facing Jongho, who has his arms crossed in front of you. 

“What’s up with you and Prof?” You predict the words that leave his lips. 

You hesitate to tell him, unsure how you should even say it, where to even start. 

The worst part you knew clear as day was that nothing changed since that day. You chalked it off as San being swamped with assignments to deal with, that’s why the topic was never brought up again, but something still irked you. The only comfort you had was that the semester was ending, and so was your term as San’s teaching assistant. 

Maybe it was how it was meant to be. Just nothing more than that.

But when you realise the dreaded feeling prickling at the back of your eyes, you knew you were fucked. 

“I don’t know how to even start jjong”, you sigh. Jongho scrunches his eyebrows. 

You watch his expression switch from one to the other. You expected him to freak out at you, yell at you for unprofessionalism or something, but he doesn’t. 

“It’s so fucked up. But I just can’t help but wonder if he feels anything”, you mutter. The thought of you not being the only one he’s doing this with makes your stomach churn. But somehow, in the most twisted ways, confiding Jongho made you feel slightly better. 

“Well, looks like we’ll have to play that card I guess”, Jongho shrugs. “But you should mentally prepare yourself for the results, that’s all I gotta warn you. I just need your consent to play along.”

It’s a risky bet you’re playing, but drastic times called for drastic measures, right?

As the semester closes to its end, so does the workload. San feels a lot lighter on his shoulders, and while he’s grateful for his teaching assistants for lifting a significant amount of workload off him, the end of a semester meant the end of the working relationship between him and his teaching assistants. He usually doesn’t feel that much, considering he has had many teaching assistants in the past, but for some reason, he feels a sense of discomfort lodged in his stomach when he thinks about having to let them go.

Especially one of them. 

He sighs, removing his glasses from his nose and shutting his eyes while reviewing the exams. San feels like a fucking idiot when his eyes land on your empty desk, his frustration bubbling when you cross his mind again. 

Even though he pretends to keep himself busy by flooding his mind with work, somehow, you would bubble to the surface once more, pushing him into the pits of frustration when he’s reminded of the way you get a kick arguing and refuting him just to get a reaction out of him, the way you taste like sweetest thing on earth he’s ever tried and the way you completely unravel when San fucks every single thought out of you—

He bites his cheek. 

No. He has to keep it professional. At least, until the term is over. 

He just doesn’t know how to tell you. 

He knows he’s entered deep waters when he crossed the line that evening, the sight of you undone right before him snapping all his rationale. More than anything, he’s suffering the withdrawals, maybe that’s the punishment he has to bear. 

He glances at the colourful ticket at the corner of his desk. It’s Jongho’s big game. Even though he usually doesn’t let himself intertwine with his subordinate’s personal interests, it’s hard not to. 

In addition, you’ll be there. Maybe he’d snag you after the game and talk to you properly. 

The meeting ran overtime, San glances down at his silver watch, realising he’d missed almost thirty minutes of Jongho’s game. Despite the exhaustion, he pushes it aside and heads to the stadium. 

He watches the brightly lit scoreboard as he takes a seat on the bench, Jongho’s team is in the lead by one point. 

Somehow he gets wrapped up in the game, cheering when Jongho’s team takes championship as the benches all burst into loud cheers too. 

He gets up to leave, already thinking of drafting a text to congratulate Jongho in his head, maybe get him a small congratulatory gift on the side. 

Then he spots you, just rows below. Now, he’s walking down as if on instinct, to get to where you are.

San pushes past the crowd to approach you. He’ll offer to drive you back—he knows it’s all an excuse but anything to get you into his space once more. 

His arm outstretched, reaching out to tap your shoulder, then suddenly stopping when he sees Jongho appear right in front of you. That’s fine. San could just congratulate him at the same time—

Which all of those thoughts immediately disintegrate when he watches Jongho cup your cheeks with his hand, his eyes widening in complete silent horror as Jongho leans into you for a kiss. 

You seriously doubt that Jongho’s plan would work. Didn’t San decide not to come anyway? You heard it with your own ears too. 

