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byfawn · 2 days ago

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THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole.

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment.

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you.

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed.

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse.

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest.

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber.

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out.

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you.

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy.

the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement.

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent.

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught.

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says.

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs.

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands.

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it.

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you.

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable.

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town.

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation.

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off.

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway.

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin.

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be.

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him.

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so.

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful.

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years��each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

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jeonkaijoon · 3 days ago

Text

Benefits of the doubt - YJW

pairing: yang jungwon x f!reader

wc: 5.4k

genre: oneshot, smut, slice of life(?)

tags: softdom!jungwon, dry humping, petnames (baby/doll), roomates to fuckbuddies (i guess), unprotected sex (don't do it!!) fingering, p in v, big ass amount of makeout, praise kink, fingering, explicit language ofc honestly no more i think? they simply fuck after crushing on eachother for ages...

AUTHORS NOTE: well i haven't wrote in two years i was scared i had lost my spark but here we are,,, little shout out to my friend yuni for giving me the starting point to write this! it took me a whole month between finals and everything… i’m rusty sorry- anyway hope you like it :3 also not fully proofread i hope there aren't too many errors but lmk!!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When you were deep in your library study session, nothing could distract you. Barely a tornado warning had budged you from your seat last time, but honestly your life was very much more important than a good grade in macroeconomics.

But actually, something that budged you existed. And also had a name.

“So,” a familiar voice diverted you from your study session. “Any plans for tonight?”

The name was Jungwon.

You have been flatmates for years, splitting rent on the apartment you rented for college, but barely see each other during the week, given the different lessons and work schedule you both have.

You shook your head, still keeping your gaze on the words in front of you. After 4 hours of reviewing, they had very much stopped making sense a while ago but you weren’t the one to give up.

“Nope, the girls are either out with their boyfriends or studying, so i'm left with you and books to read. You got something?” You asked, finally raising your head and taking his sight in.

He had his usual jersey on, the one from the taekwondo college club he was part of. Some baggy jeans and his gym shoes are still on. He was sweaty and just finished practice, strands of hair clinging on his forehead and cheeks slightly flushed. You gulped and bit the inside of your cheek. He looked incredibly good. And to think you had seen him get through the door like this plenty of times.

“Alright. Night In? The party got cancelled and I have no will to go clubbing.” he suggested

“S-sure” you stuttered, but he looked like he didn't notice.

“See you later then, I’m going home” He waved at you and went.

As mentioned before, because of his practice, both of you’s uni lessons and work, you barely saw each other in the living room you shared.

But on the weekend, if either of you had plans, you'd just spend time together. It started the first year because you both wanted to know each other better, but became some sort of tradition overtime.. Just as friends, given that you would have to live together for about 4 years if nothing changed.

Your third year had just started, and you knew Jungwon better than most of his friends could say they did. It came naturally, living together and spending the whole weekend together.

Naturally too, you might have caught feelings for him.

But nothing ever happened between the two of you.

He’s brought girls to your apartment at times, hooking up and kicking them out in the morning, keeping it quiet if he knew you were in your room studying late.

You had started catching feelings during the second year, cause you had found out enough about him at that point and he was just an amazing person. He was simple and kind, liked a ton of different things that you liked too, always smelled nice, always smiled and kept up with your sad moments after you got a bad grade or a date went bad.

You defined him as some sort of best friend, but it was obvious that there was more from you. Sad to say, you were sure he wouldn't feel the same.

However over the summer, something had changed.

He texted you more than a couple times to catch up, and since the start of the semester he not once has mentioned a girl to you.

Overall he felt different, he was weirdly not interested in parties that much anymore and just kept up with taekwondo, he's been studying till late with you and hasn't hung out with his friends on weekends in about a month, saying he was either too tired or wanted yet another night in with you cause you were home alone.

This “tradition” of yours consisted in ordering takeout and talking about ups and downs you had this week, lessons you skipped cause finals were still far, girls hitting on him and him laughing about how you never got hit on no one hitting on you (not that you didn't want to be hit on, but the one you wanted to be hit on by was right in front of you and he seemed not to notice your crush on him, EVER.)

Lastly, try to watch a movie, just to end up snoring on each other 10 minutes in because of how tired you've been the whole week.

But again, nothing ever happened between the two of you. Although you could feel that something had sparked up. After all, the way he looked at you had somehow shifted.

Slightly, yes. But it did and you were sure.

Despite that, you didn't want to get your hopes up.

You finished studying and headed home, thinking about what you wanted to eat tonight. When you entered the door, you heard the shower in Jungwon’s room still going. You placed your bag on the counter and read a post-it note.

“I already called takeout, we are eating korean tonight, whether you like it or nah :)”

You smiled.

You loved it when he decided what to eat because he usually had the best taste. The image of him writing you that note got a chuckle out of you.

Absent-mindedly, you went towards your room to change into some home clothing, scrambling in your closet just to put on an oversized shirt without your bra, which you took off with a sigh of relief.

Lastly a pair of shorts, again, pretty big on you considering how short you were compared to him: not much, but enough for him to constantly tease you about it.

You looked at yourself and called it an outfit. It didn't even dawn on you that those clothes were probably Jungwon’s and got mixed in a quick unload of laundry and ended up in your drawers.

You happily walked towards the living room, knowing your week was finally over and you could rest.

Just then, the outline of Jungwon’s body displayed itself in front of you, him leaning upright on the counter and munching on an apple while lazily scrolling on his phone.

Your body froze and took a look at him. Or maybe two, given that you ended up staring from far away.

The sight that unraveled in front of you was ethereal.

His hair was damp, drops of water descending from them and falling on his collarbone, your eyes inadvertently followed one of them dripping on the floor and his chest.

His chest was sculpted, abs toned and veins prominent towards his v-line.

God only knew the amount of times you had prayed to see him like this.

Luckily for you or maybe him (perhaps), he was not fully naked, but had joggers on, the band of his boxer briefs still peeking out.

You had been looking at him for a good 2 minutes, and it took you a little while to realize he had obviously noticed you almost drooling in his face.

He moved in your direction while stifling a laugh and waved a hand in front of your face.

“Are you ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…” He eyed you from head to toe grinning sarcastically. He tilted his head slightly and took another look at you.

“Also, are you wearing my shirt? It looks just like the one I lost last week…” He said, and walked past you towards his bedroom like nothing had happened.

You didn't even reply. You couldn't, to be honest. You didn't have the words in you to do that.

So you just sat on the couch and turned the tv on.

You hadn't seen it, but he had smirked amusedly on the way to his room to put on another shirt.

Moreover, you didn't know he was well aware of this “little” but quite obvious crush you had on him: you were not the best at hiding things, often forgetting them around the house and it became his duty to bring them back to you in your room. Additionally, he knew your cycle calendar today signalled ovulation.

How?

You had left open your agenda on the coffee table and he checked what your lessons were, out of curiosity.

You sometimes appointed your period or ovulation there even though you had apps, but it purely was just to be attentive of your body and remember to buy tampons.

When what had happened finally snapped you out of your trance, you felt your cheeks flushed red. It had been the most embarrassing moment so far with him.

You had no intention of looking at him like he was the takeout meal you were about to eat, but it came naturally when he looked like that.

For him it was apparently all normal, he roamed around the house like this all of the time probably, but for you? Not really.

You either hadn't paid attention to him, or you've been blind.

Jungwon came back out of his room. A shirt finally (or unfortunately, you didn't know how to put it) had been worn to cover his chest.

When take out arrived, you rushed to the door even before he could say “A”.

You ate in absolute silence.

Your eyes were fixed on the movie he had chosen for this week.

Lalaland. As if you hadn't seen it a hundred times already.

He glanced at you a couple times, you were slurping on your soy sauce soaked japchae and didn't dare spare him a gaze.

That's when it kicked in his brain.

His plan had already partially succeeded.

Alas, he still wanted to see how much further he could push you before you would break for him.

“How was your week?” he faux innocently asked.

“Good” you answered, eyes still glued to the screen. Along with the food, a beer came to help the clear distress you had on your body.

There was a palpable silence for a long time, but Jungwon obviously broke it.

He couldn't hide the laugh that came out of his throat when he saw your cheek swollen with food.

You tried to ignore him until you finished your bowl, but eventually turned your head and frowned.

You put your fish down on the coffee table, crossed your arms and looked at him still chewing.

“What’s so funny?” You inquired, tired of hearing him laughing at you.

“You are,” he replied smiling, taking the last bite of his tteokbokki. You pursed your lips, narrowed your eyes in a thin line and tilted your head in his direction.

“How so, Jungwon?” You asked, seriously toned.

“It’s funny how you act around me. Thinking I don’t see through you or something.” He sneered.

You straightened up. What in the world did he mean with that?

He continued: “I’ve known you long enough to know how you act when something bothers you, something makes you happy, something makes you excited.” You chew the inside of your cheek.

He slightly moved towards you.

“I know how forgetful you are. How many clothes of mine are in your drawer even. How you think I didn't notice all the times you sneaked in my room to steal a shirt to wear.” He placed two fingers on your thigh and made them “walk” over your leg, all the way up to your shoulder.

“I know how much you like it when I am the one deciding what to eat because you don’t like making decisions.” Oh great. He could assume one more thing.

“I know full well how you know this movie by heart but you would watch it all over again with me. Oh and I also noticed you clenched your thighs when the actors kissed.” Nice. You were one second away to fuse yourself with the couch out of shame.

Not to mention how this thing was singlehandedly making your panties wet like a waterfall. Feeling him so close to you? You thought you were used to it at this point. But clearly this was not the normal night you were expecting to spend with him.

“Also, I know how worked up I am making you right this moment and most importantly: I know you like me.” A side of his mouth raised in a grin.

You swallowed. You surely weren't good at hiding things but besides today’s incident of staring, you thought you were doing good enough.

Apparently not.

You looked at him, trying to mumble something coherent to make up an excuse, but you just weren't able to.. Your face was burning, your eyes couldn't stay still on something, they were only looking flickering between his eyes and his lips.

“Cat got your tongue as I revealed your little secret?” He smiled, but he looked sincere.

“Jungwon-” he licked his lips before speaking, and it took your words out of his mouth.

You realized he was actually being sincere by the next sentence that came out of his mouth.

“You think I havent started developing something for you in the three years that I’ve known you? Everytime you text me to ask for groceries preferences and I’m around the boys, Sunghoon teases me like a madman.” You giggle along with him at this confession. It’s cute to think of him like a loverboy.

“There’s no use in denying it now, is there?” You lowered your head slightly, suddenly appreciating how nice your floor was, not daring to look at him anymore.

On one hand, you feel almost defeated. But if it really is mutual, what was the reason for lying?

“Nope,” He used his pointer finger to gently lift your chin up. “But should we do something about it? Or are we gonna ignore how we just revealed to each other our feelings and call it a night, just to reciprocally avoid us out of embarrassment tomorrow?” He kept looking at you.

You know what? Fuck it. That was your quickest thought process ever. You grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and crushed your lips onto his.

Either he would reciprocate you, or push you away and tell you you were out of your mind. You tested the waters. And the waters came clear. He melted into your boldness, intertwining his lips with yours. It was so slow and so yearning.

His hands roamed your body, cupping your jaw first and then resting on your hips. It felt like the world around you had shattered to pieces. The way his lips synchronized with yours effortlessly was practically like a sign. You couldn’t stop kissing him. It felt natural to finally have him on you and the best part? He was thinking the same.

He licked your lips with his tongue, asking for permission to explore it. You gave in and he did what he wanted, deepening the kiss even more than you thought he could.

He manhandled your hips and brought you to straddle him with so much ease you felt like you were a feather. And you were sooo waiting for him to do that.

One of his hands rested against your nape, stroking caressing it with his thumb and sending shivers down your spine. The other one instead reached for your hair, trying to make you match the movement of his head. And again, it came so naturally.

Jungwon’s breath was shortened and detached from you, a little string of saliva still connecting your mouths. Panting, he caressed your cheek with his thumb in slow strokes.

“Fuck baby, If i knew you kissed this nicely i wouldn’t have held my selfback all this time.” he murmured, breathless.

The pet name made your core throb. “So you want to kiss me again?” you bit your lower lip, hesitating almost.

“Shouldn’t even be a question,” he said, chest raising and lowering so quickly.

And he restarted it all, connecting your lips together once again.

In the meantime, an ache between your legs had risen.

How he had you positioned was just the perfect point to get some friction.

You could feel the bulge growing in his boxers and he was getting harder by the second, almost like he was waiting for you to rock your hips on him, without even realizing it.

He moaned in your mouth while you were grinding yourself on his crotch. He just let you.

The sounds he emitted were making your head spin in the kiss.

Your clit was perfectly centered over the tip of his shaft somehow and…God.

It felt otherworldly. You moved your hips all back and forth, circular, pushing down on him, even still clothed. You had surely been touch deprived lately because you haven't hooked up in a while, your last boyfriend had broken up with you two years ago now, so you didn't have much to get down on other than your vibrator and thoughts of fucking your roommate, who usually was in his bedroom with a girl.

Let’s just say he was not that silent.

Ever.

Even when he was alone at home, or thought he was, in the shower, in his bedroom watching porn… you could hear him easily with doors closed. You wondered if he knew he was loud, or maybe your hearing was just peak.

Nonetheless, having him underneath you this way felt just like a whole new experience.

Whines coming out of your throat just to get swallowed by his own and vice versa, and you noticed how, every once in a while, as you were working to reach your high, he thrusted up between your legs trying to pleasure himself.

You kept kissing, your hands were basically glued to his nape, while your hair was a mess because he couldn't stop touching them.

Your panties were utterly soaked, they had even leaked on his joggers. He had started groping your ass at one point, moving you against him quicker and harder.

You had been kissing so much that although you had no more breath, you hardly could stop.

But just then you had to unsay what you just said.

He looked absolutely spent, his cheeks were of a strawberry color, his lips swollen and shiny and you could barely feel yours.

“F-fuck, wait” he muttered suddenly, stopping the movement of your hips with his free hand. “What?” You asked, completely out of breath.

“I’m really trying to be the gentleman here but you are making me want to take you on this damn couch, baby.” You lowered your head in embarrassment and he tucked a strand of hair behind your hair.

“You’ve been grinding me so nicely until now, you want me bad don't you?” He sneaked a hand down your shorts to feel the pool that had ruined your panties at this point.

As he touched you, his mouth went O. “Panties damp already, could've told me I got you this wet, I would have helped you earlier…”

“I was close” you spit.

“Oh well then.” he smirked. He moved you just enough to make you straddle only one of his legs and motioned you to continue.

“Cum on my thigh. And I want you to soak me good.” You immediately rubbed your clit on him as hard as you could.

The friction your heat was searching for was being relieved.

Your arms were around his neck, one of his hands sneaked under your shirt while he was watching you. He wanted to see your tits too badly, but for now he was only gonna imagine. Or partially.

He squeezed your flesh in his grip, grazing his thumb on your nipple, already so sensitive.

You threw your head back and moaned, about to break.

He had started palming himself through his joggers, he was so hard it almost hurt.

Your whines were like music, feeding his hunger.

You had been rubbing quicker and quicker, and along with his hands on your boobs, he elongated his neck just enough to kiss you behind your ear.

“Come for me baby” was all it took.

Your body stilled, the knot that had been holding your stomach hostage finally snapped and you let out such a guttural sound Jungwon had to put a hand on your mouth to avoid a noise complaint from the neighbors in the morning, so you bit so hard it bled.

Everything you had been holding in just exited out of you, irremediably wetting the crotch area of your shorts and his joggers. It felt sticky and so wet it was almost uncomfortable, but you would've thought about that later.

You felt every part of you seized from the orgasm, trembling with the aftershock and your limbs falling boneless against Jungwon’s body, who was just there ready to catch you.

“Good job, baby” he said, caressing the end of your back, waiting for you to catch your breath.

Just resting on his chest was nice, but you noticed how he had now lowered his pants and his dick was painfully twitching inside of his boxers, a tiny wet patch on them appearing where his tip was located.

No more dry humping, you needed him inside.

You didn't think twice before reaching out for it and taking his boxers down to reveal it. He wasn't huge, but surely if he hadn't prepped you enough it was going to hurt regardless. You wrapped your fingers around it and started slowly stroking it, hearing him hiss.

“Oh? Eager to touch me just after I made you cum?”

“Gotta return the favor.” You tilted your head upwards, just enough to peck his lips.

He shifted just enough to get your mouths on the same level, and kissed you while you moved your hand up and down his dick.

Had he fallen for his own trap? Maybe. But you looked too good to be left with blue balls again.

“F-fuck how come are you making me even harder right now” He whispered, making a shiver run down your body.

He started to thrust up in your hand pretty quickly, and when you noticed you tried to lower your head to take him into your mouth, but just then, he stopped you.

“I want to taste you too, but I want to get inside that pussy so badly right now or I might go crazy.”

With the swiftest movement ever he picked you up like a potato sack and brought you to his bedroom, and before you could reply to anything he had already laid you on his bed, taken your bottoms down and was 2 knuckles deep inside of you. He was fingering you at a slow pace, just to make you more wet and ready for him, while leaving trails of kisses from your ears down to your belly button and up again.

You grabbed his face and crashed your lips together, suppressing the moans he was making you fall out of your throat. His fingers never stopped moving, his thumb reaching for your clit and rubbing it just right.

You tugged on his shirt, and he took it off in one move, taking his finger out and getting them back in as soon as the sleeve was off of him.

Meanwhile you took your own off and exposed your chest to him.

It didn't feel awkward, if anything it felt on the contrary. As soon as you freed your tits he was the one staring this time, like the sight had some kind of spell on him. Normally, you would've thought “ugh,men.” with a disgusted look on your face, but Jungwon looked amazed.

"You looked so hot in my clothes, you should borrow them more ofter, doll." He kissed you again without a warning and then descended to your jaw, whispering. “I just know you feel amazing, she’s swallowing my fingers for how tight she is.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You bit your lower lip.

“Oh, absolutely. And those tits deserve some compliments too.” he lowered his mouth on your chest without ever breaking eye contact.

He wrapped his mouth around one of your nipples and took the other one between the fingers of his free hand. He was moving like a starved man.

You were asking yourself if you were about to reach heaven. He did everything go smoothly.