Nonetheless, you pushed it to the back of your mind, focusing on cheering for your friend, watching the leading scorer jump from one team to the next. You couldn’t help but erupt into cheers when Jongho’s team won, screams echoing through the open stadium. 

You watch Jongho walk up to the benches where you are, and his arms wrap around you, his smile big and bright, competing with the stadium lights. 

“Congratulations, baby bear”, you tease, pushing against his shoulders lightly. Jongho inches close to you. 

“He’s behind you by the way”, Jongho mutters, loud enough for you to hear, but not long enough for you to process, because his hands are cupping your jaw, his thumb pressed against your lips. 

He hears you muffle some kind of question but your lips stay sealed. 

“You owe me one for this,” is the last thing you hear before he leans in. Your eyes widen in shock, and you freeze in your spot, even though his lips don’t meet yours, evidently separated by Jongho’s thumb, his action had caught you off guard.

You barely have the capacity to process what had just happened, and you feel someone’s warmth tightening against your wrist. 

Jongho lets go of you immediately, but you’re staring right at your professor, who is staring right at Jongho with an unreadable expression, with his fingers curled tightly against your wrist. It feels like an eternity since you saw him. He’s not wearing glasses today and his hair is down instead of his usual slicked-back look, donned with a simple dress shirt and tie which framed his wide shoulders so perfectly.

“Congratulations on your win, Choi Jongho. I believe you should be with your team to celebrate right?”

Jongho only smirks back. “Right. See you babe. Thank you, Prof. See you next week.”

Jongho casts you a glance, the mischief twinkling in his eyes before he turns his heel down the stairs and back to the field. 

What the fuck just happened?

And you find yourself staring up at the male before you, his gaze piercing into yours. 

“Prof—San?” You blink. “I thought you weren’t-“

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart. Why would I not want to see the cute relationship my teaching assistants have right?” His voice is laced with venom. 

San doesn’t really elaborate further, leading you to his car, sealing your fate once more when the passenger doors close shut. 

He’s all over you. His body is burning up, maybe just as fast as yours is, and it’s making you feel dizzy. His moves are aggressive, impatient and you swear you feel something else too—desperation. 

“S-San—“ you gasp, in an attempt to take control of something.

“It’s sir to you, sweetheart”, his voice low and gentle, but commanding. Goosebumps scatter across your skin, making you shiver in response when his palms slide up your waist. 

You never saw it coming—from the second his hand grabbed yours, pulling you away from Jongho, his eyes locked into yours for a moment before he turns to Jongho, then to the car ride back, where you noticed the way his knuckles turned pale from gripping the steering wheel. On the walk to his car, you asked him where you were going, and all he did was turn to you and reply, “We’ve got things to talk about, don’t we, sweetheart?”

Now you’re becoming undone once more under San’s touches, trapped beneath him like the first time, now at his place, on his fucking couch instead. 

“It was just foolish of me to just let it be, wasn’t it?” He asks. “Fucking you dumb on my desk wasn’t a good enough indicator, was it?”

“S-sir…!”

“And you think it’s cute getting all cuddly with Jongho? Letting him kiss you all over, touch you all over?” San mutters, his fingers wrapped around your throat, his grip tightening slightly and you’re sure he’s about to leave light imprints. 

But oh, was it so fucking exhilarating—the thought of Choi San riled up like that, a sight you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure if fear or excitement running through your veins right now, but what you do know, is that if he finds out that your panties are completely soaked through, you’re fucking done for. 

His lips collide with yours again, branding himself as some kind of oxygen thief when he’s turning your mind into complete mush. 

“I’m not sure if it’s a little game to you sweetheart, but if it is, I think you need a reminder.”

You breathlessly look up at him, and he looks ethereal even when he’s panting and looking pissed as hell. 

“What reminder, sir?” You dare ask back. 

The side of San’s lips tugs upwards. His hand leaves your throat and trails down your blouse, effortlessly unbuttoning the apparel until he tugs it off you, panting at the sight of your tits hugged by your lace bra. Your bottoms are off again on the floor of his bedroom, alongside any ounce of rationale. Your soaked panties are agonisingly pulled off your legs, and before you know it, his hands spread them open too. It takes all of San’s self-control to not stuff you full. At least, not yet.

“It’s my cock you’re gonna cum all over. Even when you have another guy’s lips on yours, it’s my name you’re gonna fucking scream.”

Oh. Oh god. 

The pieces of what Jongho was trying to do suddenly come together, unfortunately, the realisation doesn’t last long because San has his lips greedily on yours again on top of the way his full-blown erection is pressing onto your pussy. 

“Sir”, you manage out a weak mutter when he finally pulls away, trying to press and grind against his clothed dick for some friction or anything to rid the burn that’s going through your body. But San remains still. 

“Use your words since you love using your mouth so much.” Like kissing Choi Jongho. 

Your mind is a complete puddle. 

“I really…fuck. I really need you to fuck me right now, sir”, you beg, red flushing your cheeks, but it’s not from the shame. There’s a feral glint in San’s eyes that you don’t miss. 

“No”, is all he answers, and you feel your heart drop to your stomach. 

“Not until I’ve fucked your mouth full, sweetheart.” 

All you can do is watch him speechlessly as he hooks his index finger on the knot of his tie and loosens it, unraveling it back to its original form. 

“Hands together”, he commands you, and you do so immediately, basking in the scent of his cologne while he leans into you, his hands tying knots around your wrists with his tie. “Don’t let it loosen, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now on your knees.” 

You’ve never dropped to your knees so fast.

San forces you to watch him unbutton and lower the fly of his trousers, and you’re just doing your best not to get drool on his expensive carpet. 

When his cock springs out, you’re also forced to watch him fuck his palm at a slow pace, drinking in his groans, slick staining your inner thighs, and the fucking floor next if you don’t do anything. 

His cock is heavy against your cheek when he taps it there, and your tongue slips out of your mouth by instinct, given experimental kitten licks on his slit, before his fingers catch your chin, and he forces you to look up at him. 

“Look at me”, he instructs. 

You do. You do your best not to break the eye contact, trying not to be sidetracked by his big fucking cock, but your eyes can’t help but dart to his appendage. 

“No, keep your eyes on me”, he redirects once more, his fingers fixing your head in place. 

Then he slides his cock into your mouth and pulls out a choked moan from you. 

“That’s it. Good girl”, he grunts when you start bobbing your head, fucking his cock with your mouth. 

His fingers trail to the back of your head, but he’s using all of his strength not to force your head down. 

But as you pick up the momentum, it’s an automatic reaction to push your head down so his cock hits the back of your throat. Your eyes are watering but fuck you feel like you’re in fucking heaven. Your head spins whenever his wet cock is forced down your tight throat, and you break eye contact a few times, which San has to tap your jaw to make you keep eye contact while he fucks your face. 

“I’m cumming, sweetheart. Fuck. Keep that pretty little mouth open for me yeah?” He groans, bucking his hips, letting streaks of warm white paint your throat and mouth, watching the way you’re looking up at him with doe eyes, taking his cum in your mouth like a good girl. His good girl. 

He smudges his thumb against the corner of your lips before his arms carry you up, only to dump you on the couch.

Your back is on the couch again, hands still tied behind your back and legs up with San pressing his body weight on you.

He props your leg on his shoulder, and he stretches you open inch by inch. You gasp when he fills you up, your walls immediately clenching around him. 

“So fuckin tight for me, sweetheart. You take me so well.”

His thrusts are growing more aggressive mixed in with the possession that’s bleeding in and it’s setting your whole body on fire. Your words are caught in your throat when he’s buried into you to the hilt. He groans at the way your pussy is fluttering pathetically against him. 

It feels so fucking good that nothing but stars engulf your vision when his cock stuffs you full to the hilt again. His name leaves your lips like a mantra on top of broken moans and whimpers, and it only makes San fill up the space in your pussy all the more better. 

His shoulders are so wide that he’s towering over you, his fingers forcing you to face him whenever you’re drifting because of the pleasure, his eyes feral when you look so fucked out for him. And when he combines his heavy thrusts with a squeeze around your throat, it makes your mind shut off and your cunt cream all over his dick.

“Good girl, looking all so fucked out for me.”