He licked, kissed, sucked, twirled, bit your nipple. Everything he could to make you feel good.

Like you deserved a prize.

For what? You didn’t know. But did that really matter?

As you moaned, he detached from you nipple and kissed your neck, nibbling on your earlobe too.

“Cumming for me again, baby?” You nodded, biting your lip to suppress the hideous sounds rising from inside your throat.

You should’ve stayed silent, cause he took his finger out and took off the last piece of clothing that restrained him. Your eyes followed the movement of his hands as he was discarding his boxers, and god, he was even thicker than what you thought.

“Not before I have my cock in you” he tilted his head with a mischievous smile. He then licked his fingers, still soaked in your scent and glistening with your slick.

He spread your legs and gave one kitten lick to your pussy. Only one, as if he hadn't just you tasted his own fingers.

“As nice as I always thought you would be,” he said smirking, moving on top of you.

“Jungwon” You whined. All this teasing was making you crazy.

“Mh?” He fisted his cock in his hand, caressing your side with the other.

“Please” you wailed.

“Please what baby? Be clear with your words.” His eyes were dark with desire, roaming all over your body, praising you in his mind.

You looked like a goddess normally, even with your hair tangled in a makeshift bun, usually held on with a pencil because of how usually you lost hair ties around the house. But underneath him? It was even better than he had ever imagined. He surely was gonna bust a nut to this image, as it was already engraved in his brain.

Hestared into your eyes, moving his shaft up and down your folds, gathering wetness and spreading it on his tip. He felt so close yet so far, almost putting it in just to retract the moment you whined.

“Jungwon, please fuck me” You blurted out.

“What was that?” he asked again, teasingly. His smile was cocky. But in reality, he was about to lose his composure.

You licked your lips, almost embarrassed.

You reached for his head and brought it down until his forehead touched yours.

“I said fuck me, Wonie.” you whispered.

He smirked, almost looking like his ears perked up. “With pleasure”

And with no further warning, he eased himself into you in one swift motion.

You moaned in unison when he let your walls engulf his length.

You were wet enough, yes, but he surely was sized.

“See? I was right. Swallowing me like the good girl you are.” He stilled his hips, to let you get accustomed a little. But to say it felt divine to have you around him was an understatement. He kept caressing you slowly, trying to be the gentleman and reduce the tension in the room, so sharp you could cut it with a knife.

“Shit, you feel so tight…how long have you starved her?” He asked, chuckling and leaving pecks on your nose to make you less nervous and stop clenching so hard around him.

“A while,” you replied, trying to keep your eyes open.

You tried to move your head to the side to not look at him in embarrassment, but he noticed immediately and grabbed your chin with his hand, bringing back eye contact.

“Nuh uh baby, you look at me when I'm inside you, nowhere else.”

Not even sure why, but you clenched again and he gulped.

And so he bottomed out, just for you to reply with another moan.

And that was it, he knew you were more than eager to take him.

He slid back in, drawing a breath out of you. And kept going, slowly building up a steady pace.

How his hips were slapping against your pelvis, his mouth searching yours, trails of saliva being left around while sucked blue marks on your neck to avoid making sounds, but he knew he wouldn't last much shutting up.

In fact, you suddenly brought your legs to wrap around his hips and this new position made him go even deeper, thrusting so hard you felt his dick actually twitch inside you.

“Fuck, you’re taking me so good.” he tried to muffle a moan by biting his lips till it bled, but you still heard him loud and clear.

“Are you trying to keep sounds from me now? Don't act all shy when you're balls deep inside of me…” you teased. And maybe he secretly wanted you to say that.

“You’re driving me nuts, baby,” he said, turning his head from the crook of your neck just to see you better.

“Your moans drive me nuts, Wonie. You were so loud when you came alone in your bedroom yesterday, I heard you loud and clear.”

You had heard him moan all this time and said nothing. What if you got off on his moans like he did? He had dreamed of you for so long, and now that he had you, he wasn’t sure he was going to hold on to it as a “dream” anymore. His dick twitched again at the thought. Fucking you raw. Cumming inside. Seeing it spill out of you. Seeing you sprawled on his bed. Oh, you were hot. And he surely was not gonna let it be a one time thing.

“This pussy feels like she was made to fit me- fuck.” His thrust had become harder, bottoming out everytime. He was hitting that spot inside of you that made your vision go white.

“Jungwon- Fuck! Right there” You moaned. You felt a familiar knot in your stomach starting to beg you to be freed.

“Weren’t we supposed to keep it quiet so as not to get complaints from the neighbors tomorrow?” you asked.

“You used the right past tense, were. But now that I had a taste of you, nothing's gonna stop me from making you scream my name out everytime you come for me.” Jungwon replied, sitting up and looking directly where you two were connected.

You squealed as he circled your already sensitive clit, bringing you just on the edge once again.

“Mhhh- Close, Wonie” you murmured.

“I’m not stopping you this time, let go for me doll, c’mon.” He replied, tone sweet but the sense of neediness was very much still there.

He laced his mouth on one of your very perked up nipples, and just how he licked it made your body shut down.

One of the loudest noises you ever made escaped your mouth.

He could see how your legs had started to tremble, back arching off the bed, breath ragged and whimpering loudly. You really were bringing him to his own peak without even touching him.

His thrust still didn't stop. If anything, he was gladly fucking you through your orgasm, making your head spin even harder.

“Such a good girl for me” he mumbled, kissing your neck.

“Your cunt’s milking me… won’t last much longer, baby”

His hips were frantically moving inside you, and he knew he was near.

He whined. “W-where?”

You kissed him for a moment and whispered in his ear. “Inside”

His abs almost hurt from how he was holding back. “You want all of it baby, don’t you?”

“Mh-mh” you nodded. “Please”

“Say it” he was gritting his teeth.

“Won…” You pleaded, again. He was making you beg like it was a prayer.

“I didn’t hear you say it baby” he looked at you, his eyes darkening and his thrusts quickening.

“Fill me up, please Jungwon. I want all of it.” Your eyes closing, unable to handle how good he was making you feel.

As soon as the words left your mouth, a gasp escaped it as well. You felt him push himself to the tilt as his movement halted almost completely while hot ropes of cum coated your insides.

The silence of that moment was deep.

It felt like everything kept hidden for years had finally been unleashed.

You looked at eachother.

Breathless. Spent. Sweaty.

Jungwon’s hair was clinging to his forehead, his mouth slightly agape. He eased himself out of you, watching his release gush out of your hole slowly.

He kissed you sweetly, smiling against your mouth, just to collapse next to you right after.

“You know we’re not just roommates anymore, right?”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please don't be a silent reader, i really appreciate feedbacks :3

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lazysoulwriter · 3 days ago

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natural ── pedro pascal .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ ontent: soft!pedro, established relationship, internet speculates you're in love because you wear your curls out more, gentle compliments, body & hair love, fluff overload, barely a hint of spice

---

it starts slowly. just little things—less straightening, more leave-in conditioner. a few lazy buns. some diffuser days. you’re not even really thinking about it. you’re just happy.

happy like: mornings in pedro’s kitchen, making coffee while he runs a finger through your curls and says “god, i love your hair like this.” happy like: not flinching when he cups your face and kisses your forehead while you’re still air-drying. happy like: catching your reflection and smiling, just because you look like you again.

and then… the internet notices.

“not to curly hair theory all of you,” someone posts on a fan account, “but have you seen how she’s wearing her hair lately?? she’s GLOWING.”

suddenly it’s everywhere. side-by-sides of your red carpet hair from before you were dating pedro vs now. tweets like, “pedro pascal makes her feel safe and loved and THAT’S why her hair is thriving.” and… they’re not wrong.

you show him one night in bed, laughing softly as you scroll. he takes the phone and reads a few, then kisses your bare shoulder, eyes twinkling. “baby. you’re so beautiful all the time. but when you look like this… when you feel good in your skin? that’s when you drive me insane.”

you blush immediately, hiding under the covers like you always do when he gets too sweet.

he pulls them back and kisses your cheeks. “i’m glad the world sees it. but i’ve always known.”

and when he curls up with you later — hands in your hair, lips against your neck — you think maybe love really does look like letting your curls live free.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom @m4yb3-k3tlyn3

490 notes · View notes

jedisaurusrex · 1 day ago

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This is exactly the reason why despite of being a trans person I'm still a part of the HP fandom. There are unconcious biases in the books, but you will need to make a very big stretch to say that JKR was intentionally acting on those biases rather than just subconciously writing something that she thought of as normal. As someone who's parents are relatively her age, and still have many of such biases despite of being quite intelligent and open-minded people - it WAS normal back then and not all people are capable to fully get over it. And back then JKR was genuinely trying her best with being kind and supportive even if she had flawed views. You can even see that she actually judges some of the negative things that she added to her books, even though it's executed really poorly. And funny enough, there was genuinely more good things in HP than bad ones. It was the book that actually stimulated me to be honest to myself and to accept that the world might not be black and white. Honestly, I might have not even accept myself as trans by the current day without being confronted by some ideas that I had specifically because of reading HP. Bad things were so subtle that for my mind they were completely under radar and couldn't influence me - because there was always another explanation to it, and often times it was actually making me only more sympathetic with the marginalised groups. House elves loosing control over themselves when given freedom? It's not because slavery is somehow good, it's because they were thrown into the world traumatised and not knowing how to live without their master's guidance. Goblins treated poorly? It's because some goblins were genuinely acting like dickheads and gave their whole species a bad reputation. Such things, even if they were just justifications, were making sense to me back then, and to some degree I think that it might have been JKR's thought process too. Maybe it all might have not even happened if she had a more friendly enviroment - I know that there were people who tried to educate her peacefully, but judging from what I've heard it was mixed with actual death threats and traumatic experience. It's hard to hear a voice of reason when you're in a constant state of self-defense and noone even considered to get you through therapy. I completely agree that the situation has gone out of hands, but claiming that it has always been that way and that we were brainwashed is as much of a delusion as claiming that there's nothing wrong happening right now. And I don't believe that the fandom should die because of what JKR does - in fact, I believe that reclaiming it as something separate from her believes can be even more powerful because you're not shoving the problem under the rug.

ok im going to #seriouspost for a second here. I don't think Harry Potter is a manifesto. I think it was a flawed passion project that millennials latched onto because of the fantasy of sticking it to their mean teachers and arbitrarily categorizing themselves (hogwarts houses; it's the thinking millennial's astrology). I think the fact that the series got popular when and how it did was very much a product of its time.

I don't think Harry Potter is the biggest symbol of JKR's bigotry. I think the most flagrant sign of that was how she responded to critics. I watched her become radicalized in real time. I watched how she doubled down on her racism when she was called out for the ways she promoted her tragically mid fantastic beasts movies. I watched her chase marginalized teenagers with a double digit follower count off of twitter for daring to criticize her thought process, and no one with any kind of power standing against her because she was the one who was paying them. This isn't to say Harry Potter is without flaws. This is to say she really didn't give a shit about that. Getting rich and powerful is a hell of a drug, and she had enough sycophants that she had no reason to care about what her critics were saying.

She was convinced that she was a martyr; a voice for the unheard; a leader for the ages, so of course her detractors were the bad guys. And I think we should take this to heart. We should see this as an example of how easy it is to get radicalized; if you think of yourself as a paragon of virtue, you are going to think that whatever you see as good and right is an objective fact. Most people don't know this, but the majority of terfs start out as trans allies. You are not immune to propaganda! You are not immune to falling into dangerous ideologies!!!

This is why the most important thing you can do as an activist is to listen. Do NOT think you're above being wrong; do NOT develop a god complex; do NOT form an identity out of being right all the time. Involve yourselves in the groups you claim to speak for. Listen to trans women; share resources that help trans women; familiarize yourself with the diversity of experiences that trans people have and the struggles they face.

No, none of you are as bad as JKR because you don't have her money or her power. You will likely never have the capacity for harm she does. But check yourselves. Do not affirm yourselves into thinking you always have the moral high ground. Watch yourselves; humble yourselves; check yourselves for signs of cult behavior and internalized prejudice. You are always learning. You will always be learning. Do not allow yourselves to get a power trip from brushing off marginalized voices.

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starkeyvhs · 1 day ago

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unhook

PAIRING: nerd!rafe cameron x nerd!fem!reader

SUMMARY: it’s rafe’s first sleepover with his first girlfriend – who is equally shy as him – but she needs help with unhooking her bra.

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

WARNINGS: shy rafe & reader; she/her pronouns used for reader; slightly suggestive (?) but it’s soft and fluffy 🫶

EDITH SPEAKS: we don’t just have nerd rafe now, we now have nerd reader too 🥰 I loveddddd writing the two of them, just a couple of soft and shy teenagers who like each other so much but are just so anxious 🥹 I have a cool idea on the background lore of this pairing and hopefully I’ll be able to write their full fic one day 🫶 anyways! if you enjoy reading, please reblog and share any feedback you may have 💞💞 also, my inbox is open to discuss all kinds of thoughts && hcs!!! xx

masterlist / join my taglist / requests

Rafe Cameron was an expert at a lot of things: physics, maths, programming, robotics, chemistry, but there was one thing no book could ever teach him.

And it was how to act around girls.

Throughout his life, he thought keeping a safe distance from girls was best for him; relationships and everything else would come to him when the time is right.

But he definitely didn’t think that time would come this soon – in high school.

He was best known for his concentration, and how he could sit still and study for hours on end, not giving up until he was done learning what he wanted to. But this one girl, she was becoming a distraction. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was as if he could see her name hidden between the words of the book he was reading, tucked safely as a sweet memory of this new person who had just waltzed into his life.

And somehow, the one thing that made all of this sweeter was that the girl – you – was also just like him. Just as inexperienced, just as nervous, and, he didn’t realise it, but also just as adorable as him.

It was hard for Rafe to get his mind off someone who had so many common interests as him. You loved science and technology just as much as he did, and you both were somehow just always on the same wavelength with almost everything you talked about.

Now, fast forwarding past the awkward talking stage (well, what’s to say it sometimes still isn’t awkward), Rafe finally bagged you, yes, that’s right, Rafe Cameron got a girlfriend.

And a damn intelligent one at that.

So, after everything, he has you invited over to his place for your first ever sleepover. The nerves are even more than usual, but he’s trying his best to make this work, just for the two of you.

Starting from when you arrive till the dinner with his family, everything is super smooth. You both talk a bit, and Rafe can feel the nervousness between you two is beginning to die, to create something that’s more comforting and warm instead.

But, all the effort he puts to make everything light hearted comes crashing down when he realises nighttime is nearing closer and closer. Meaning, the time to share a bed is getting closer. He makes the offer of his own clothes for your nightwear, which he’s super happy you accept.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of his own shirt as he waits for you to finish changing and freshening up in the washroom. He can feel his mind go absolute berserk, an infinite number of thoughts looping themselves in his head and playing like a broken record. He’s attempting to get his mind off these thoughts, oh he is trying so hard, but he just can’t.

Rafe nervously looks up at the clock hanging on his wall and realises a little too much time has passed since you went to the washroom. It concerns him a tiny fraction, but he attempts to relax that thought by telling himself you must genuinely take time in the washroom to freshen up.

But then he hears your voice calling out your name – oh how he loves the way his name sounds so sweet on your lips, but more on that later – and it seems as if you’re a little uneasy.

“Yeah?” He asks, and his voice automatically takes that softness that somehow only comes up when he’s talking to you. He gets up from his bed and makes his way to the closed washroom door, gently pressing an ear to it. “Everything alright?”

A long moment of silence passes and Rafe doesn’t hear anything from across the door, which almost tempts him to call out to you again, but your voice finally crosses the wood.

“I uh… I need help,” Your voice is already muffled due to the hardwood barrier between you two, but the obvious timidness in your tone makes it even more difficult for Rafe to catch your words.

“Yeah yeah, what is it, sweets?” He says softly, the nickname rolling off almost effortlessly. Whoa, where did that confidence come from? Again, a topic reserved for a much later conversation.

Another long moment of silence passes, and Rafe can now sense the anxiousness through the door, understanding that whatever it is, it’s making you feel more shy than usual.

“My, my bra hook’s stuck… I need help with it,” Somehow, your voice has gotten even quieter.

Now it’s Rafe’s turn to get quiet.

It takes time for your words, and their implication, to settle in him. His limbs feel permanently tethered to the ground below him by a strong force, and that nothing can make him budge. But he soon realises that force is entirely superficial and it’s his own nerves keeping him fixed.

Fighting the strong nerves he musters the courage to speak up again. “You, you need my help?” He asks.

“Yes please,” comes your reply and he hears a heavy exhale escaping you along with your words, as if you’re letting go of the heavy weight of having to tell him what your current situation is.

But god, Rafe doesn’t have a single clue how he’s going to react on what’s bound to happen next.

He hears you unlock the door from inside, and he wraps his fingers around the doorknob, slowly twisting it to open the door.

You’re standing in the center of the washroom, your back towards the door. He can see you’ve changed into his old shorts he gave you, but the t-shirt is sitting on the counter and you’re standing in just your bra. When you hear the door creak open, you turn to look over your shoulder and meet Rafe’s eyes.

The moment you see him, you shy your gaze away from him. “Uh, it’s stuck real bad…” you mumble quietly.

“Oh uh, I’ll… I’ll have a look,” Rafe mutters, moving closer to you so there’s barely any space between you two. He can feel the warmth of your back against his chest and it seems so inviting and soft.

His heart begins to thump loud in his chest, and the deep curtain of silence that envelopes you two makes it even more loud to his ears.

Rafe swallows the lump in his throat and lifts his hand up. He brings his fingers close to your back so that the fingertips are almost hovering over the inviting skin.

Do it, Rafe, do it. You’re here to help her, that’s it.

Subconsciously nodding to himself, Rafe lets his fingertips gently press over your back and oh my god your skin is so damn soft. The situation is making heat rush to his face, and he just knows his cheeks are tinted with a champagne pink which is very hard to miss.

He can hear the hitch in your breath the moment his fingers touch your skin, as if the small contact is spreading an electric current throughout your body. Rafe lets his fingers linger over the bra hook, and he brings his other hand up too, attempting to sort the stuck hook out.

“It’s a little stuck…” he murmurs under his breath as he has his way with the hook, but also makes sure none of his movements are too harsh that it hurts you in any way.