 His cock is hitting all the perfect spots, and it’s driving you insane with the knot tightening in your stomach at such a fast pace. You think you’re sliding off the couch but San isn’t letting you—especially not when his thrusts are keeping you on the couch. His name continues to leave your lips in broken moans every time he fucks you. 

San snakes his fingers to your scalp and he tugs sharply, enough to force you to look up at him. You’re tearing up again, and it feels so fucking good with the way he’s keeping your hair tugged while he fucks the ever-loving shit out of you.

“My name does sound much better when you’re crying it doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

You choke back a moan when he hits your g-spot once more.

“Y-yes sir.” 

“How are you feeling?”

“Full. So full sir. Want more. Please. Need you to ruin me”, you beg once more, your mind floating in an endless euphoria.

“Oh, I definitely will”, San hums, watching in sheer pleasure as your eyes roll back when his cockhead presses perfectly against your g-spot over and over.

Before you realise it, your orgasm hits you like fucking train, spreading through your body like a fucking wildfire, engulfing every crevice of your body. 

He’s gonna break you, and you’re fucking loving it. 

“San-“, you cry out, not registering the way he’s wiping the tears off your eyes. “So good. You feel so good. Cumming so much-“ 

“I know, sweetheart. It feels so fucking good doesn’t it?” He asks with a smile, satisfied when you nod frantically while he rubs your thighs.

Your thighs are shaking from how good this all feels, cream staining your inner thighs and his cock when he pulls out. 

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart”, San reminds you. 

He turns you over, keeping one hand on your tied hands, while the other pressing your head against the back of the couch. He lines his cock back to your cunt, pushing into your hole once more. You choke on your moans again, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes until he’s fully seated in you once more. 

The sounds are even wetter now, especially when you’re overstimulated, pussy just being so perfectly abused by Choi San. You fucking love the way his hands are around your neck, forcing you against the cushions when he fucks you dumb from the back. 

Your stomach is in knots once more, the feeling building up faster than the previous time, and all you can mutter is that it feels so good. San thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you’re not having banters with him and being this cock drunk for him. 

Then he pulls you off the couch, letting you catch a breath before he sits you on his lap, his cock still buried in your cunt, and starts bouncing you off his cock from below.

He alternates between melting your brain with his pornographic moans right at your ear and planting more love bites down your jaw. 

“Gonna cum again. You feel so fucking good in me. Oh god”, you hiccup through your tears, the sensitivity pushing your limit. 

“Cum as hard as you want, sweetheart. I’ll let you milk me dry, fill you up so fucking good that you’ll be leaking with my cum for the next two days.” 

That was enough to set you off. Your pussy convulses when your second orgasm hits, fireworks bursting in your eyelids, long drawn-out cries while San fills your tight cunt with his warm and thick cum, while his groans fill up in your ears. You feel his fingers massaging your thighs, coaxing you from your high. 

You’re dizzy, and light-headed as your head slumps against his shoulders, too spent to acknowledge the male behind you leaving more marks down your neck. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” San breaks the momentary silence, well aware that his softening cock is still in you. 

Your hand flies up to his chest to stop him, even though you’re still recovering from seeing stars. 

“We need to talk-“

“After we clean up”, he cuts you off, lifting you off his cock and carrying you bridal style to his bathroom. 

But you’re stubborn. 

“N-no. It wasn’t what you thought it was”, you say, feeling your tears well up in your eyes on top of the weight. 

The prickles are starting to form at the bottom of San’s heart, but he’s more focused on trying to hose you down with warm water. But he’s listening you run your mouth, not that he minded. 

“We didn’t kiss”, you reiterate. 

Now he’s just confused. He stares at you. 

“We just had sex, y/n”, San reminds you, trying not to let the red reach his cheeks. 

“No—I mean Jongho and I. We didn’t kiss”, you clarify.

San doesn’t really know if he should believe your words or his eyes, but now he’s focused on lathering your hair and body. 

“That wasn’t what I saw”, he replies, avoiding eye contact. 

“That’s cause we did this-“ you huff, turning his head to face you, imitating the way Jongho had slid his thumb between your lips and his, demonstrating San the fake kiss. 

San only stares at you wordlessly when you pull back, only more questions than answers. 

“But why would he do that for?”

“He was trying to rile you up.”

“For what?”

“To see if you felt anything for me?”

“By kissing you?”

Oh god. It felt like the more you explained, the more San was getting the wrong ideas. You let your head sit in your hands, unsure if it’s from the embarrassment or the fact that you don’t even know where to start. 

“It wasn’t a kiss, Choi San”, you groaned, your hands leaving your face, suddenly self-conscious that San is staring intently at you. “After we, um, fucked the first time, you acted like nothing happened, and I felt like shit about it, and I told Jongho and then…” you trail off, feeling your cheeks heat up again. It’s probably the hot water, at least that’s what you try to convince yourself with.

“I don’t kiss people I’m not in love with, San”, you sigh in defeat. Your eyes are downcast, but you feel his fingers cup your cheeks, and his lips press onto yours. You swear you could go another round again. 

The silence hangs in the air for a while, only the sounds of the shower filling the emptiness when he pulls back. 

“I didn’t do anything since after that evening because I wanted to properly tell you after the term ended.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I’m in love with you, too.”

You blink. Somehow that shocked you more than the both times he fucked your brains out. 

You don’t answer him because your head is just swarming with so many thoughts, and San lets you do so, satisfied that he’s finally have you quieten down so he can finish washing you up. 

Even when he’s dressed you in his oversized hoodie, San peppers you with kisses, basking in the way you sometimes cover his face with your hands to stop him, which only rouses him to continue to attack you with his lips.

San’s arms are tight around you when the both of you are finally on his bed. You smell like his favourite body soap and he can’t seem to get enough of it—nuzzling against the crook of your neck, muttering sweet nothings. You think this is probably your favourite version of Professor Choi. 

Your fingers twirl around his splayed-out locks, and you speak. 

“Prof Choi”, you tease, and San looks up, and it’s the first time you actually see him pout—it almost makes you combust. 

“I told you to stop calling me that”, he frowns, burying his face, feigning trying to cut off physical contact from you, which only makes you laugh in response. 

“I just wanted to disturb you”, you respond, trying to yank him back into your arms. “I do have a question though.”

His head pops up from his pillows and he stares at you, waiting for you to speak. 

“When did you realise you had feelings for me?”

He pauses, giving himself a couple of minutes to think. 

“The moment I received your teaching assistant application.”

📚 Bonus Epilogue 📚

“Prof Choi!” One of his teaching assistants calls out to him. 

He turns his head and attention to her, pushing up his glasses. 

“Yes?” 

“I need help with this part of the assignment. Could you help me check that I’ve marked it correctly?”

San nods, taking the papers from her. 

As he scans through her work, the teaching assistant’s eyes glance down at the band hugging his ring finger. 

“Prof, you’re married?”

San pauses his writing to glance at the glistening gold on his finger, and a small smile spreads across his cheeks. 

“You know, I used to wear a ring on my ring finger so students would stop asking me if I was married or not.”

She raises her eyebrows, her curiosity piqued. “So you’re not?”

“I am.”

Her eyes brighten, invested in her handsome professor’s love story. 

“Tell me more then”, she asks. 

San scoffs playfully, turning his gaze to her. 

“All I can tell you is that she’s always been my favourite.”

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[kashverse]

hear me out, papakuna totally distraught about babykuna's first bday because he wants it to be absolutely perfect

sukuna has planned a lot of things in his life.

how to build his own company from the ground up? check. how to propose to you the moment he realized he was utterly, stupidly in love with you? check. how to plan an obscenely extravagant wedding despite you telling him no, we don’t need a horse-drawn carriage, suku, this is not a fairytale— check. but none of those compare to the sheer anxiety that consumes him when planning babykuna’s first birthday.

yes, that’s right. one whole year since you made him the happiest man on earth for the second time. (the first was when you agreed to be his wife. the second was when you gave him a mini-you.)

so naturally, this needs to be perfect. spectacular. a grand event to set the standard for all birthdays to come.

you watch from the couch, nursing a cup of tea, as your six-foot-something, terrifying, king-of-the-corporate-world husband paces the room with his phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gripping his hair like he’s planning the olympics.