“That bad?” You ask meekly, glancing at Rafe over your shoulder. He catches the look of sheepishness on your face, knowing how awkward you might be feeling in this situation.

“I just need a minute, yeah?” He tells you softly, and allows himself to be a little bold, letting his hand drift over your shoulder and squeeze it softly. As much as his heart is beating fast in his chest and his fingers are itching to feel the expanse of your soft flesh, he also knows he should be a little confident because that’ll help you feel a little more comfortable.

His actions do the expected, your tense shoulders relax a bit and you nod to let him continue. Rafe brings his hands back to the hook and lets out a deep breath. Okay, lets just look at this carefully. He takes a moment to inspect exactly how the hook is stuck, and then, carefully, he lets his fingers work through the stuck hook.

It takes a long moment, both him and you standing in the quiet space of the bathroom with bated breaths, but finally, Rafe pops open the hook. That is the moment when your body gets fully relaxed, and he understands how relieving it must be for you to not have a tight constraint around your chest anymore.

He can’t convince himself to bring his hands back down to his sides, his palms now fully resting on your back above your shoulder blades. You stand there, keeping a hand over the bra to keep yourself covered.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks softly, feeling a little more bold as his fingertips begin to trail over your back, tracing over the length of your spine till your tailbone and coming back up right at the nape of your neck with a touch so slow and gentle.

“Yeah…” you murmur, “thank you so much, Rafe,”

Rafe can’t help the small smile that pulls his lips at your words. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your shoulder, letting his lips linger against your skin for a moment. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles softly into your skin, before pulling back.

He clears his throat and reluctantly gets his hands off you, taking a step back towards the door. “I’ll uh, I’ll let you change yeah?” He says softly and watches you nod, but this time you don’t turn to look at him. He makes his way out of the washroom and steps out, closing the door behind him and resting his head back against the hardwood.

He closes his eyes, letting out soft puffs of air through his exhales as his mind plays back the last few moments: his fingers on your skin, soaking up its velvety feel.

He doesn’t know where he got the wave of confidence from which allowed him to touch you that beautifully, but somewhere, he’s glad he got it, because now, he absolutely can’t even think of anything else besides you, your supple skin, and how he might ultimately get to feel more than just your back under his hands.

Well, this only makes him ecstatic about the impending sleepover.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

taglist: @oxpogues4lifexo / @inthelibrarybtw / @mccaffreyswifey / @chenslucy / @totalswag / @wearemadeofstardust0 / @percysley / @superswaggycooch / @kaileashiftz / @weirdowithnobeardo / @chimchimjiminie16 / @ursovaine / @mariamadison6-blog / @snowtargaryen / @htlkira / @hrtshapedblg / @cherrys-muses / @mattyskies

specific tags for this fic: @maybejj / @appleciderlove / @starkeyszn

tagging a few moots: @runningfrom2am / @ilyrafe / @zyafics / @nemesyaaa / @ladyinbl00d / @jjsbank444 / @b1mb0slvt / @maddsxfall / @congratsloserr

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ktownshizzle · 3 days ago

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Pigments & Playlists [Final] | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Between makeup and music, you find the one person worth blurring the lines for. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluffy coworkers to lovers, idol au, older woman (by a few years), smut ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: SMUT MDNI!, Undercut Yoongi!!, MC-noona is the embodiment of “independent check, got her own check”, office shenanigans as always, exhibitionist kink, fingering, edging, very minor pain kink, use of a blindfold, power play (im new to writing this so pls forgive any errors), unprotected p in v, idk tell me if i missed any of it, unfair/sexist HR practices, insinuation of self-harm (assumed wrongly), MC hatin’ on HYBE, happy ending woohoo ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 9k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: June 21, 2025 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Yoongi’s discharge today. So proud of you, baby! 💜 Thank you so much @tea4sykes for your brilliant ideas, betareading, and basically keeping me motivated in writing this! Love yew! ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes 2: Hope you guys enjoy reading this~ Made it a personal goal to publish today, because I didn't know how June 21 was gonna go for us, but I was sure it was going to be emotional. Consider this a gift from me to you. However you may be feeling today, I hope this makes you smile.

[Full taglist to follow in rbs.]

Part One | Yoongi Masterlist

So Yoongi disappeared after he did that. Frankly, how dare he?!

Way too many thoughts swirling in your head while you lay awake and there is no way you’ll be able to sleep.

Your arm flies across the bed as your hand pulls your nightstand drawer and fumbles inside for the one thing you need to help yourself relax…

Nah. Not the rabbit.

Tiger Balm.

You dab a bit on your temples and the tip of your nose and inhale deeply, letting the menthol work its magic. Yup. That’s the stuff.

Unfortunately, you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, heart thudding like something’s wrong. Except nothing’s wrong. You kissed. That’s all.

You kissed and now you’re thinking about it way too much. Not because it was bad. Because it was… something.

And because the more you think about it, the more it’s starting to scare you how much you need it to happen again.

You sigh. Rub at the menthol on your nose, frustrated it didn’t thwart your torturous thoughts.

And then you do the logical thing. You call.

It rings once. Twice.

“...Noona?”

His voice is low, a little scratchy. Not groggy, just sleep-warm.

You swallow. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

“Nah it’s fine,” he says. “You okay?”

You hesitate. “Kind of.”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t fill it. Just waits.

You exhale, quiet. “Remember when you said I could call you if I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t about my ex though,” you say.

“Okay.”

“It’s about you.”

That makes him hum. You hear the faint rustle of his sheets, like he’s sitting up.

“Me?”

“Own up to what you did.”

Faint chuckles crackle through your phone and you can almost imagine how he looks. Eyes like the moon, shoulders bobbing, grin smug as shit.

“What did I do?”

You groan, tack his name at the end of it.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he says after a beat. “Is that a problem?”

“I don’t know yet,” you reply. “It makes me anxious.”

He hums softly. “Because?”

“Because I liked it,” you say. “And I kinda hate how much I’m thinking about it. And you’re probably chill.”

There’s a long silence.

Then he says, calm and careful: “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

“Thought you don’t date coworkers.”

“And then there’s you.”

You let out a huff—relieved, breathy, kinda giddy. “That’s… okay.”

“Yeah.”

You sit up in bed, pulling your knees in.

“I was gonna wait,” you admit. “To see if you’d make the next move. But then I figured that’s dumb. I’m not a teenager.”

“No. You’re definitely not.”

“You don’t mind it?”

“Mind what?”

“That I’m older?” You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see.

“Noona,” he breathes. “I’m not really someone who cares about things like that. At the end of the day aren’t we all just human beings trying to find a connection?”

God this man. Your mouth moves before you can think about it any more. “If you’re not too busy… you wanna come over sometime?”

There’s a pause. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“Noona,” he says, teasing, “are you asking me on a…”

“Yes, Yoongi,” you cut in. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

He laughs. Really laughs. Low and bright and warm through the speaker. You want to bottle that sound.

“Technically, I did ask first,” he says. “But yeah. I’ll come over.”

You kick your feet under the duvet before replying, “Okay.”

You talk more.

About nothing. About music. About how Namjoon’s on his ass about a song. About how he’s been working out. You tease him mercilessly about how he just casually dropped the last part.

At some point, the sky turns blue.

When you finally hang up, your body feels softer, a little less anxious. And when you fall asleep, it’s his cute throaty laugh still echoing in your head.

“Yoongi, will you please stop making that face? I’m trying to even out your eyeliner,” you scold, trying not to laugh.

Yoongi, the piece of shit, still keeps at his :] while you skim a q-tip along the outer corner of his eye.

“Yoongi-hyung, why are you acting cutely?” Hobi asks from the next chair. “Are we even filming right now?”

A flush creeps up Yoongi’s cheeks as he responds, mock indignant, “What? This is my face. Not my fault I was born cute.”

You meet Hobi’s eyes in the mirror. Then, he winks. You immediately look away, vaguely mortified.

Wait—does everybody know?

Trying to recover, you boop your powder puff on Yoongi’s nose, sending a cloud of setting powder into the air. “Quit it.”

He coughs once, laughing as the puff drops to his lap. Okay shit, good thing he is wearing khaki slacks and not black pants. But finally, he relaxes.

“Noona, you have a Rejuran appointment later,” Jimin chimes in.

Your head snaps up. “What? How did you…?”

Jimin grins from across the room, eyes glued to your phone screen where it’s charging in one of the other stations. Your sockets were full, so you left it there earlier and a calendar alert must’ve popped up.

“You’re so nosy, Jimin.”

“What’s Rejuran?” Hobi asks, peering over with mild curiosity. “I’ve heard that somewhere.”

“It’s just a kind of facial,” you say breezily, catching Hyein’s knowing glance as she smooths Hobi’s hair with her Dyson. These boys don’t need to know your anti-aging secrets.

“They inject salmon sperm into noona’s face,” Jimin announces with a totally straight face, mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Salmon what?!” Yoongi blurts, snapping his head up to look at you. Hobi recoils with a horrified grimace.

“Park Jimin, when I catch you—!”

Jimin squeals and ducks behind a rack of stage outfits as you toss a blending sponge in his direction, trying not to laugh yourself.

The commotion dies down, and you go back to packing up your powders, muttering under your breath, “It’s not even that weird. Just some polynucleotides. Helps stimulate collagen. Keeps the wrinkles at bay.”

Hobi raises a brow. “I don’t see wrinkles, noona.”

“Exactly.” Now it’s you who sends him a wink back.

Yoongi lets out a low chuckle. You glance at him and catch him typing something into his Notes app. Thankfully everyone goes back to their own damn business.

A second later, Yoongi tilts the screen toward you just enough for you to read it: Friday night?

Your hand holding a brush freezes for half a second over his cheek.

He’s already looking away like he didn’t just casually drop that invite.

“Okay,” you mumble softly under your breath.

The lilt of his lips tells you he heard it anyway.

The door buzzes. You’ve been so chill all day. Still chill. You're chill. (No, you’re not.) You rush to open the door before you make him wait too long.

Yoongi looks… casual. Just a black sweater layered over a gray tee, soft black pants. Hair tucked neatly under a beanie. He looks like your neighborhood ahjussi.

“Noona,” he says, voice muffled behind a white face mask.

“Wow. You’re on time.”

“I try to impress on the first date.”

You try not to smile too big, but fail.

He takes his mask off and hands you a small paper bag. “Dessert.”

You peek inside. Cream puffs from that place in Sinsa-dong that always sells out by 3 PM. “Did you have to bribe someone for these?”

“I have my ways.”

Dinner is simple, something you can make with your eyes closed. Miso salmon, cilantro lime rice, and a cucumber salad. You make this at least twice a month. You could’ve cooked steak or some grilled chops, something that gave a more date-night vibe, but you wanted to make the menu fool-proof.

You eat at the kitchen counter with his insistence, saying you didn’t need to set the dining table all fancy. (“It’s just me.”) So you sit close together on your bar stools, knees almost brushing. He clears his plate like it’s the best thing he’s eaten. You beam.

“Noona, this is really good,” he says, tapping a napkin against his mouth.

You smirk. “Better than Jungkook’s?”

He slides an arm on the backrest of your chair. “Are you as competitive as the maknae?”

“I’m just playing.” You chuckle. “I know mine’s better.”

He smiles, watching you quietly but intently as you sip your wine.

“What?” you ask, his stare is warming the side of your face.

“Just... haven’t done this in a while.”

“Eaten?”

“No.” He tuts, picks up his wine glass and sips before explaining, “Sat with someone like this. Them cooking for me. In their home. Talking.”

Your stomach dips. Not from nerves this time. From the way he admits it. Simple. Open.

You shrug, keeping it light. “Well. You’ve still got it.”

“Got what?”

“You know… the kids call it rizz.”

He laughs heartily, and you feel his fingers curling against your arm. “Was worried I might’ve lost my… rizz.” He overenunciates the last word, his lisp decorating the edge of the sound.

You raise your brow, not buying it. “Liar.”

He bites his lower lip and shakes his head at you. Your eyes track the way his pretty teeth sink against the pink plush and ugh. Again with this rizz.

After dishes are rinsed and placed in the dishwasher and dessert’s split between bites and laughter, the two of you end up on the couch. His arm stretched along the backrest yet again, just shy of your shoulder. Your head tilted toward his, but not touching, even if you wanted to.

There’s some Netflix movie playing in the background, purely for vibes. Neither of you are really watching. You talk about work. Gossip a bit. He asks about that corner shelf in your living room, the one with the knick knacks. You tell him stories about your travels, touring with Seventeen. He says you have the same lucky cat figurine from Hong Kong.

You try not to let his voice get under your skin. It’s different hearing his warm, caramelly tone when you’re not otherwise occupied with evening out his contour or with the buzz of a hair dryer in the background. It’s criminal how smooth it is when it’s all you need to focus on, even more so when he’s being earnest.

He glances at your hand resting on his thigh. (How did it get there???) Then up at your face. You nod before your brain realizes that he in fact did not ask a question.

But then he leans in and all thoughts fly out the window. His lips taste like vanilla cream and maybe the wine you shared earlier. It’s sweet. Even better than the first one because you’re ready for it.

You shift closer, hands finding their way to the hem of his sweater, thumbs brushing warm skin underneath. His breath catches a little. And then his fingers are trailing up your arm, until they settle gently on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, coaxing your mouth open so he can press his tongue against yours. You feel dizzy with want.

His hands stay respectful, never wandering too far. Just the faint brush against the back of your neck, the side of your thigh. But every press of his calloused fingers leaves a quiet, contained fire in its wake. You need more.

You move closer, straddling his lap, never breaking contact with his mouth. He kisses you deeper, sloppier when your weight settles against him. His tongue licks into your mouth expertly and you welcome it. It teases you long enough to make you wonder how it might feel in other places, too.

Like butter, you're melting, unraveling as his hands find more courage—one sliding up, pausing at your ribs, then higher to cup your tits. He groans into your mouth and it nearly ruins you. You roll your hips forward, barely a grind, just enough to feel him straining between you. Just enough to hear him groan again.

You make out for what feels like an eternity. But you think you’re both on the same page, when your mouths move a little slower, softer. Air starts to seep between your lips as you retreat. You’re somewhere between wanting more and knowing it’s not time. Not yet. But god, it’s close.

Eventually, he leans his forehead against your shoulder, both of you breathless–maybe a little embarrassed.

“I should probably go,” he murmurs, even as he hugs you tighter at the waist.

“Probably,” you sigh, his undercut grazing your neck and igniting a dull, sweet tickle.

You stay like that for a moment, sharing the soft beat of your hearts as they slow back to normal.

He finally rises, slipping back into his white sneakers as you walk him to the door.

“Thanks for dinner,” he says, lingering by the frame.

“Thanks for coming,” you reply, fingers tightening on the knob as you hold it open.

“Next time, my place?”

“Already booking that second date?”

He pulls his mask on, but not before you catch the shy grin he tries to hide.

“I’ll bring dessert,” you offer.

“Just bring yourself. “ he says, gaze flicking down your body, before settling back on your eyes.

Oh. You are the dessert.

And this time, when the door clicks shut behind him, your heart isn’t racing from confusion. It’s welcoming the slow bloom of potential.

You: Thank you for dropping off coffee and donuts for the team Yoongi: 👌

Yoongi: finished it one sitting You: what? You: i got you 10 pcs 🍊 Yoongi: and? You: you dont get acidic? Yoongi: it’s my favorite!! You: i noticed

Yoongi: [spotify playlist link] You: hey dj suga Yoongi: thought you might like You: listened to it on the drive home Yoongi: favorite track? You: musiq soulchild - just friends Yoongi: me too

It’s not like there was a talk. No formal check-in or DTR. But somehow, as the weeks pass, the rhythm between you and Yoongi settles into something steady. There’s no pressure. No constant push for reassurance. No need to define what already feels known.

You see him constantly at work—during rehearsals, music shows, brand shoots. He’s not overly affectionate, that’s just not him. But there are moments. The way his fingers graze yours when no one’s looking. The way his eyes seek you out as soon as he walks in. The way he’ll shift his chair an inch closer when you’re touching up his base, so your knees knock just enough.

He really makes this whole thing feel easy. Comfortable in a way that still thrills you. Because what can be more thrilling at this point in your life than to finally meet somebody that makes you feel vibrant.

What surprises you most is how little insecurity you feel. You’ve seen how people look at him—the other makeup artists, stylists, managers, external clients. There’s something magnetic about him that draws attention without trying. You’ve clocked it. But Yoongi has a way of making sure you never wonder.

It’s in the way he says your name. How his eyes soften when he talks to you. How he remembers the little things. The tea you like. The one concealer you always complain about running out of. Sometimes you find a sticky note in your kit. Or a box of snacks with your name scribbled on it. Just things that say: I see you. You’re on my mind.

And then there are the others. The rest of Bangtan.

It’s a choreography video shoot day, which always means chaos. Full glam’s not required since most shots are wide, so it’s just you and Hwapyeong handling light touch-ups.

You’re finishing Yoongi’s concealer when Jungkook suddenly rests his chin on your shoulder. “Noona, if I promise to sit still, can I go next?”

Before you can answer, Jimin appears behind him. “She’s doing me next. I called dibs.”

“Not how dibs works,” Jungkook pulls back his arm for a mock-punch and Jimin clutches his heart, rattling off a litany of how Jungkook wounds him.

“Hajimaaa,” Yoongi gives them all a staredown.

But then from across the room, Taehyung yells, “Noona, help! My concealer’s making me look gray!”

“AISH!” Yoongi snarls with his non-existent fangs. It’s not even menacing. You know now that his canines are blunt. But he tries, so you giggle.

Jin comes to your rescue. “Why are all of you crowding her? You never even get your faces done for choreo. Fuck off,” Then, sweetly, “Hi noona, just a dab of lip balm, please.”

“HYUNG!” Jungkook giggles as he shoves his elder playfully away from you and they continue to horseplay elsewhere.

Yoongi turns slowly to Jimin and Taehyung, unimpressed. “Why are you still here?”

“Because she’s nice to us,” Jimin says, fluttering his lashes at you with zero shame.

“Because we love her more than you do,” Taehyung declares with a shit-eating grin.

That gets Yoongi to raise a brow.

“Okay, enough,” you laugh, pointing your brush like a weapon. “If you want me to do all your faces, line up like kindergarteners and bring me coffee.”

“Done,” Taehyung shoots up immediately.