"i don’t give a shit if there are scheduling issues, uraume, i need those ponies on saturday."

ponies. there are ponies at stake now.

"yeah? and tell the bakery i want the cake to be exactly like the reference. if i see even one ugly sprinkle, someone’s getting fired."

he hangs up with a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples.

"baby, 'm this close to snapping someone’s neck."

"you mean over the birthday party that she won't even remember?" you ask, mildly amused. sukuna scoffs like you just committed blasphemy. "the disrespect. our daughter deserves the best."

you glance over at the soon to-be birthday girl herself, currently drooling on her own fist in her bouncer, blissfully unaware of her father’s slow descent into madness. "you’re stressing yourself out over nothing," you hum, sipping your tea.

"oh, yeah? and when she looks back at pictures of this day, do you want her to see a half-assed party?"

you raise a brow. "she’s literally chewing her foot right now."

sukuna turns to babykuna, who is, in fact, gnawing on her chubby little foot like a deranged gremlin. "she’s too young to understand stress," he grumbles, kneeling down to scoop her up. she gurgles in response, smacking her drooly little hands against his expensive-ass shirt. "yeah, that’s great, sweetheart," he mutters, gently wiping her mouth before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

she promptly spits up on his sleeve.

"...right. thanks."

you giggle. "maybe you should focus less on ponies and cake sprinkles and more on surviving fatherhood."

"shut up," he grumbles, shaking his drool-covered sleeve. you shake your head, smiling.

"but honestly, baby, you’re doing so much for her. she might not remember it, but we will. and when she’s older, she’ll see how much her dad loves her." he huffs, but you see the way his shoulders relax at your words.

"...whatever. still getting the ponies."

the day of the party, and babykuna is having the time of her tiny little life.

the ponies? a hit. the cake? bigger than her. the decorations? over-the-top. your husband? going absolutely feral over making sure the event is flawless.

"what the fuck is this?!" sukuna growls, glaring at the table.

choso, bless his ignorant soul, stares at the bowl of m&ms he just put down. "uh… candy?"

"these are the wrong colors."

"i—"

"WHERE'S THE BABY PINK? WHERE'S THE WHITE? DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING CIRCUS PERFORMER?!"

choso, looking genuinely scared for his life, quickly scoops up the bowl.

"i’ll—i’ll fix it!!"

meanwhile, babykuna, in her tiny pink party dress, is sitting directly on top of her smash cake, hands covered in icing, face lit up with pure joy as she happily smacks the dessert into oblivion. a photographer snaps a picture at the perfect moment—babykuna, mid-splatter, frosting in her hair, grin wide enough to make your heart burst. you lean into sukuna’s side, watching your daughter go feral.

"see? worth it." you murmur. he sighs, watching babykuna destroy the thing he spent weeks planning.

"...yeah. worth it."

[m1dn1ght-r0t]

Eyes Wrapped in Wool

Yandere! (ex) husband x amnesiac! fem reader

TW: manipulation, toxic/abusive behavior, mentions of (potential) forced imprisonment, coercion A/N: pretty sure amnesia doesn't work this way (i'm no medical professional) but pls suspend disbelief for the sake of the plot ahahah

Your husband never expected things to turn out this way. But by some stroke of luck—or perhaps divine intervention—you ended up bed-ridden in the ICU, suffering from multiple bone fractures and a terrible, oh-so-terrible, traumatic brain injury. Just last week you were talking his ear off about how you've had enough. How you were done with him controlling what you could wear or who you could see, his suffocating clinginess that devolved into explosive rages when you spent time focusing on work or with friends instead of with him, the negging, the snooping, the smashed plates... Jesus Christ. You just never knew when to shut the fuck up, did you? At some point he had stopped listening. Chalked off your dramatic tirade as nothing more than you acting up because of your period—merely white noise. How many times have you guys had this same broken record conversation? Yeah, he knew this marriage wasn't smooth-sailing. If it were, you'd be less opinionated, less bitchy, more pliant, more dutiful. But what relationship was ever perfect? So, he waited for you to run out of steam, as you inevitably do, before adding salt to the wound:

“You know baby, if you weren’t parading around in those slutty clothes of yours and acted your grown age for once, I wouldn’t be behaving that way.”