When they disperse to bother other members of the staff, you catch Yoongi watching you through the mirror.

“I think…” you murmur as you smooth out the edge of his eye shadow, “I just got myself a new set of boys.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his smile lingers tells you everything.

When he stands up to finally let one of the maknaes take his spot, he whispers, “For the record, I called dibs.” Then pinches your hip slightly.

You’re still grinning when Jimin plops into the chair and narrows his eyes at you. Eye-smiling. Suspicious. Rightly so.

You: check your studio door Yoongi: ? Yoongi: why Yoongi: what did you do You: just do it

(three minutes later)

Yoongi: you cooked? You: 👩‍🍳 Yoongi: you even packed utensils?? You: i’m considerate Yoongi: shit you the best You: i know you’re busy but now you don’t have an excuse Yoongi: you tryna wife me up huh? You: idiot Yoongi: cmere eat with me You: i have a thing You: meeting a makeup artist friend who started her own salon Yoongi: thats nice Yoongi: but next time come in You: k Yoongi: 134340 You: ? Yoongi: door code You: guarding it with my life

(fifteen minutes later)

Yoongi: (photo attached: empty bento box)

Curious how time has passed and with frequency and proximity, you discover new things about Yoongi. Things that only came with time. Things you wouldn’t catch if you weren’t paying attention. Things you couldn’t have known before.

There are lines you never noticed until you were tracing them at rest. Creases that only surface when he’s thinking too hard, or biting back a smile. Dimples, not on the smile lines, but on his chin, when he’s bored. And then there’s the slightest double chin when he’s slumped and snoozing when schedules get rough. It’s your job to know his face, to fill the lines. There are times you touch him a little longer, not for anything but comfort and maybe your greed. He lets you.

Lips, sweeter than any cherry balm you could ever swipe. But far more frequently chapped than you like so you’ve started packing bottled water inside your kit, making him sip while you let lip mask seep between the patches of dry skin. His lips have become your favorite. Sometimes it splits when he does that shriek he often pulls to make others laugh but then it also presses against your shoulder when he’s too tired to kiss you properly. Sometimes they murmur your name like it’s a sexy secret, and you wonder how you lived before hearing it said like that.

There’s also his eyes. Small, but somehow holds a significant power. He has a habit of narrowing them, but now you can tell why, when he’s suspicious, or teasing or just tired, or forgot his glasses. You don’t need him to speak. Sometimes the way he looks at you says more than full conversations ever could.

His default expressions are even more cat-like up close. On default :< When he’s playful :] But your favorite is the :3. You always make sure his features stay sharp, complimenting his felinesque features. You pull his liner outward, shade his jaw, angle his brow. Lil Meow Meow, apparently he is called. And what ARMY wants, ARMY gets.

His hair is finer than it looks. Silky in a way that slips easily between your fingers when you card through it absentmindedly, especially when he’s resting his head in your lap. The strands at his nape get extra soft after he showers, curling ever so slightly where they brush against his undercut. He likes when you play with it, especially the buzzed edges, more than he lets on. You figured that out the first time you tugged a little harder and heard the way his breath caught, low in his throat. Now it’s something he leans into, shameless. One tug and suddenly he’s pliant, open.

He smells like tangerines. Rarely does he not have it in his pocket. But also, there’s this perfume he wears. It clings. Intoxicating and addicting, and you wonder if it’s just you who’s not immune. It lives in your hair, your pillow, your skin. You catch yourself breathing deeper when you catch it, like your body recognizes what’s safe faster than your mind can.

You no longer think about what you used to think of him. When he only said four words, and always closed his eyes.

Finally, you know Min Yoongi. Not the pixels, but the person.

You know him now in the noise and chaos of backstage, from watching him when you have your kit open and he’s on his chair waiting to be groomed.

But you’ve come to know him more in the quietest hours, too. When he wakes beside you in his California king, face bathed in the kind of morning light no makeup could ever imitate. When he opens his eyes, and leans into your space like he always does, all soft and sleepy and sexy.

There’s no need to polish him here. Because this is him at his most perfect in your eyes. When you can just reach for him.

Not because he’s Min Yoongi, the idol.

He’s Min Yoongi, yours. Even without the labels, yet.

You: yoongi. Yoongi: ? You: we almost got caught in the fucking meeting room 😭 Yoongi: that was close. You: close??? do you know what would’ve happened if someone saw? Yoongi: i’d probably get a raise You: ddaeng i’d get fired Yoongi: we’re fine You: you are not serious Yoongi: you kissed me You: you pulled me in Yoongi: yeah and? You: AND?? Yoongi: should’ve locked the door You: Yoongi 😩 Yoongi: you wanted it You: i did NOT Yoongi: your hand was where? You: BYE

You (photo attached: wine glass, bare legs, tv in background): guess what i’m watching Yoongi: don’t care Yoongi: all i see is leg You: rude Yoongi: wear a skirt tomorrow You: so direct Yoongi: thought we’re not teenagers You: thought you said you’d behave Yoongi: sure 😃

Another day in the glam room, another TikTok dance challenge Yoongi somehow said yes to. This time with members of TXT. He’s really never beating the allegations of rizzing up his juniors.

He’s already styled when he walks in. And looking at what he’s wearing... Honestly? He’s wearing you the fuck out. And it’s barely noon.

White tank under a greige short-sleeved shirt, pretty, purple embroidered butterflies sitting on either side of his chest. But it’s the jeans—loose, shredded clean through the knees—that have you scandalized like a Victorian maiden seeing skin for the first time.

“Good morning,” you greet.

He hums, eyes you up and down shamelessly and you know the conversation last night is about to resume in the flesh.

“Hey,” he takes his spot on the chair.

“Looking forward to today?” You ask, turning to pluck a brush and pot from your kit.

“You can say that…”

As you face him, he parts his legs, glancing down at the freshly cleared spot on the floor, then looks back up at you. Waits.

You sigh, already knowing what it is. An unspoken invitation to take your place between his knees. To get closer. So you do.

“This what you wanted?” you ask, feigning indifference, as you swirl the spoolie through your brow gel, wiping off the excess on the rim.

“Not exactly,” he says, smirking, knees closing in on the side of your hips. “But close.”

You start brushing his brows up, grooming them into a perfect arch when you feel it. His fingers, slow and sneaky, sliding up your skirt, skimming the soft skin of your inner thigh.

You look him dead in the eyes.

He winks.

“Yoongi…” you tsk, moving to brush up his other brow.

“Noona…” he shifts forward, tongue peaking on the side of his mouth, which you try try try to ignore.

“Somebody might see,” you mumble.

“Let them.”

“Such a little shit.”

“You love it.” You freeze when you feel his fingers hook your panties to the side and when he discovers that you’re more excited than you let on, “Oooh. You really do.”

Mortified, is what you are. Soaked from anticipation and some light, slight petting. How dare your body betray you like this?!

“I like your skirt,” he murmurs. The hand that isn’t currently violating you taps the floofy fabric like it’s innocent. As if the other one isn’t busy toying with your cunt.

Dignity hanging by a thread, you grit, “Didn’t wear it for you.”

A bold-faced lie. He knows it, too. “Sure you didn’t,” he chuckles.

His index swipes your folds, lazy, teasing strokes that get deeper with every pass, never quite reaching the one spot you need him to.

“But aren’t you glad you did?” At that exact moment, he flicks your puffy clit, circling it like he’s known exactly where it was all along.

“Fuck,” you gasp, pitching forward, hands gripping his knees just to stay upright.

The pot and brush drops to the floor and rolls into oblivion. Much like your sanity.

He hisses through his teeth as he eases his middle finger inside you, walls fluttering at the sudden intrusion.

“So wet for me, baby,” he grins, lower lip caged between his pretty teeth in his pretty mouth. It’s devastating. He’s devastating. And the way he’s watching you fall apart while knuckles-deep, pumping steadily in and out of your dripping pussy only makes it worse. Or better. Definitely worse. But shit, it feels so good.

“Yoongi… shit…” you breathe, forehead falling into the crook of his neck as your knees threaten to give out. Your palms, slick with sweat, slide beneath the frayed denim of his jeans, desperate for more skin, more heat, more of him. Fingertips dig into his thigh, surely to leave little crescent moons in his flesh. He groans, but doesn’t stop. If anything, he moves with maddening precision, adding just enough pressure to make you whimper. You moan, high and sharp, the sound slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

“Feel good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wanna cum?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do it,” he licks the shell of your ear. “I got you, baby.”

That fuckin’ does it.

You come with a soft gasp, body jerking slightly as heat rushes through you in quiet waves. It’s not loud, not messy, but it rocks you all the same—your breath hitching, muscles clenching, forehead buried in his neck to muffle the sound.

“Shit…” you breathe, blinking as the aftershocks melt through your limbs.

He pulls his fingers out slow and slick, and you wince at the emptiness he leaves behind.

Your mouth falls open. “Yoongi.”

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against yours so you look up. “When you lose control.”

His lips meet yours, stirring more chaos in your mind. When you pull back, trying to reorient yourself, he leans in again.

“Yoongi… fuck, you need to behave, okay?” You mumble against his lips, nipping his plush lower lip before attempting to pull away.

“But noona,” he lifts himself up, bucking against you once just so you feel the hardness between his thighs. “You're making it hard….”

You’re about to give in, when the door creaks open.

You spring backward like your life depends on it, bumping your back against your kit and you suppress the dull pain across your spine. A familiar voice floats in, Hyein, asking if you saw Jimin.

“Nope,” you reply as you start fixing bottles and palettes randomly. You meet Yoongi’s eyes in the mirror and almost crash out when he brings his hand to his lips—without shame, without pause—and licks two fingers clean.

You nearly choke on air.

“Yoongi needs to be out in 5,” Hyein calls out and closes the door.

The company Thanksgiving dinner isn’t really optional, since you’re both employees. But after a magazine shoot, Yoongi lingers as you pack up and still asks if you want to go with him.

“Why do you say it like that,” you laugh. “Like you’re inviting me to prom.”

“Well… I’m down if you wanna match…” He shrugs, leaning against the wall as he watches you zip up your Zuca.

That’s how you end up in all black—simple, classic, and just a little coordinated with his own sleek black button-down shirt and pants. Yoongi always finds a way to underdress the right way. You compliment him, but he downplays it saying, he just ‘wore an old shirt.’ Yeah, it's the same look from their Grammy performance, but he says it like it should somehow make him look a little less. Joke’s on him, your humble king.

The event is important, but low-pressure. Not quite a red carpet, but still enough eyes to notice when the two of you walk in together. Thankfully Namjoon and Jin are not too far behind with one of their female producers.

You keep a respectful distance, like the professionals you are. But people see. You know they do. A couple of glances. Some whispers. Nothing rude, just… curious. To your insistence and his disappointment, you have dinner with your glam team. Because wouldn’t it be strange if you’re seated with them? You don’t know if you’re ready for a soft launch.

But it sure seems he is. The way he looks at you like there’s no one else in the room. And it’s in the way he caters to you. Like while you’re walking toward the open bar, the strap of your heel suddenly slips loose. You pause, bending slightly to fix it, but Yoongi beats you to it.

He kneels (!!) right there on the marble floor, one hand steadying your ankle as he buckles the strap with steady fingers.

You panic, pulling him by the sleeve of his shirt. “No, you don’t have to—”

“Let me,” he tells you as he so often does. Head down, thumb brushing the side of your foot, he fixes your shoe and suddenly you’re Cinder-fuckin’-ella in your own damn fairy tale.

Obviously, more than one pair of eyes are turning toward the scene. Cos the scene is not something you see everyday: Min Yoongi, rapper-producer-self-proclaimed bad boy, on his knees for this random girl, rugged hands wrapped delicately on her ankle.

A couple of stylists from another team, wide-eyed. One of the project managers from digital looks like she might combust.

Yoongi rises slowly and nods his head towards the bar. You follow him. And that’s that.

After the dinner, you end up at his place. Still dressed up, both of you nursing hot tea listening to a record he chose. Something low and jazzy filters through the room as you curl into his sofa.

“I usually don’t like company parties,” you murmur. “But it wasn’t that bad.”

“Didn’t think it would be,” he says. “I’m glad you came with me.”

He looks at you for a moment, asks, “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

You were always a good kid, so you never knew what it felt like to be summoned to the principal’s office. It’s probably something like this then. When two days after the company dinner, you were asked to go to HYBE’s HR department.

You’ve never met this woman before, but it’s clear she’s a higher-up. The tightest hair bun you’ve ever seen, cartoonishly wide cat-eye glasses, you already know she’s ripped at least one person a new asshole in the last five business days.

Not much preamble. When she started, oh, she really didn’t mince words and waste time. The way she looked at you spoke volumes of what she thought you had plotted.

“Miss Y/L/N, it has come to our attention that you have gotten involved with one of the members of BTS. As such, you can no longer be the lead makeup artist for the group effective immediately.”

“Due to our current headcount, we are unable to reassign you to another division.”

“Given the years of our professional relationship, we will still provide you with any recommendations you need should you choose to find employment in another company.”

“Your final pay will be sent to you within 30 business days. Please pack up your things and surrender your ID on your way out.”

Somehow, you are able to hold your head high, temper the storm in your chest, and nod as dignified as you can. “I understand. I’ll see myself out.”

You saw this shit coming. Sniffed it out from a mile away. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t sting. You spent more than a decade in this company, shaping and sharpening the creative vision for their two biggest acts, and they’ll let you go all because you decided to date a coworker.

Although they are clearly correct, you are involved with Yoongi, no clear evidence was even presented to you. Nothing was said to indicate that they were in touch with the member of BTS in question to get his side. Regardless, it was never gonna be a man’s fault. She thinks you probably seduced him and took advantage of your close working relationship. Ahh, this is so fucked up.

“Noona…” a voice interrupts your thoughts.

Namjoon.

“Hey��are you…?”

You swipe a tear quickly from your cheek, but he already saw.

“What happened?”

You pull your cardigan tighter around your frame. Was there a point in lying about it? You sigh, “Got fired.”

“WHAT?” Namjoon’s voice echoes down the hall and your eyes widen like saucers.

He springs into action, stringing you like a marionette into every direction until then you end up in… his studio?

“The hell’s goin’ on?”

You shrug, take a spot on the couch. “Not much to it, Namjoon. They fired me because they found out about me and Yoongi.”

It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged this to any member verbally. It feels oddly comforting to say it out loud.

“Does he know about this?”

“I haven’t told him.”

“Imma call him right now,” Namjoon fishes his phone from his pocket, but he knocks over something from the side table. It’s a half-full cup of coffee from god-knows-when. “Shit.”

You take some paper towels from his desk and help him soak the brown liquid from the carpet. It’s not really working. His paper towels are kinda thin. And the brown liquid is almost black at this point and it’s making you gag.

“You know what, shit, let’s just leave that. We’ve got bigger problems…”

“It’s fine. I’m just gonna go.” You rise to your feet, smoothing your skirt down.

“Yoongi won’t allow this.”

“I know. But I did break the number 1 rule.”

“Let’s call him.”

“It’s ok, Namjoon-ah. I’m gonna pack up my stuff and go home. It’s a lot to process and I think I need to just… yeah. I’m gonna go home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you give him what you hope is a placating smile. “I just wish I got to say goodbye to everybody.”

“We’ll fix it,” he promises.

“No need,” you call over your shoulder. “Nothing’s broken.”

Bzzt… bzzt…

Your eyes crack open, a slow, confused blink. You’re warm, groggy, skin dry from sleep and mouth sticky from wine. The room’s dark except for the kitchen pin lights still on.

You glance at your clock: 11:02 p.m. it says.

The hell? There’s some heavy knocking going on now.

You pull yourself off the couch, legs slightly cramping, brain not quite awake. So out of it you don’t actually check the peephole before you pull the door wide open.

“Baby—what the fuck?!”

Yoongi’s voice hits first. Then his body—arms wrapping you up so tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll slip between his fingers. His coat’s cold but he smells like cedar and mint shampoo..

“I thought you—” he chokes out, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the back of your sweatshirt. “You weren’t answering, I—fuck, I thought you—”

“I fell asleep,” you whisper, dazed, unsure how to hold all of this emotion spilling from him. “I’m sorry.”

His hands come up to your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he’s checking if you’re real. His eyes are wet. His breathing unsteady.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did,” you say. “You didn’t pick up. So I just… went home.”

He follows your gaze to the half-full wine glass on the coffee table. His jaw flexes.

“Had a few drinks and crashed,” you add, quietly.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He just exhales shakily and pulls you into his chest again, tighter this time. You press your face against his shirt, feel the way his heart is hammering through the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry,” you mumble.

He doesn’t answer that either. Just holds you there, arms wrapped around you like he needs to physically keep you in his orbit.

You pull back slightly. Look up. “Let me just wash my face real quick. Just sit, okay?”

He nods, wordless, and sinks into the couch like he’s been holding himself up all day.

You go to the bathroom, splash cold water on your cheeks. Brush your teeth. Run a brush through your hair. Change to a lounge set.

You can hear Yoongi’s voice outside. He’s on the phone with someone, and he just told them that you’re okay.

You stare at your reflection, pale and puffy-eyed. Yeah, you’re okay. The lines under your eyes are deeper than usual. But overall, you’re fine.

When you step back out, Yoongi’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying. He lifts his eyes the moment you enter, teeth pulling at the skin of his lips.

You sit beside him on the couch, tuck your legs under you. Let your knee rest against his thigh.

“So I got fired…” you say softly, voice thin.

“Namjoon told me,” he says. “I wanted to punch that new HR guy.”

“It’s a woman.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Found that out belatedly after I barged in.”

You smile despite yourself.

“Anyway, I talked to Bang PD. He didn’t authorize this. This HR lady, she’s new. A bit too eager, trigger-happy. I think she wanted to make a statement.”

“Well what kind?”

“She said she just wanted to protect Bangtan from people…” he pauses, shakes his head. “Who might be taking advantage of us. I told her you’re my girlfriend. Fuckin’ idiot!”

Oh?

“They could assign you back to Seventeen,” he prattles on, nostrils flaring. “Not like they’ve found a new person to take over. It’s not easy to find your level of talent and they’re stupid to…”

“Yoongi.”

“What?”

“You said something…”

His mouth parts, a little confused.

“No cause you just casually dropped that.”

“Baby,” he hangs his head, pinching the space between his brows with his index and thumb. “That’s your takeaway?”

“Well,” you shrug. “News to me.”

“You’re my woman, okay? Don’t–” he tuts when you almost cut him off. “Baby please don’t even argue with me on this. You know I’ve been yours. And right now I feel guilty. I should have said so earlier and done my due diligence with the paperwork and shit. But I hate getting legal involved in my personal life. Hoba told me to do it. Cause he’s doling out NDAs left and right, but I don't want you to think you're just some hookup. This is on me. And I’m fixing it, okay. They will transfer you to any group you want.”

“I don’t want it,” you say, more firmly than you expected.

“Huh?”

“I don’t want it,” you repeat.

“You don’t want your boys?”

You roll your eyes, because Seventeen is still some kind of chip on his shoulder. “No. I don’t want pity. Or to feel like they just let me stay because they’re afraid of you.”

“Damn right they are.”

You breathe out, jaw tight. “I want to leave with my head up. And I did.”

Yoongi nods, slow. Like he gets it. Because of course he does.

There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t last. Yoongi is still a ball of fire.

“You’re terrifying.”

“Why?”

“You’re so calm.”

You take a moment before you articulate your introspections as you enjoyed your merlot earlier. “You know what? Deep down, I knew it was gonna come to this,” you say. “And if it came down to it, I’d rather just leave HYBE… than you.”

That finally pulls a gentler sound from him. A quiet, pained exhale. His hand finds yours, holds it tight. When you look over, his eyes are glassy again, but his smile is faintly there—gummy, a little lopsided..

“What?” you ask.

He just shakes his head.

“Seriously, what?”

He presses his forehead against yours, closes his eyes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You kiss him, and he lets you. For a minute or two you savor the way his lips slide against yours, no thoughts, just love. Then he pulls back and says something kind of out of pocket.

“I’m rich.”

You stare. “Okay…?”

“You know I can take care of you.” He says it so earnestly, but you can’t help but giggle.

“I don’t need a Sugar Daddy. How do they even call it if the woman is older?”

“How the hell are you so cool about this?”

“Because I know I have you, but I know I got me, too. I have some money saved up and some stocks I can sell if need be. Market’s looking bullish anyways…”

“You know how sexy you sound right now?”

“Umm talking about the stock market turns you on?”

“Something about a bull…”

“Want me to ride you like a bull?” You raise your brow.

“If you don’t let me fuck you right this second…”

Yoongi removes each button from your top, one by one, kissing every patch of skin revealed to him. You close your eyes, savoring the tiny, wet kisses deposited to your neck down to the valley of your breasts where he lingers for a beat. Purrs as he presses his cheek against your soft mounds and sighs before lifting his eyes to meet yours.

“Use me,” he says. “I know you’re angry, baby.” He peels your shirt down your arms. “Let it out…”

He holds your nipple between his fingers, twists it, and you groan helplessly in response.

“You can punish me. if you want…”

It takes a while for you to process his offer, between butterfly kisses and the teensiest sucks against your skin, a combination that's driving you wild.

But he’s right. As always. You are mad. Not at him. But the broken sexist system.

“Yoongi?” You tug his hair.

“Hm?”

“Sit back against the headboard.”

He nods and situates himself as you asked.

You walk over to your closet to find a scarf, this white and black Valentino that he gifted you some weeks back. You climb onto him, knees bracketing his hips as you watch the curiosity glistening from his eyes.

You’ve never really done anything like this before. But you’re familiar with it and you’ve always been down to try anything new. Bonus is you know Yoongi likes to play, so this is perfect. Honestly, he is perfect.

“I’m gonna blindfold you. And you’re not allowed to touch me. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

The scarf drapes over his eyes, darkening everything he knows, leaving him with nothing but sensation. Breath. Sound. You.

“Use colors, okay?” you whisper, lips barely grazing the shell of his ear.

He nods, swallows. “Yes.”

“What’s it now?”

“Green:”

You hum in approval, fingers ghosting down his chest. “Good boy.”

You take your time with him. Explore his body in ways you never have before. Yoongi shivers. You watch his Adam’s apple bob, the breath hitch in his chest.

“You asked for this,” you say softly, dragging your nails across his ribs, just enough to raise goosebumps. “So I’m going to use you.” You slap his cheek, earning a soft gasp from him, before his lips curve into a smile. He’s going to enjoy this, you can already tell.

You trace the lines of his body with your mouth. Flick your tongue on his nipples before nibbling on them until they're raw, slightly bruised. You blow cool air against it, earning you a low purr from the back of his throat.

He’s hard already. His huge cock straining against the waistband of his boxers, but you don’t touch him there. This is not like other nights. You want him aching for it.

You slink down to suck faint bruises into the soft dip of his hipbones. Let your nails wander, grazing his soft tummy where pink lines have bloomed like cat scratches. When he moans, hips bucking slightly, you press a palm flat to his stomach.

“Stay still,” you warn.

His voice is a rasp. “Yes, noona.”

You peel his boxers off slowly. His cock springs free—dark at the tip, already leaking. The bead of cum on his tip shines. You circle it once with your finger, feather-light.

“Fuck,” he gasps, hips twitching again.

You slap his thigh—not hard, just enough for pain to mix with the pleasure painted clearly on his face. “I said still.”

His hands flex against the sheets he’s gripping sooo tightly. You see the tension, the need. His mouth opens, lips trembling.

“More…”

You smirk, finally leaning down and licking a slow stripe up his shaft. He whimpers, whimpers! And by god, if it’s not the prettiest sound in the world.

And just for that you can throw him a bone. But you suck only the tip into your mouth and let it pop free.

His body arches off the bed instinctively and one errant hand makes its way to the back of your neck.

Another slap—gentler this time.

“Sorry, noona.”

“Patience, baby. You wanted to be used, right? That means you wait until I’m done.”

You tease him for what feels like forever. Stroke him gently, then quicker, then stop just when he thinks you’ll give him more. Every whine you pull from him shoots straight to your cunt.

His thighs are trembling. “Noona. More…”

You finally straddle him, not lowering yourself yet, just grinding super slow against the base of his cock, letting your slick drag across him.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” you murmur, stroking his cheek where the blindfold wraps around his head.

“Fuck, noona, let me touch you.”

“Not yet,” you lean forward, let your tits press against his chest, and drop a small peck on the corner of his mouth. His lips pucker belatedly as you pull back.

“You are so hot like this, baby. So good to me,,” you assure him, sliding a hand down to wrap around his cock, pumping it just once, then again, tighter. “Color?”

“Green. Fucking green.”

Finally, you shift to guide him to your entrance. Still hovering. Still making him wait.

He’s breathless now, forehead sweaty beneath the scarf. “Fuck noona. Put it in. I need to feel you—fuck—need to cum in you, please.”

God, he sounds broken. Ruined.

You sink down in one slow, aching glide, and you moan in unison, in pure fucking ecstasy. Your voice high and needy, his low and desperate. He’s pulsing inside you as you steady your hips, letting your walls adjust, keeping him warm.

“Fuck, you feel—fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so tight, noona. So warm—please let me touch you.”

“Not yet,” you grit out, riding him slow and mean, using him. You let your clit drag against the short hairs on his crotch, finding the perfect angle to get you off. He can probably sense it now in the steady swivel of your hips and the stutter in your breath.

“Yeah, just like that, noona,” he says, voice hoarse. “Use me.”

You dig your nails into his chest, bite at his shoulder. You pant. Speeding up your grind. His legs are trembling now, the muscles on his thighs, stomach, taut. “Noona…” He’s babbling now, half-words and curses, his head tossing side to side. “Can’t—shit, please—I’m….”

He’s close. You’re almost there.

“Touch me.”

His hands immediately fly towards your hips, pressing you down, deeper. Grabs your ass and guides your movements.

You fuck him harder like this, ride him like your life depends on it. You feel him losing it. Coming undone beneath you.

“Where?”

“Inside me, baby. Fill me up…”

His whole body convulses, a strangled moan torn from his throat as he spills into you. You follow a heartbeat later, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sound as you unravel together.

You don’t move for a moment. Just feel his chest heaving beneath you, the sweat between your bodies. You remove the blindfold.

His lashes are wet. He looks wrecked and raw and beautiful.

“Was that okay?” you ask softly, fingers combing his damp hair back from his forehead.

He nods slowly. Smiles. “More than okay.”

You guide him to lie flat again, press your palm to his chest to calm his breathing. You grab a warm towel and clean him gently, kissing each place you left a bruise or scratch.

He pulls you close afterward, arms around your waist, face pressed to your shoulder.

Before you drift off, you remember something you wanted to address.

“Can I ask you something?”

He hums.

“Why were you so worried earlier?”

“Namjoon said you looked a little, like, out of it, you know. And when I couldn’t get a hold of you, I thought you…” he heaves a sigh. “I don’t know why my mind went into that. But I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Your heart squeezes. “That’s not gonna happen, Yoongi. I’m yours.”

He hugs you and doesn’t let go.

Post-HYBE life turns out to be pretty… as Yoongi says, slayyy.

It was tough in the beginning, starting from scratch. You start your own website and portfolio, reach out to friends and contacts to help get your skin back into the game. A few months in, you’re now affiliated with a salon who specializes in editorial and product campaign shoots. Your last one was with Choi San for D&G Beauty.

Yoongi slips deeper into your life until the boundaries blur. A toothbrush in his cup. His shirt in your hamper.

You never needed to say it. Because you both knew that this wasn’t fleeting. That you weren’t getting any younger. That whatever this is feels constant.

One night he sends you a Spotify link. To one song. It’s a BTS track.

He usually doesn’t send his own stuff when you exchange playlists (a ritual that stayed on). You listen to it.

🎵Home - BTS

Your chest tightens. Your fingers hover over the reply. But then he calls.

No hi or how are you. Just one question: “Move in with me?”

Life with him is a burst of pigments.

Yellow, in the warm sunlight that wakes you both every morning. Orange, in the tips of his fingers when he’s peeled his umpteenth tangerine. Blue, in the fabric softener he overused to the point that it triggered an allergic reaction for both of you. (Downy is now banned.)

Green, in the hangover soup you cook for him after a night out. (You, on the other hand, are sober for 2 months now.) Purple, in the marks he leaves on your inner thighs and the soft bruises on your chest. Pink, in the way he blushes when you walk out in his clothes.

And then, finally:

Red, in the two faint lines.

You blink down at the stick in your hand, seated on the toilet, heart pounding.

It’s only a minute before the door creaks open.

“Babe?” Yoongi floats in. “You’ve been in here a while.”

He sees your face first. Then the test clutched around your fingers.

He’s piecing it together.

“Omo,” he breathes, stunned.

You nod, heart tight in your throat.

“OMO OMO, you’re pregnant?” he says it with so much disbelief it makes you laugh through the lump in your chest.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?!” he kneels on the tiles in front of you. His hands are on your cheeks, your shoulders, your belly. “Holy shit!!!”

You’re laughing now, ugly and teary. He pulls you into a tight hug, still stunned.

He leans back, eyes wild with emotion. “We’re gonna have a baby?”

“I guess we are.”

And then the tears come, his. Yoongi chokes out a wet little sound and buries his squishy face in your neck. “Fuck. I’m so happy.”

“Me, too.”

You are.

So happy.

So ready.

So loved.

Between pigments & playlists.

In technicolor. In surround sound.

In the forever you never thought possible.

This spring day.

A/N: Soooo?? Did y'all bogo your shipdas? (dk what the means, but hope you liked it?)

Yoongi is back! While it was a bittersweet note that we got today, I know things are only going to get better from here for him and us. I hope and pray that he knows that he is so so so loved by ARMY.

So the fic! Yes the fic! I’d love some feedback. And a reblog if you are so inclined?

Thank you for reading this you lovely beautiful human, xo

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loserabby · 19 hours ago

Note

could you write something on eating out big pussy!abby for the first time

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚. 𝐒𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 (𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐈'𝐌 𝐀 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑) big clit!abby x reader

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ . ** MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOGI DO NOT GIVE ANYBODY PERMISSION TO REUPLOAD OR PLAGARISE MY WORK. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN ANYWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN HERE OR MY A03, PLEASE LET ME KNOW VIA ASK **

₊˚ 𓂃 ₊ ˚ ✧ some people just aren't into receiving, or at least that's what you think the problem is when it comes to the fact that your girlfriend of two months still won't let you make her feel good. until you accidentally catch her naked for the first time and suddenly you start to get an idea about what might actually be the problem.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : explicit language and content, use of Y/N, no outbreak au (modern), established relationship, references to sex, enlarged clitoris (clitoromegaly), slight misunderstandings. sexual content: kissing, dry humping (once again, to quote madeline argy: BRING BACK DRY HUMPING), mentions of strap-ons and sex-toys, cunnilingus, cum eating. slight dirty talk. mentions of past bodyshaming, embarrassment 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 5,869k

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 : i mean i imagine her pussy to be an absolute meal in all my writing but this one really focus' on it. shout out to @onlyheluvsme for being the mvp of team big clit abby i highly recommend going through her masterlist for that it's... chefs kiss. ngl the smut is not my best but this has been fermenting in my drafts for like a week and showed no signs of getting better I'M SORRY. and finally, clitoromegaly is obviously nothing to be embarrassed by and i don't want anyone to take abby's shame/bad experiences in the past as me mocking the mutation but it is something others might not be as well educated about so i didn't want to pretend that doesn't happen. [ read on ao3 ]

[ border credit ] [ resources for palestine ] [ boycott tlou ]

Admittedly, it takes a few times before you start to pick up on a recurring theme and when you do pick up on it? You don’t just feel guilty but… Curious, and deep down… Disappointed.

Abby had wanted to take it slow and to her credit, you guys had only been officially dating for two months. Taking that into consideration with classes, part-time jobs and other college related things that meant you were both busy, it was understandable that she wanted to take it slow when you guys were able to see each other.

She was a gentleman, making sure to take you out on proper dates first — not just somewhere quick and then have her hand up your skirt on the car ride home but actual restaurants with recommended dishes and signature wines that just confused you. She’d kissed you properly for the first time in her apartment on date number three, a movie forgotten about in the background but even then, she’d wanted to keep the pacing of your relationship slow.

But when you did start to get hot and heavy? God, it was good. So blindsightingly good you didn’t notice that every time it seemed to always focus on you.

Climb on her lap? She readjusts you so you’re straddling her thigh instead and you’re so lost to the pleasure of your clit dragging against your panties and the hard muscle of her leg to pick up on it.

Your hand snakes down to try and touch her pussy? She’s got your wrists pinned above your head in one hand, your nipples caught between her teeth and her other hand rubbing fast circles against your clit before you know it.

It doesn’t help that by the time you’re both in those situations, it’s late and when Abby finally decides she’s pulled enough orgasms out of you — slick coating your thighs, sticky against your cunt, her chin shiny from where she’d used her mouth on you and fingers still smelling of you even after she’s sucked them clean obscenely in front of you — you’re too exhausted to even think about cleaning up, never mind returning the favor.

Which fucking sucks cause when you do realise you can’t help but pout at how many opportunities you’ve been robbed of seeing her eyes roll to the back of her head, to see what her pussy looks like as it quivers.

You were no stranger to pussy, it’s not like you wouldn’t know what to do. In fact you were proud to say you were very much a giver in that you could spend all day between a girls thighs much like Abby has done for you previously.

You’ve dated other girls before that maybe weren’t as keen on reciprocating and, given the circumstances, you assume at first that maybe that’s what Abby thinks about you. You had just rolled over and gone straight to sleep (albeit after making her spoon you and wrapping her big, strong arms around you beforehand so you’d feel safe in your fucked out state) so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that she had assumed you were a pillow princess.

Respectfully to all pillow princesses, that misconception simply will not do.

So you try and subtly make it clear that you are very much interested in being a munch the next time Abby has you pressed into her sofa at her campus apartment, fingers buried knuckle deep inside your pussy, so wet you can hear every movement as she fucks you harshly. Abby’s got her mouth on your neck, sucking dark marks at your collarbones that make you whimper and keen before soothing them with her tongue and soft kisses as her thumb strums over your clit.

“So fucking pretty, baby, look at you swallowing my fingers so easily… Greedy little hole’s sucking me in” The blonde hisses against your skin, having to use her other hand that was groping your tits roughly to keep your thighs open. They’re shaking, threatening to slam shut even with Abby lying between them and you whimper as you feel her fingers digging into the soft flesh.

Last time she left the prettiest bruises there, you’d spent days pressing your own touch to them just to feel the ache, an embarrassing wave of sadness coming over you when they started to fade. So maybe you purposely don’t hold back from letting your thighs twitch and writhe so she’s forced to hold you tighter, just so you’re maybe gifted with another reminder of her touch.

“Please, please… Let me, I wanna…” It’s unclear what you’re begging for, to cum or to touch her. You’re so close but not quite lost to the delirium Abby brings by orgasm number three so you take advantage of that, shaky hand coming out to grip at the butch woman’s jeans but faltering, instead clutching at whatever you can grab when her fingers start pounding at that gummy spot deep inside only she seems able to find as your vision starts to white out.

You can feel yourself clenching around her fingers, the sound of your weeping pussy obscene as she continues her relentless finger fucking. “Shit, baby, you’re so.. Fucking.. Tight” she grits the words out, chuckling when she looks at you beneath her with your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your back arching off the couch and your head thrown back so far. “You coming? Gonna make a mess on the leather for me? C’mon, lets see how messy this pretty pussy can get for me, yeah?”

It doesn’t take long after that, pussy squirting all over Abby’s hand and dripping down your ass to the leather couch like Abby predicted, but even then she doesn’t let up with her relentless torture of your clit and hole. You try to grab at her jeans again, trying to unbutton them but she shakes her head, eyes wide for a split second before she’s making soft coaxing noises, your hands pinned above your head again. “All about you, baby” Is all she murmurs against your skin, before she makes sure to send you over the edge again and again, effectively cutting off any urgency in completing your task.

The next time you try and focus on Abby, try to make it clear you want to reciprocate is when the two of you are watching a movie at her apartment, your body lazily thrown over her and your head resting in the crook of her neck and your arms tossed around her.

Slowly your attention drifts from the screen, bored by some adaptation of a historical-fiction book Abby read but you’ve never heard of. Your lips slowly trail down her neck, featherlight kisses pressed to her collarbones as one of your arms drops and begins to drift below the blanket she’d pulled out to keep you both warm.