The scrunch of disbelief mixed with disgust on your face only spurred him to double down. “And maybe if you actually committed to this marriage like a devoted wife would, rather than prioritize your career and practically everyone over me—your husband, need I remind you—then we wouldn’t be having these issues. Ever considered that, hm?” He purposely dragged out his words, a patronizing lilt to his tone, in hopes of reminding that thick, dumb skull of yours that he always knew best.

It wasn't until you had thrusted the divorce papers in his face that he grew silent, the severity of the situation beginning to creep in. ...What? You couldn't actually be serious... right? This was just some lover's spat. A temporary blip that'd be smoothed over with a few intentionally placed saccharine words and hot make-up sex. Like always. So why the fucking theatrics? Are you really gonna be a bitch about this and d— When you slammed the front door shut with your packed bags in tow, leaving him to stew in your parting words—that you deserved better, so much better than him, and that if he didn't sign the papers, he'd be hearing from your lawyer—did the gravity of it all finally sink in. By the end of the week, your voicemail was battered by his countless furious messages. Are you done being a flighty little piece of shit, huh? What the fuck do you think you're doing? I swear to god, baby, I'm gonna drag your ass back here. And if I have to lock you in some basement and chain your hands and legs so you'd never think to leave me again, then so fucking be it. Divorce? Yeah right. Over my dead fucking body. Then came an unknown call. It was like whiplash, really, to first hear that you had been involved in a major car crash, and then, upon rushing to the hospital at neck-breaking speed— "I'm afraid she has retrograde amnesia", the doctor solemnly informed him. He could cry. Oh, he could fucking cry.

On the outside, anyone could see how distraught he was, his hands trembling as he processed the diagnosis, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Poor husband that he was, having almost lost his beloved wife in a freak accident, he now had to deal with the news that she didn't remember who he was. Inside, however, raged a war he couldn't reconcile: what was harder? Holding back the tears, or pretending those very tears were out of sadness rather than pure, unbridled joy? Because what this neatly packaged situation had presented him with was a do-over, a chance to mend the broken marriage teetering on the cusp of divorce. And like hell he's about to let you throw away a three-year connection like some ungrateful cunt when he loves you so, very much.

~

"Hey sweetheart, how are you feeling?"

As he walks up beside your hospital bed, he can't help but revel at how vulnerable you look. The slight furrow in your brows hinting at your confusion, the way you curl in on yourself as if to protect yourself from who is no doubt a complete stranger in your eyes, and your meek "Who are you?"—a far cry from the usual feisty, snarky attitude you used to dish out.

But perhaps most rewarding of all is the tentative gaze you offer him, eyes filled with a sort of curious glimmer, free from the hostility, disappointment, and hurt you'd flashed his way. You didn't look at him with hate. You simply want to know who he is.

Oh, aren't you precious? He'll gladly feed you his carefully spun narrative until you're full of nothing but adoring love for him—the embers of your thoughts about divorce and leaving him snuffed out for good.

"I know how confusing all of this must be for you. Take all the time you need. I'll be right here with you, as your husband, helping you fill the gaps, okay baby?" He delivers this with as much patience as he can muster, softening the edges of his words to avoid spooking you. But you're not soothed. If anything, you're more overwhelmed than ever. "M-my husband?" You echo, tasting the foreign word, sticky like warm toffee on your tongue.

"And...and my family? Where are they?" Your disorientation is a sight for sore eyes; how badly he wants to devour you right now. “Dead,” he intones, a script he’d been desperate to act out ever since you said your vows. The jarring news pulls a barely audible whimper from you, your eyes widening a fraction.

Shit. Too cold. Too careless.

His expression softens, the corners of his mouth tugging downward in a facsimile of sorrow as he injects a note of pity into his voice. “They died when you were very young, you see. I’m sorry.” He’s really not.

"What…? How could that be? So my p-parents, they're both—" Your breath hitches, tears welling at the corner of your eyes.