Abby’s attention is still on the film, still pointing out changes they made from the book to the movie but you know the moment she realises where your hand has gone. You feel her reaction more than see it, how her breath catches and her body stiffens. Your hand immediately stops tracing her crotch, teasing line drug along her slit over the fabric of her basketball shorts.

“Sorry, I didn’t— I shouldn’t..” You pull your hand away quickly, your apology rushed and face hot from embarrassment.

“We should, um.. We should focus on the film, yeah?” Abby says after some consideration, and you just wanna hide in embarrassment and shame because she clearly didn’t like that.

You miss how she clenches her thighs together, mistake her heart racing for being out of panic and try to ignore the failed attempt at seducing your girlfriend when she has you bent over the sofa a few hours later on her strap in the low light of her living room, cooing in your ear about how pretty you look dripping down her cock.

Maybe you come to the conclusion Abby might be a stone butch, a touch-me-not, whatever the hell you wanna call it. Because she seems to shy away with every advance you make to try and reciprocate.

You get it if that is the case but can’t help but feel like that should have been mentioned, communicated in some way so you didn’t feel so… Weird about it. Sue me, you think, is it so wrong to want to touch your girlfriend? Your incredibly attractive girlfriend? No, surely not.

You wouldn’t exactly say it’s a deal breaker, you like Abby a lot. Even in the little amount of time you both have been together already, she’s amazing and not just physically — although that is certainly a perk.

She’s thoughtful, caring, she makes sure to check in with everyone (seemingly knowing everyone on campus). She always sends a good morning and a good night text, even when she’s deep in her study sessions or writing papers. She makes sure all your dates are ‘real’ ones, even if it’s just going to her apartment to make dinner cause she wanted to make sure you didn’t feel like you were being used for your body. Hell, she even made sure to let you know where the spare key to her apartment was kept so you could let yourself in after that time you got caught in the rain outside waiting for her.

Which leads to now; Enter you, spare key in hand after sending a rushed text to Abby saying you were coming over to talk when you realised you couldn’t go any further without discussing boundaries.

You should have realised something had thrown a wrench in your plan the second you stepped foot in Abby’s apartment really, the small space weirdly quiet and steam slowly rolling out of her bathroom. Distantly, you can hear the low murmur of music coming from her bedroom, the door slightly ajar.

You’re calling Abby’s name as you push through the door, not bothering to knock as you assume she’s read your text. It’s only when you process what’s in front of you that you come to the realisation that you seem to do an awful lot of assuming — and you know what they say, to assume is to make an ass out of you and me.

Because Abby clearly didn’t read your text, not based on the horrified look on her face when you walk in on her stark naked on her bed. Her skin is flushed, still damp from the shower she’d clearly just taken and her hair dripping big, fat water droplets onto her chest. Her muscled thighs are spread open, heels digging into the mattress as her fingers remain still stuffed deep inside her dripping hole. Her bush is wild and untamed, a light brown that curls through her fingers as her other hand spreads her lips wide open

There’s a voice in the back of your head, a really unnecessary one that points out that it seems like Abby does like being touched after all, but maybe just not by you.

But the best part of the sight — or the worse part, taking Abby’s look of utter shock into consideration — is her pussy, just as a whole. Her enlarged clit, erect and pulsating as it seems to stand to attention. Her pussy as a whole is big, the kind of big that makes your mouth begin to salivate, embarrassingly, as you think playing with it.

It makes you realise you’d never actually seen her pussy before, that every time the two of you fucked she was either fully clothed or had her strap on over her boxers. How cruel of her to hide that perfect pussy away.

“I… I texted” You say weakly after a few moments of silence, stood in a half step in the door way.

Abby doesn’t move, and you don’t know what else to say as you spiral, murmuring apologies and rushing back out the door before Abby is able to process what just happened.

Communicating isn’t going so well, more so after you accidentally walked in on Abby’s post-shower masturbation session. She’s avoided pretty much all your texts asking to talk and even gone as far as changing her routine to avoid running into you.

It kind of leaves you in a weird limbo where you’re not quite sure where you went wrong. There’s definitely areas you could have improved on (i.e. actually communicating about boundaries from the start so all this assuming bullshit didn’t happen) but you texted, you said you were coming by. Maybe you could have shouted a hello when you first entered the apartment but the last time Abby was in when you did she said you didn’t have to.

You’re also just incredibly unaware as to what the state of your relationship even is anymore? Is Abby still your girlfriend? Does she only like to touch herself and not be touched by others? It’s frustrating, yes, but you can’t help but feel like you owe Abby the time to digest what happened.

After all, it was her that got walked in on in her own home, completely naked and knuckle deep inside of herself. You can cut the blonde a break.

Doesn’t stop you from salivating at the memory of how beautiful and fucked out she looked that split second before she realised she’d been caught, face contorted in pleasure and juices spilling down past her knuckles.

After a dozen texts to Abby, ranging from apologies to simple messages telling her you missed her and you would wait until she was ready to talk, it’s a week later you finally get a response. It’s simple, to the point and very Abby.

[ Abs ] : You can come to my apartment for dinner, we should talk.

A terrifying text to receive, given the circumstances. The ‘you can come for dinner’ aspect giving you a sense of security, it makes you feel like everythings fine but the ‘we should talk’ part? That’s sending ‘break up talk’ alarm bells ringing through your head.

You text back nervously, asking what time and if you should bring anything. You end up outside her apartment door, pointedly ignoring the space where her spare key is hidden like it might burn, with a bottle of wine in hand as you wait for her to answer.

When she does, there’s a tension between the two of you the moment your eyes meet and — thank god — it’s not a bad kind. It’s like suddenly you’ve both had the air knocked out of you, like you hadn’t realised you’d been missing a piece of yourselves until you saw what was missing right in front of you. Two months you’ve been together, god Lesbians were stereotypically quick to get attached.

You can see how Abby’s eyes soften, warm when she sees you and she has to steady both her hands on the door frame as she welcomes you inside.

“Dinner might be a while,” She says, uncharacteristically timid seeming, her hand drifting to your lower back as she guides you into the apartment. “Sorry, took a little while longer than I thought but, um… We can sit on the sofa? Maybe, uh, if you want we could talk now? Get it out of the way?”

Get it out of the way?

You place the bottle of wine on the coffee table, heart racing as you consider what Abby might be about to say. God, is she about to break up with you? No, she couldn’t be… She’s made dinner, it would be epicly cruel to break up with you and then expect you to stay for whatever homemade pasta dish she’s made.

“I’m sorry!” The words spill from your mouth at a rapid speed, not even bothering to stop to give her a chance to cut in — her brows shot high and eyes wide as you ramble. “I-I texted and I thought that was enough but clearly I didn’t think that through, and I totally should have shouted to let you even know I had arrived in the apartment but I just didn’t think. But.. You.. I.. I froze when I saw, I mean how could I not but I thought you didn’t like that, and I guess that’s my own fault cause I never asked what you do and don’t like — we kinda forgot to have that talk a-and—”

“Woah, woah, Y/N, slow—” Abby tries to cut in, hands coming to your arms to try and stop them from moving around wildly as you talk. “What are you talking about, c’mon, slow down.”

“It’s my own fault, I didn’t notice for way too long and when I finally did, I realised you probably thought I was just a pillow princess so I kept trying to subtly show my interest but you— a-and then you kept pushing me away or turning it back on me so I just figured you didn’t like being touched, stone butch or whatever but then i-in your bed… you… you were touching yourself a-and—”

You only stop, words cutting off suddenly, when Abby takes your face in her hands and forces you to look at her.

“Y/N. Baby, stop. I need you to breathe, calm down for a sec’ okay?” Her words are spoken so softly, the care dripping off each word as she brushes a strand of hair behind your ear gently. “Can you do that for me, slow down and take a breath?”

You nod slowly, watching her reverently. Abby’s tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches you, taking a deep breath of her own. “I should have talked to you sooner, I’m sorry I just… got caught in my own head. Maybe none of this would have happened if I’d of done that, but if you still want… If you’re still wanting us I’d like to talk now, if that’s okay?” She sounds nervous as she speaks, the words almost practiced. You nod, giving her the time to speak and watching as her hands drop from your face to twiddle nervously on her lap.

“I… It’s not that I don’t like to be touched, I want— I really want that, but I… I haven’t had the greatest experiences in the past when it came to… Other people and what they thought of my body” Your heart aches as Abby speaks, her blue eyes cast down to where her hands lay nervously on her lap and her voice going soft.

“I just… Got used to hiding my body, you know and I didn’t even realise I was doing it until you… You remember that night we were watching the City of Thieves film and you—” She didn’t need to go any further, your face brightening in shame as you recall the awkward rejection. “I just didn’t know how to… broach the subject, y’know, and it’s not like I really thought you’d be judgemental and mean about my body but it’s just built up after so many negative reactions”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, eyes narrowing slightly as you stare at your girlfriend. “Why would I judge you? I know you’re big, I know you’re muscle-y, why would I be mean about that?” You ask in genuine confusion, causing Abby to freeze and look at you equally as confused.

After a beat, she speaks slowly. “You… You think that I was talking… about my body-body?” After a beat, you nod just as slowly. “I was talking about my pussy” She finishes after a long space of silence, blunt and to the point.

Your head cocks to the side, confusion still clear in your expression as you process what she’s saying. What the fuck is so wrong about her pussy? You didn’t see anything wrong with it in that small (but well committed to memory) glimpse you’d had of it. “I don’t?—”

“Shit, you don’t… You really don’t see a problem, do you?” She sounds like she’s in awe, like your total lack of an issue around her genitals is something groundbreaking which makes a simmering bit of rage begin to boil inside of you because who in their damn right mind made the beautiful, the amazing Abby fucking Anderson so insecure in her body she couldn’t even show her girlfriend what she looked like?!

“Shit, okay, uh… I mean, you know — you saw — it’s big. Fatter than the norm’ I guess. It’s a mutation, congenital… I just.. I guess a lot of people I’ve been with have found it weird, ugly a-and they didn’t really wanna.. return the favor or do anything I guess.”

Yep, definitely rage you feel below the surface. The idea that Abby has been dealing with this because of people that were supposed to care for her speaking so badly about her body, for their reactions to something she cannot control makes you clench your fists. But you force yourself to relax, fingers stretching out on your thighs as you try to remain cool.

“Like I said, I didn’t really realise I was doing it until you started to, y’know… And I don't know, I couldn’t stop myself from panicking that it was gonna be the same reaction all over again. I just.. I couldn’t handle seeing that look of… of disgust on your face, not… you.”

Your delicate hands reach out to capture hers, stopping her from picking at the skin around her thumbs nervously as she speaks, to get her attention. “Abby, I.. I know other people have reacted that way but I would never—”

Her cheeks tinge red, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth and a small smirk etching its way onto her face. “I know, Y/N”

“You— You do?”

She nods, looking up to meet your eyes. “Yeah, I know. I, uh.. I figured that out.”

Your face pulls together again in confusion and slight annoyance, if she knew that then why did you spend the last week getting ghosted?! “What do you mean?”

“You have this look that comes over your face whenever you get turned on… Normally see it whenever I’m getting you off but, uh… That day, when you walked in on me? You had it when you were looking at me”

Your mouth drops open, breathless as you take that in. It’s no surprise though, you had been incredibly turned on at the sight, even thinking about it now has a wet spot forming in your panties at just the thought of Abby’s legs spread to unveil that beautiful cunt.

Shaking off the haze of lust, you focus on Abby. “So… Why did you, I mean I was happy to wait as long as you needed — I mean, again, I walked in on you a-and you needed to process that shock — but… why did you wait so long to talk?”

She heaves out a slow sigh, scratching at the back of her neck. “It was just weird, this bizarre 180 I was experiencing where this thing about me and my body that was always… weird for others and that I was kind of, y’know, expecting to be weird for you was suddenly attractive. That made you get that fucked out, horny expression on your face and I… I couldn’t believe it.”

“And now?”

“I mean… I believe it”

At that, your hand comes out to lightly smack at her arm, the both of you falling into light rumbles of laughter. Your hand lingers on Abby’s arm, dropping after a moment too long.

“Asshole,” softly you shake your head, a smile forming on your lips as you dip her head down. “I meant and now what? I mean, I take it this isn’t you breaking up with me like I was worried about?”

Her eyes widen in slight horror, like she hadn’t considered all of the nightmare scenarios that had been swarming in your mind over the last week. “N-No, no, absolutely not. Shit, you didn’t think— God, okay. No, no breakup was ever considered for the record”

That definitely eases the weeks worth of tension that had built up.

You bite your lip, leaning forward into Abby’s space slightly. After a moment of silence, your needy eyes lift to meet Abby’s “Can we just skip to the part where we kiss and make-up?”

The other girl barely gets her own eager nod out before you’re clambering onto her lap, hands in her hair as you kiss her hard and messily. Your tongue licks into her mouth aggressively, small noises falling from the two of you as your hips rocks against hers. You missed this, missed how Abby tasted, how her tongue felt against yours as she explored your mouth just as thoroughly.

“I missed— missed you… so.. much” Heavy pants bracket each and every word, only broken by Abby pulling your lips back to hers as she devours you whole. She only pulls back with a high-keening hiss when you roll your hips in a certain way against her that makes her clit throb in her boxers. “Fuck, baby, careful” She sounds so pretty when she whines, her lip bitten as her head rolls back against the back sofa cushions.

Her head rolls to the side, looking at the kitchen before she swallows thickly, looking back at you. Her large hands move down to your hips, tapping the hip bones to get you to stand up.

“Gonna save the food before we forget and burn the apartment down, you… Get in the bedroom” The way she breathes the words out, like she’s as affected as you are makes your head spin and you’re quick to scramble off her lap and into her bedroom.

Abby’s on you quicker than you realise, shoes barely kicked off before she’s at your back and kissing down the column of your neck with her hands running up and down your sides. Turning to face her, you drag her down into a punishing kiss until you feel her bed hit the back of your knees. You don’t fall back though, turning the two of you so Abby now has her back to the bed.

You’re panting when you break the kiss, wetting your lips despite the messy kiss as you look up at Abby through thick lashes with deep arousal. She looks equally as fucked, hair messy from where your fingers have gone through it as you both made out and her blue eyes dark with need. “Get on the bed for me, Abs. Like… Like you were that day” You sound fucked out already, thinking back to when you caught her touching herself like a wanton whore. You see the moment it registers in Abby’s mind what you’re asking her to do, a single raised eyebrow as she breathes heavily.

Slowly she strips her clothes, kicking her own shoes off. You spend equal time helping her discard her clothes as you do standing back and admiring her form, salivating as her tits spring free of her sports bra. She’s just got her boxers left when she crawls onto the bed, laying back against the headboard before lifting her hips and pulling them free.

She pulls them past her ankles and throws them on the floor, landing with a soft noise by your feet. Not that you notice, no, you’re too focused on Abby. Lay back on the bed, completely bare with only her knees propped up straight and infront of her to cover that pretty pussy of hers.

Your eyes are dark, hungry as you stare ahead, right where you know her crotch is covered by her legs. “Abby, that’s not how you were lay when I caught you” The words are low, almost rough as you wait, watching.

Her long hair, free from the braid she always wears, cascading messily down her shoulders is pushed behind her nervously before she slowly spreads her thighs and finally mirrors the position you’d caught her in a week ago.

Her heels aren’t quite digging into the mattress with need the way they were that day, but Abby isn’t nearly as worked over as she was then either. Still, you move forward hungrily, almost drawn to her like a magnet with your palms spread on the mattress to catch yourself as you instinctively move to get closer to her glistening slit. You look like a predator, crawling up from the foot of the bed and settling between her thighs, eyeing her pussy like prey.

She’s wet, so fucking wet you know your fingers would glide with ease through her folds. It makes you dizzy with lust, watching how her large clit throbs as you stare it down.

“Fuck, what… What now?” Abby whines, voice soft and breathy.

“Show me what you were doing before I walked in” Your voice is low, rough and your eyes don’t lift once from her drenched core.

You can hear the needy whines from Abby, her soft little moans that make you want to bite and kiss at her skin but she does as she’s told. Her hands come down to her pussy, one hand spreading her lips wide to show you everything while her other eases in with slow circles against her clit.

Not that she needs warming up, not with how quick she is to react to the barely there circular motions she does. “C’mon baby, you can do more. What did you do with this pretty pussy after that?”

Bottom lip drawn between her teeth, Abby can’t help but watch your darkened gaze as she drags two of her thick fingers through her slick, coating them with her juices before working them inside her hole.

Instinctively you lean in closer, inhaling her scent as you watch her twitching hole stretch to take her digits. Each time she fucks her fingers into herself, slowly and so fucking erotically, you watch as her hips lift slightly to meet her fingers, clit bumping against her palm and leaving a messy trail behind.

“So fucking gorgeous, look so pretty stretched around your fingers” You barely register your own voice, that you’ve said anything as you practically drool at the sight. No, wait, you’re actually drooling. Okay, between that and the obscene sounds of Abby fucking herself you can’t stop yourself, deciding you’d waited long enough to give.

Still, you can’t stop yourself from teasing before you stop her as you begin by kissing up her ankles. Your lips make sure to suck the occasional hickey the closer you get to her inner thighs, laughing low and wickedly when you hear her whine so pretty and the muscles of her thighs quiver. By the time you make your way close to where she wants you — and more importantly, where you have been wanting to be all this time — you have to take a moment to just… stare.

Take it in.

Fucking beautiful.

Licking a stripe up her pussy, slow flat tongue against her before sucking her fat clit into your mouth and laughing as she keens, hips lifting off the mattress before moaning at the taste of her. Above you, Abby’s head eventually falls back against the headboard with a soft thud as she makes a low, whining noise.

That’s when you start eating her out like a woman starved, messy and unashamed as you go to town. Licking her long and rough, spit falling from your mouth as you suck her clit into your mouth and lay one of your hands flat against her abdomen to keep her from lifting off the bed. She melts like honey on your tongue, the sheets beneath her messy with a mixture of her arousal and your saliva as it drips both down her ass and off your chin.

You’re eating her out half with the desire to bring her over the edge, to show her what all her other partners should have been giving her this entire time, and another part of you wants to just lap at her pussy with no regards. Hungry for the taste of her juices on your lips, to swirl your tongue around her protruding bud like you’re lazily licking an ice cream cone.

Her hands are in your hair, torn between yanking you off her when you suck harshly on her fat clit, laughing as she whines and whimpers, or pressing your face against her cunt to keep you fixed in one spot when you start to go rogue

“Oh.. Oh god, yes!” She’s a mess, completely gone beneath you when you finally decide to focus on getting her off. She’s soaked, dripping down your hand when you do touch her, and flooding your mouth with her arousal so much that when you grow desperate — yanking her up and throwing her on her hands and knees, eating her out from behind — you can’t stop the way her arousal drips onto the sheets beneath. She’s too damn wet for your mouth to capture all of it and the thought makes you feel feral.

“C’mon, Abs, I wanna feel you cum on my tongue okay? Wanna feel that pretty clit throbbing in my mouth”

You’ve got your hands at the junction where her thighs and her ass meet, spreading the skin so you have the max amount of access as you bring her over the edge, Abby’s neighbours no doubt able to hear her reaching her apex with her wailing. You move one of your hands down as you focus your mouth on her clit, fingers pushing inside of Abby’s warm heat again and sighing against her slick as her hole sucks them in greedily.

It doesn’t take long until Abby goes rigid, screaming and babbling that she’s coming with her head thrown back as you continue your ministrations, working her through her orgasm happily.

“Fuck, you coming from my fingers or my mouth, Abs?” You tease against her pussy as she gushes down your wrist practically, lapping her juices up with your tongue and feeling it drip down your chin.

Her strong fingers thread through your hair and practically have to rip you off of her once overstimulation sets in, toned thighs twitching, desperate to slam shut and hide her pussy away from you. You let her pull you off, licking your lips with a wicked grin as you hover over her.

She’s redfaced, skin glistening with sweat and she looks completely fucked out. It’s a good look on her.

“What’s the verdict?” You ask with a teasing lilt, watching as she huffs out a laugh with her chest rising and falling rapidly still.

“Uh… Might let you do it again” She tries to play it casual but you swat at her chest lightly and she quickly falls into laughter. “Fine! I loved it, 10/10, I’ll write a damn Yelp review if you want me to”

“Who the hell even uses Yelp anymore, damn how old are you” You tease, caressing her cheek. “Promise me you’ll let me do that more? No more hiding” Your voice is tender as you speak, eyes warm as you look down at her. Abby’s breath catches in her throat at the softness, the love she can feel and she nods up at you. “I promise. No more hiding away.”

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x reader smut #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson smut #abby anderson imagines #abby anderson #.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚. writing: mine

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kaijutegu · 3 days ago

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What a handsome Komodo dragon!

Except... what's going on with those labial scales? Something about them looks off. And that row of spikes down the back, Komodos don't have that. And their nostrils aren't so round. Hm. I think I know what's happening here.

I did not realize that this was AI at first glance; I thought it was just a really heavy editing style. I saw the missing central toe, yeah, but Komodos will do that to each other sometimes. The other forefoot, the one with four toes, is positioned in such a way that the fifth toe could be hidden, and the lifted hind foot could be similar.

But if you know Komodo dragon anatomy like I do, the inaccuracies pop up pretty quickly. Still, it's not like it was during the early days of GenAI; what I'm seeing here is that the GenAI image algos are getting better at discerning what part of a picture is a Komodo dragon. Since the inception, GenAI has really struggled to make accurate reptiles. In the beginning, everything was an iguana... even the Komodo dragons.

Over time, the models have been refined, but there are still some pretty obvious anatomy differences- the slit pupils, the mouth shape, the overall definition of the snout...

And they often struggle with the tongue. This isn't what the inside of a lizard's mouth looks like!

There's a lot of talk about how GenAI is bad for the brain- but it seems like most of it is actually about writing. And I think we should be talking more about images, too. Not even just about the stolen training data or the erosion of opportunities for artists, but... what is such easy access to these generated images doing to our ability to perceive what's real versus what isn't?

Every single one of the images I pulled is from a highly popular stock photo site. In case you don't know what a stock photo is, it's a photograph (you can also have stock illustrations and stock footage) that's been licensed to use in different applications. These pictures aren't taken for a specific client; anybody who pays can use them within the terms of the image's license.

But all of these images- they're not photos. They're inaccurate illustrations. I recognize them for what they are because I spend a lot of time looking at lizards, but what if you've got someone writing a quick news story, or designing a science worksheet, or throwing together a museum brochure or a zoo sign? If they don’t know what a Komodo dragon is supposed to look like, they’ll use whatever looks convincing.

Images trigger something deep within us- you know that saying "A picture is worth a thousand words?" We're wired to trust what we see. But the problem here is that genAI doesn't create an image of the thing; it creates what its internal logic says is associated with the subject of the prompt. It all comes down to probability; generative AI makes images by looking at its training data and creating output based on what the data is associated with.

(For more info on how AI "sees" what it does, check out the LENS project, which you can read more about here.)

We don't see things the same way the computers do, and we're willing to trust images more than words. How many stock photos do you think you see each day? It's probably more than you think; after all, the average American sees around 5,000 ads per day. And while those photos are marked as AI generated on the stock sites, they aren't marked as AI generated once someone has licensed them. And if the stock site doesn't have what you need? No problem, just use the AI image generator to fake that photo yourself!

We already have seen political deepfakes and AI generated images used to spread misinformation. Did you see the image of an ICE agent arresting a Doordash worker? That was an AI fake, part of a larger hoax. Some of us are already learning to respond with increased skepticism to important images, because people have an agenda to fake those. But what about the less important images, the background images, the completely mundane images? GenAI seems to be quietly coming for them, and it's something we should be paying attention to, because if we're exposed, constantly and quietly, to generated images and are trained to believe it's photography, we'll be more accepting of the bigger lies when we see them.

I don't really know what the solution is here, other than for people to be aware of the stock image issue, and to stop using stock sites that allow generated images, like Adobe Stock. We can't put the generative AI genie back in the bottle, but we can at least be aware of the damage it's causing. And maybe part of the solution is to look for alternative stock and reference options. Maybe we'll start to see more photographers licensing their images directly, or putting together specialized repositories of images based around a theme or topic that they specialize in. The downside there is that it's less convenient than the stock model where there's thousands and thousands of images on every conceivable topic to choose from. I don't know what genAI is going to do to the traditional stock model, but I'm concerned about what the end results might be and what those results might do to our ability to perceive reality.

Komodo Dragon

#AI #long post

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strawbairicake · 2 days ago

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stealin’ sweet kisses- various hsr characters x reader

synopsis: playing the pocky game with your boyfriend! that’s it, send tweet. part 2!

warnings: uh, none? other than that, idk if my beginner/novice writing counts as a warning.

word count: 1.4k (oh lord, it’s longer than part 1!)

author’s note: part 1 did pretty well, so here's part 2 no one asked for! i’ll link part 1 here! no beta, we die like my favorite side characters in books! posting this after having a mental breakdown sure is the way to go, huh! disclaimer in part 1 that i'll include here: i genuinely don't know how to write kiss scenes at all! other than like a peck on the lips, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right… right? title was a suggestion from a mootie of mine for part 1, credits to them for the title (credits to you, Sage, lol!)! hope you enjoy! <3

tagging: @axolotsofluv, @sqgeism, @vyyper, @your-sleeparalysisdem0n, @cmiru, @unriding, @sheyfu, @threnodians. @strwbrydreamz, @chokifandom, @sillyseraphie, @riaruu, + @m1ckeyb3rry! lmk if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

Anaxa:

how you managed to get your lover to agree to this is beyond you. you just slid the box across his desk, then retreated to the cute reading nook in the home office. Anaxa gave you a skeptical look before sighing and making his way over to you. he sits on the ottoman your legs were resting on and he hands you a stick of pocky.

“you wanted me to indulge in a game? fine. but make it quick, i have things to do.” he says as he rubs shapes on your thighs near your knees. yeah, he totally does not have the time to indulge you. what a loser (lovingly). but upon seeing the smile appear on your face after his confirmation, he thinks he’ll be sparing more time with you than he should. (he brought the whole box when he made his way over to you, by the way. he’s definitely whipped.)

so you sat up in your chair, took the stick of pocky from his hand, and waited for him to be ready. he looked… nervous? the great Anaxagoras, reduced to a slightly blushing mess and slightly fidgety. the whole time you had been watching him, he was fidgeting with the box of pocky, and clearly avoiding eye contact with you. no matter, it’s whatever. you gesture him with a wave of your hand to come closer, and he sets the box of sweet treats next to him. part of the sweet treat he’s able to taste and as you lean closer, Anaxa cannot bring himself to look at you at all. you’d think for all his bravado he’d be able to do something as simple as holding eye contact but no. and as the stick breaks right in the middle, before either one of you can pull away, he cradles the back of your head with a hand and initiates a kiss. short and sweet before pulling away. now both of you look rather flustered.

best to play the game again, no?

Argenti:

your lover agreed with no resistance and no questions asked... mostly! he seems rather excited to play this silly game with you, bless him. so here you both are, sitting in the living room of your home. a rare moment for Argenti to be with you given how often he travels. he leaves tomorrow, unfortunately, but you thought playing pocky with him could be a fun ritual you start doing the night before he leaves. granted, it makes it harder for Argenti to leave you in the morning, but seeing how giddy and happy it makes you both makes it worth it. so here you were on your sofa, a box of pocky in your hand as you explain (again, it’s been a while!) the rules of the game.

“so the point is to get as close to the middle of the stick and not break it. we're supposed to kiss, i think,” you explained.

“so what happens if i break it?” he questions.

“you eat it, and we try again!” you reply excitedly.

let the game begin.

dear aeons, you never realized how good Argenti was at this game. he’s locked in, keeping eye contact, and being very sweet. if he senses you getting nervous, he breaks the stick off and waits for you to compose yourself before returning. and bless him, he’s so sweet and patient, that’s gotta mean something, right?

so after you break the stick for the first time, before you lean back and can escape, he kisses you. nothing rough or mean, almost as light as a peck, but it’s just a bit more. right as you begin to reciprocate, he pulls away, leaving you wanting more.

you know the game he’s playing, and you can see the slightly mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks at you.

“one more time, beloved?”

Boothill:

always on the run, you both are. always getting into some kind of trouble. except this time, the trouble in question is a game of pocky and doesn’t seemingly have any consequences. which is good, you both need a break from the run and chase you’re constantly on. now that you think about it, maybe being in an alleyway in penacony wasn’t your brightest move. anyone could see you both and report you. not that common folk would, but people who know about you and Boothill might. just a hunch. but you were in a dark alleyway, Boothill leaning against the wall, his legs spread just a bit, and you were standing in between his legs, just chatting. and Boothill was trying so hard to pay attention, but he noticed the box of pocky in your pocket.

“what’s the box for, sweetheart?”

“boredom, mostly… also i need sugar.”

“don’t know how ya’d need it if we’re on the run. and i'll give ya some sugar,” he winked. you rolled your eyes at the latter comment.

“i mean for after the adrenaline wears off…” you mutter. your lover chuckles at the faux pout you started making after your previous statement. he places a hand on your hip and fishes through your pocket and gets the box of pocky out.

“up for a little game?”

“Boothill, we're literally supposed to be running right now,” you deadpan. he laughs.

“you don’t know how to have fun, sweetheart! just one round, i promise,” he replies.

and so the game begun. he pulls a stick out of the pack and places one part in his mouth and you place the other part in your mouth. as you inch closer, one of Boothill’s hands remains at your hip while the other one rests on the back of your neck. the cool metal of his arm makes you tilt your head up impossibly more. you reach the middle of the stick and instead of a quick peck, it’s a passionate kiss. he cradles your head so you can’t let go just yet, and he notices you’re quite ready to let go either. give or take a few seconds, you tap his robotic chest with your finger, a sign to let you breathe. you both part. the tips of his ears are a bit pink and you look a bit flushed. you’re just about to get comfortable in the silence you both have before hearing a loud “freeze!” which makes you both turn your heads.

guess you’re back on the run.

Mydei:

a rough mission kinda brought you down. and sometimes when you’re down, you’ll head to the marketplace in Okhema just to see if anything interesting is there. and wouldn’t you know it, a seller was giving out a box of pocky with every purchase! you bought a couple of baking ingredients and got your free box of pocky, and honestly? made your bad day a lot better, which was really nice. so when you got home and saw Mydei on the couch in the living room on his teleslate (literally it’s a phone, why do they call it that, ew), you thought nothing of it. you head to the kitchen and unload the few baking supplies you purchased: sugar and flour. it wasn’t a lot, and you didn’t need help putting it away. you knew that Mydei would come and help you put the couple of groceries away anyway (he always did, it was an unspoken agreement between the two of you for whatever reason.). so after you unload the flour and sugar, you sit on the counter and open the box of pocky you got. it was your favorite flavor too, how nice! as you do, Mydei comes in between your legs and watches as you fiddle with the box and bag inside. he wordlessly takes the bag from your hands, opens it, and pulls a stick out.

“what is this for?” he looks skeptically at the flavored treat, which makes you laugh slightly.

“you take one portion of the stick in your mouth, your partner does the same. then you essentially get as close as you can without breaking the stick. the goal is to kiss, i think. but i also eat this by myself,” you reply after a moment’s hesitation.

and without instruction, Mydei places part of the stick he took out into his mouth and gestures for you to do the same. so you do, you’re not an idiot to refuse him, especially if he’s offering! you both lean in and while the stick breaks pretty close to the middle, Mydei doesn’t pull away. he kisses you briefly before pulling away. he looks at you and smirks a bit.

“wanna try again, or are you going to quit? i thought the goal was to not break it.”

oh it’s SO on now.

#airi writes #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #anaxa x reader #argenti x reader #boothill x reader #mydei x reader

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damneddamsy · 1 day ago

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GOOD GIRL GONE BAD | HARRY CASTILLO PART 2 of 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

-> READ PART 1 HERE. A.N. -> I think I'm going to make this a series because I'm loving my fuckass thief a little too much ;) W.C -> 15k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, humour, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, harry gets amazing head, expensive dinner and under the table action, fast cars and late night drives, age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

TWO DAYS LATER...

Harry Castillo never did find her after that night, and the world, predictably, kept spinning.

That was a given—of course, the man never stood a chance. He hadn't even known her real name, let alone the life she lived between swiping his magnificent emerald ring and finagling for his sky-high penthouse suite.

The thing about rich men—a huge difference between the Hamptons-on-the-weekend rich and the take-the-G5-for-lunch-in-Marrakech rich—is that they get bored very fast. The money dulls their instincts, softens their hunger. So they go looking for novelty, for danger, bootlickers with sharp heels, lips that serviced them.

And that’s when these duds start collecting people, the same way other men collect watches. It’s not malice, necessarily. It’s just the casual entropy of having everything. Eventually, they start poking holes in the world to see what bleeds.

Harry, who had once been deliciously under her (and, yes, she had performed—thank you very much), was now officially behind her. Metaphorically. Spiritually... logistically?

Still, every so often in the last forty-eight hours, when sleeplessness licked at the fringes of her sanity, she’d think about that fantastic night. Him. His cologne. His million-dollar smile, his silky curls, that flex of muscles in his forearms. How he moved like a man who didn’t just fuck—he endured. Sex was a marathon he never lost. She might’ve bitten into a pillow just recalling it.

Now, as she scrubbed her coffee cup in her little walk-up, she mildly wondered why he hadn’t kicked down her door yet. No agents in Kevlar, no tactical ballet of flashlights sweeping her withering IKEA furniture.

Guess his precious emerald ring wasn’t priceless after all. Maybe he’d decided ‘Eve’ was.

Still, spectacular sex didn’t pay the Con Ed bill, and orgasms weren’t legal fees, not even ones that left her boneless. The hustle was a jealous god. Worship it daily or risk getting chewed up and spit back out. There were strictly no vacation days in this line of work.

She wiped her hands on the wet dishtowel and glanced out the window, onto her street. The city, even late afternoon, pulsed with potential scams, possibilities clothed as bad ideas. Nearly time to earn her penance.

Her taxes, of course, were a masterclass in creative fiction. Nowhere on the forms could she write ‘part-time righteous thief,’ even if the city owed her a medal for how cleanly she worked. By day (or whatever counted as ‘respectable daylight’ in her world), she was an actress—aspiring, which is really just code for ‘not yet a celebrity but unfathomably tenacious.’

And she was good, actually better than good. Unlike the legions of gullible hopefuls waiting tables and praying for callbacks, she didn’t just play the role; she became it.

That’s what theft had taught her: how to vanish into a character. A wealthy widow in a silk scarf. A ditzy sweetheart with a purse full of distractions. A lonely wife who despised her rich husband.

See, acting was easy. Being real was the trick.

Now... you might be wondering how she’s never been caught.

Simple answer. There were no larcenies, but borrowed realities. She slipped into them like new dresses, modelled them until they itched, then left them behind without creasing the seams. She understood people better than they understood themselves, and in a city built on a fancy facade, that made her the most honest liar in the room.

Between matinee shows and understudy rehearsals, buried someplace in the margins of a yawning Off-Broadway script where she played ‘The Mistress’ and occasionally ‘Dancer #2,’ she had begun her favourite kind of research: target acquisition.

This one was named Max.

Older, incredibly hot in the way girls liked their unruly men now. Ran a supposedly “disruptive” tech startup that had never once had to crawl through the dirt to breathe. Financed—predictably—by Mommy and Daddy’s hedge fund, equipped with pre-IPO arrogance, and a fake chip on his shoulder. He styled himself as a rebel: leather jacket, scruff at a precisely calculated millimetres, and a beast of a motorcycle. Everything about him screamed curated danger. Which, of course, made him exactly her type—for now.

Tonight, Max was hers.

She wasn't after his heart. Please, she had far more realistic goals: the chunky platinum bracelet and the possibility of a chain tucked beneath his shirt—a custom Cartier, if her Instagram sleuthing and zoom-enhanced screenshots were correct. Et voila, two months' rent, served on a dish. He liked his jewellery like he liked his women: slender, eye-catching, and stolen from someone else's better judgment.

She’d shown up at his hipster bar—the one with floating Edison bulbs and overpriced tequila, where the walls were made of raw brick and vintage vinyl records. It was much too loud, too try-hard for her taste. But it didn’t matter, she didn’t need to like it—she just needed to be seen in it. You know, gullible and pretty, a beaming sunflower among roses. The total ‘good girl’ package.