At that, he gently grabs your bandaged arm, wanting to comfort you. But when you flinch slightly, he has to resist the urge to snap at you—Oh, cry me a river. Who the fuck cares?? I'm right here, aren't I? I'm right here, damnnit, so look at me!

Instead, he tempers the resentment that's still fresh in his heart after the divorce stunt you'd pulled by reminding himself that he's supposed to be your kind and gentle partner.

So he settles for cradling your hand in both of his like it's fine china, grazing his lips over your fingertips. "But you have me, sweetheart. And I'm not going anywhere."

He half expects you to question his story—it wasn’t very convincing, even to his own ears—prepared to be barraged by your endless streams of “No, you’re wrong!”, “I don’t believe you!” or some other similar outburst.

But when all you do is gaze up at him with cinched brows, seeking reassurance, blinking at him so sweetly with your hand still snugly warmed in his, he pauses. That’s it? No suspicion, no skepticism, no outburst? Hah! He has to physically restrain himself from snorting because how fucking easy can this get?

Maybe the collision had completely scrambled your brains, rewired you to be more stupid, a little slower—exactly how he likes you.

"You trust me, right?"

And when he feels that subtle twitch of your fingers—what he gathers is your attempt at squeezing his hand back for confirmation—accompanied by the sight of your small, almost shy nod, he breaks out into a giddy smile at how utterly adorable you’re being.

Fuck, it’s hard not to already feel high off these micro-doses of innocence and receptiveness from you. Emboldened by your intoxicatingly sweet naivety, he dares to be a little greedier, creeping to perch on the edge of your bed, his hand now moving to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea how worried sick I was when I got the call. I thought you had…” He trails off, his implication clear. His face is mere inches from yours now, breaths as featherlight as his fingertips mapping every divot on your face.

“I love you.” He drags his thumb across your bottom lip, the act agonizingly slow. “So, so, so much.” Each whisper spills out heavier than the last, mirroring the increasing pressure of his thumb—your lip almost bruising from how hard he’s pinching them.

How long has it been? He can’t remember the last time he felt the warmth of your touch, your skin… eons too long without your pillowy lips pressed against his has left him completely starved.

“You can’t leave me…” A murmur too quiet to pick up. His gaze, now half-lidded, drifts downward in a drunken daze. “My wife. My good little wife. You love me too, right?”

Without warning, he leans in to close the minuscule gap.

And it’s all too fast and soon because you can feel the suffocating heat of his proximity, the chilling shared breath floating between the tight space. It’s all too much. So, in the last second, you hesitate, pulled from your stupor as you turn your head away.

But he’s not having it. Not when you’re already in the palm of his hand and he’s so fucking close. When he can already taste the opportunity to finally take out the trash and parasites leeching off you, to call up that godforsaken shithole you call a stable, steady-paying job and quit on your behalf, to have you all to himself—a blank slate to knock up with several kids and mold into the perfect little housewife he's always wanted you to be. God, he's already hard at the thought.

Grabbing your jaw firmly, he jerks your face back towards him, thumb roughly wedging between your lips and prying your mouth open.

“Baby.” The endearment spills out, sharp and cold, stripped of any warmth it might've once held.

His gentle veneer cracks ever so slightly, and for the briefest moment, you see something else. A flicker beneath the mask—raw, ugly, messy. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, dredging up something you can’t quite grasp. A memory?

“Gimme a small kiss, hmm?” Despite the smile on his face, there is no kindness to it. Just a twisted caricature warning you that you shouldn’t push further.

All of a sudden you feel like you can’t breathe, weighed down by the unsettling intensity of his stare. The man in front of you—the one claiming he's your husband and calling you “baby,” the one touching you—feels wrong. He’s a stranger, you remind yourself. An almost involuntary shiver runs down your spine, like your body remembers something your mind refuses to.

At this point, your husband has caught on to your rather obvious spiralling. He’s not an idiot—he can see your doubt giving way to panic. He contemplates smoothing things over by playing nice, but the selfish part of him ultimately wins.

He squeezes your jaw, nails biting into your skin.

“Kiss me.”

It isn’t a request this time.