Max cornered her before she had to pretend to clumsily nurse her drink, took her hand, pressed too many kisses along her knuckles like some bad Bond villain, and crooned promises of a better night elsewhere.

“Preferably somewhere with horsepower,” he whispered to her.

She smiled—wide-eyed, toothy, assumingly earned. “Sounds fun.”

His bike was parked just on the edge of a downtown lot, under murky lighting that gave it a movie-magic feel. It was truly a prowling monster—chrome and matte black, roared like one, clearly built for showing off rather than comfort. Aerodynamics be damned.

He stopped, looked at her, and grinned. That grin—ugh, it came with a subscription to its own perfume.

“Hop on, baby girl,” he said, tugging her gently by the waist, and then—just like that—he lifted her. Hands under her thighs, strong enough to remind her why he was tolerable in the first place. Baby girl, because that was exactly the temperament she was going for tonight.

“Whoa—omigosh, okay,” she laughed, letting him guide her onto the seat.

She threw a leg over to straddle, at her own leisure, flashing just the right amount of white lace beneath her floral skirt, just enough to not seem cheap but stay rent-free in his imagination.

He stepped closer, thumb brushing along her knee. “You ever ridden one of these before?” he asked, leaning in.

“Only ponies at petting zoos,” she said sweetly. “But I always wanted to go... faster.”

He liked that. She could tell by the little shift in his posture, the spark behind his aviators. Max was predictable like that; he liked a good girl saying wicked things.

She tilted her head, letting her hair fall just so, lips parted. “Do I hold on to you, or just pray?”

“Oh, you’re gonna be holding on and praying,” he said, grin widening.

And then came a—HONK.

The burst of sound shattered the moment. She blinked, startled, nearly falling back on the seat. An old Civic lurched past behind them, the driver yelling about “blocking the fuckin’ exit, genius!”

She laughed again, this time without feigning. “Always this romantic?”

Max rolled his eyes, smoothing a hand down her thigh. “For the VIPs.”

“Lucky me,” she murmured, even as her eyes slid discreetly toward the glint of his chain peeking out beneath his collar. Just a little longer, and she’d be the one riding off into the night—with his jewellery in her bag and her name scrubbed clean from his memory by morning.

From her perch on the back of the bike, she leaned forward with ceremonious ease, reaching for the handlebars. Her hips tilted as she did it, bare thighs reflecting the bar's spotlight, skirting riding up a little, ass popping just enough to make a statement: yes, you’re looking—and I know exactly what you’re thinking.

She bit her bottom lip and looked back over her shoulder, coy. “So,” she murmured, fingers curling around the throttle, “do you race for pink slips on this thing?”

Max gave a breathy, wolfish laugh. He moved in, arms folding around her from behind, his chest pressing close to her spine. One hand came to rest on hers atop the handlebar, the other grazing up the bare skin of her back, fingers trailing higher, then lower. Stroking—feeling—bingo.

His breath brushed against her ear. “Why, d'you wanna race against me? I’ll let you win.”

She tilted her head, gave a breathy laugh, and let herself melt back against him just a little. Never all the way. Her game had rules, even if he didn’t know he was playing.

Max got bolder. His other hand slipped lower, gathering the hem of her skirt. Fingertips dragging along her thigh, seeking heat.

But—HONK. HONK. HONK.

A barrage of honks snapped the moment in half. Three sharp, urgent blasts. She couldn’t help it anymore—she burst out laughing, tipping forward against the tank of the bike, shaking her head.

“Is this your version of foreplay?” she teased, pulling her skirt back down with a small tug, as if nothing had happened. “Public inconvenience. Not a fan.”

Max growled low in his throat. “They’re just jealous.”

She gave him a saccharine smile over her shoulder. “Of you, or of me?”

He winked. “Me, of course.”

The fourth honk was belligerent. HOOOOOOONK!

Ouch. Then came the headlights—full beam—washing over them in artificial daylight, crisp, priceless and thoroughly unimpressed. It wasn’t some angry delivery driver anymore. This elegant machine… it was matte black, sleek, elongate, idling behind them like a lioness waiting to pounce.

A Maybach.

She blinked once, twice, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden flood of light. The newest version of the Maybach didn't simply hint at wealth—it was a chauffeur’s dream. Quiet luxury for the chronically privileged.

Max cursed under his breath, shading his eyes like he was confronted by a UFO beam. He glanced over his shoulder, irritated, but still kept one hand possessively on her thigh as if this wasn’t rapidly becoming someone else’s scene.

“Jesus. Just go around, asshole! There's plenty of space!” Max barked at the Maybach, all puffed up with that predictable strain of man-to-man testosterone, chest out like a bantam rooster.

The Maybach, as expected, didn’t budge. It was too refined to engage.

And then, almost politely, the headlights blinked once. A statement. Get the fuck out of the way.

She felt it immediately—that flux in atmosphere, the hair-raising dissonance that told her this wasn’t just a gridlock spat. The stillness of that car held tension. Consideration. This wasn’t some rando being petty, nor was it some impatient Wall Street exec late to a mistress.

This was a message wrapped in two tons of German—maybe—engineering.

And that was when the unease hit. A slow coil in her gut, skin prickling—she didn’t like this at all.

Another night, she’d have flipped the bird and blown a kiss just to stir the pot. But no, she had to remember she was in character. Tonight, she was soft, sugary, a blooming daisy of a girl who wouldn’t know a red flag if it wore a name tag.

“Let’s go for a ride, Max,” she coaxed, curling a finger into his jean pocket. “Forget the guy.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I wanna show this fucker who he messed with.”

Oh, boy. She didn’t even need to check the Maybach again to know that was a bad idea. The worst ideas always started with a man trying to measure his dick through tinted glass.

She reached for the softest note in her vocal library, brushing concern into every syllable. “Now you’re scaring me.”

That actually did it. Men like Max lived to feel strong in the presence of fragility. He turned, gentling to her innocence, rubbing her cheek like she was some porcelain doll.

While pressing a protective kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “I got you. Let’s get out of here.”

He handed her a helmet that reeked of weed, sweat, and barely-laundered masculinity, and slid onto the bike. She scooted behind him, skirt shifting up her thighs, heels tucked close, her arms looping around his waist in an affectionate tangle.

He revved the engine and glanced over his shoulder, grin too cocky. “Ready, baby?”

She giggled on cue, tightening her arms around him. “Ready!”

He snapped his visor down, and then they were off—rocketing through Manhattan like two kids who’d stolen a joyride and didn’t know the ending yet. And she had to admit: not bad for her first time on a motorbike.

She really hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much—the wind in her hair, the lights blurring past as if they were fireflies on speed, the rush of every pothole and sharp turn pushing her against Max’s back—an accident she allowed to look intentional. New York, past dark, always had this unpredictable mysticism. Once the neon bleed from storefronts flickered across her skin, setting the mood, tonight, for a moment, she let herself buy into the fantasy: wide-eyed good girl on the back of a powerful motorbike, arms flung up in joy, laughing into the wind like the lead in some Sundance film with a dream pop soundtrack that critics would call “raw and luminous.”

She hooted once, purely for the drama of it. Let the East River eat its heart out. Besides, fairytales like this always ended in red lights.

Eventually, laughing with her, Max pulled them over on the bridge—Williamsburg or somewhere, she didn’t care—and let the engine hum under them like a resting animal. She slid off first, not without pressing a thank-you kiss to his neck, stretching her legs, smoothing down her skirt. The view was... unexceptional. The city sparkled behind layers of industrial haze, scaffolding, and distant sirens. Honestly, this metropolis functioned better as a grey area.

Max wasn’t looking. He was busy trailing his mouth down her throat, hands already staking claims. He wanted her so bad, it was hilarious.

“How about,” he murmured, lips dragging up her ear, “this weekend, you and I go somewhere fun? Catch some sunshine, lie around...”

She let him spin her around, let her back meet the cold, rusted metal of the railing. One arm curled over his shoulder, a hand gently pushing back his hair in that sweet, absent way men misread as affection.

“Mhm?” she prompted, humouring him.

His fingers found the hem of her skirt, slipped under to trace the expanse of her thigh. “Hawaii.”

She raised a brow, stroked her nose along his lazily. “I was thinking... south of France.”

He snorted, bit her earlobe. “Cute.”

No, she was seriously serious. But that was the thing about these people—they loved a girl with charm, but not too much ambition. Not unless it was sexy, and not unless it served them. Bigoted freaks.

And then—HOOOOOOOONK!

That long, low, obnoxiously entitled sound, once more, ripped through the stillness of the bridge, a gunshot made of money.

Max pulled back, agitated. “What the actual fuck!”

She turned away from the yell, wincing, her heart already beginning to drop.

Because there, idling just yards away, was the same Maybach, sinister as hell. The headlights blinked once, just like before. An unhurried black peak of patience and confidence.

“Don’t,” she said quickly, placing a hand on Max’s chest as he began to step forward. “It’s not worth it. Max, please.”

But the transformation had already happened. He’d gone from laid-back bad boy to territorial bulldog. “Is this fucking guy following us? Is he serious?”

“Max,” she tried again, keeping her voice low, cajoling, “don’t engage. Just—come on, let’s go.”

But the car door opened. The rear door. Oh, shit. Not good.

And out stepped—Harry Castillo.

Definitely not good.

Motherfucker. She meant that to herself, really. Her stomach pivoted a full, elegant tilt. Imagine a ballerina swan-diving off a rooftop—all graceful and doomed.

He didn’t walk out of that Maybach. He emerged—materialised, Armani loafers first, like a curse come due. Like she’d whispered his name into too many mirrors or said it once too long in her head.

He looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him, sitting in that lobby bar, two nights ago: devastatingly tailored, cruelly composed, eyes still infinite, dark curls coifed to imperfection, a man who never had to chase anything in his life.

Except, still, apparently, her.

She had to laugh internally. Really? You didn’t think he’d find you?

The man probably had satellites in space. Facial recognition. Twenty computers running scans by techie nerd slaves. A team of lawyers who could tell her what colour socks she wore to her nanny job.

And now, there he was, looking at her—not like a man scorned, not like a lover lost. All private equities and precision grooming. Standing center-frame, accomodated under his own damn headlights like the lead in a noir thriller. Broad shoulders barely contained in that Zegna suit. Ultimate Roman nose. Knife-cut jaw. The faintest shadow of disdain.

She had to actively fight the instinct to let her eyes drop between his legs. There, her favourite friend was, that mythic thing that had ruined her body for all other men.

Harry’s massive dick, the economic downturn of her emotional stability. You just have to appreciate a pleasure to behold, literally, at any expense.

But she wasn’t scared of Harry Castillo (or his dick, for that matter. Definitely not.) But she was scared of what followed him—men in suits, invisible networks, hushed conversations that ended with ankle monitors or body bags.

Look, she hadn’t stolen just any ring.

That fucking ring.

Emerald, antique, high-pedigree luxury brand, ancestral to the Castillo empire. Retail price? Such a tacky question. Black-market price? High enough to set off alarms from here to Thailand the moment she tried to fence it.

And now it hung around her neck. Half a million dollars on a second-rate chain. Against her skin. Her not-so-lucky charm. She hadn’t even been able to pawn the damn thing. It sang out trouble every time she bent over and felt it swing.

And Harry… well, he wasn’t looking at anything but her.

Which finally reminded her of Max. Right. Him. Still in attendance.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, tension doctoring his voice, his manhood beginning to sense it was no longer the biggest personality on this bridge.

Harry stopped beside the bike, arms unwound at his sides, the illustration of unbothered dominance. He smiled—politely. The way you smile at a child holding a sharp object.

“Are we friends, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like old bourbon, brows creasing.

Sweetheart. The death knell, and her thighs clenched reflexively. It hadn't just haunted her—it had reigned over her the past few nights. The same voice that had murmured filth into her ear two days ago. The voice that held elevator doors open while promising he’d find her.

And find her, he did.

That morning, in the afterglow of her escape, she took the subway home. A jarring transition—metal bars and flickering fluorescents after marble floors and velvet shadows. The silence was different here from the schmancy hotel. Lonely. Awful.

She had clutched her coat tighter around her, the ring—Harry's ring—tucked deep in the lining, out of sight but burning against her, whipping a second heartbeat.

She told herself not to give in, that she was done playing that role, and she was the one in control. That this wasn’t going to get under her skin.

Ten minutes after changing into homewear, choking down old cereal, she had crumbled into her bed, slid her impatient hand under her shorts, and her fingers were inside her.

Her calves were quivering, her breath hitching in little gasps as she ground against the little circles of her knowledgeable hand, trying to chase the shape of his body from memory. Harry wasn’t there, but he was—in every detail. The heat of his mouth, his hand wrapped around her breasts, the scrumptious way he filled her with that dignified cock of his—slow at first, then rough, snapping his hips up into hers. The way his voice got like a caress over her skin, low drawl and dark worship, every groaned sweetheart and baby was an affirmation.

The first orgasm hit shamefully fast, and she hated the way her body answered to his even when he wasn’t around to make demands.

The second one was slower, needier, drawn out like a confession. She brought herself there—teeth sunk into the corner of her pillow, a low whimper pressed into cotton—imagining the exact way he groaned when she swallowed, tightened around him, how he held her face when he kissed her one last time.

When she finally came, it rolled through her like a storm. Her toes curled and pointed. Her eyes snapped open. Her spine arched and her chest heaved, and she swore she could still feel the ghost of his hands squeezing on her tits.

Afterwards, she lay in the dark, one arm flung over her face, body singing, satisfied and ruined, but her mind didn’t quiet. Her eyes were wet, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Maybe it was the heat of frustration.

And still, her fingers had lingered at the curve of her thigh, debating going back for a third. Because he was the only thing that made her feel like this in a really long time. This desperate, this tempted, this berserk for a man.

And now he was here. In the flesh.

Max, tragically oblivious to nuance—bless him and the cocktail of ketamine confidence and startup scramble sloshing through his veins—tried again.

“You know her, man?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Of course not. The man moved like punctuation: purposely, only when it mattered, and never to explain himself to idiots in leather jackets and bootcut jeans. His gaze flicked toward Max, cold and brief, confirming the source of an unpleasant smell.

He drawled that voice again, “She’s—”

She panicked. Nope. Not happening. That word—whatever it was—was going to ruin everything for her.

She cut in fast. “He’s my dad!”

Silence.

A cosmic silence that might precede a solar eclipse, or a smiting. Her pulse fluttered, but she didn’t let it show.

Harry’s blink was criminally slow. His right eye twitched—he really was gorgeous when he was restraining homicidal rage.

And for a second, she thought maybe she could sell it. Maybe Max would be dumb enough to swallow it whole. Until Harry’s jaw flexed with such epic, generational disappointment that she had to follow up.

She offered, as sweetly as arsenic, “Stepdad. Technically.”

Still nothing from either of the dumbasses. Except the murderous, taught twitch in Harry's jaw that persisted.

She could’ve stopped there and let it simmer. But no, she was on a roll, so she might as well juggle the knives while blindfolded.

She slipped from Max's side, wedge heels clicking lightly on the concrete, and made her way to Harry's—hips swaying like this was her runway, not the walk of shame. (Which, frankly, it was.) She nudged her arm into his, gently, teasing.

“Yeah,” she said brightly, pitching her voice just loud enough for Max to hear. “Been that way for sometime now. I even call him… Papi.”

Harry’s lips parted. “Jesus.”

She beamed up at him, casually chucking his chin. “Look at my Papi. He just loves it.”

Then, just for him, smile endearing, her eyes slicing into his, a plea laced with a threat, conveying a message, ‘Play along or I swear to god, I'll sell the ring to someone who makes NFTs.’

Harry broke, and she felt that little exhale of surrender, her heart quieting. She always knew how to find the seam and pry it open.

“Ye—”

“I think,” she said, cutting him off again, “he just got really worried that I was with a guy who drives a motorcycle. Probably why he followed us. Right?”

Harry’s sigh was biblical. “Right.”

She flashed Max an outlandish smile. “He’s just so protective of me.”

Harry muttered something under his breath—it sounded suspiciously like ‘not from motorcycles, from syphilis.’ But he kept it under control.

Max nodded, clearly recalibrating, trying to navigate whatever Freudian mess he’d just been handed. “Huh. Tight family.”

You have no idea, she thought. Tight like a noose.

Then Harry—with all the calm of a man choosing which blade to use—turned to her, one hand casually resting on the open car door. “Get in the car.”

She raised a brow. “What if I like it here?”

Harry’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Then I’ll put you inside myself, sweetheart. And you will like that.”

Max blinked.

She blinked.

Everyone blinked.

It wasn’t a suggestion. But the way he said it—lazy, low, the vaguest husk in his voice—made it sound like he was inviting her into a hotel bed, not his luxury sedan.

She hesitated, just long enough to feel her own nerves flicker. Every atom of her body screamed don’t. Her spine tensed, her breath caught. Her instincts did what they always did when danger showed up in a bespoke LV suit: calculate.

Because she wasn’t just nervous about Harry. She was nervous about what she was still willing to do for the ring. The stupid, gaudy, exquisite thing, nestled like a vice between her breasts. Dollars and dollars of regret strung around her neck like a dare. It was untouchable, unsellable. But unfinished.

And if there was one thing she did not ever do, it was leave a job incomplete. That was the difference between girls who handled cons and girls who got caught.

So she turned.

Max, dear, dumb Max, was still standing there blinking as if Harry had shaken his snow globe. A golden retriever of a man—tail wagging, unaware of the incoming truck. Poor baby.

She stepped into his space, ran her fingers through his hair, thick and slick with too much product. He grinned, warm, doped up on whatever startup serotonin and weed vape was still sloshing in his bloodstream. She tugged lightly, just enough for the illusion to hold—and to keep him still while she worked.

“Your Papi is crazy,” he whispered.

She pouted. “My Papi gets possessive.”

Then she kissed him. A just-there kiss that was more sleight of hand than affection, a big smokescreen. As her lips grazed his, her eyes slid sideways—past his shoulder, past the fog of cologne and naivete—to find Harry.

His arms crossed, face unreadable, but she could see it—the coiled silence that came before a tsunami. A cool exterior stretched tight over a woodland gone ablaze.

She smiled against Max’s mouth.

And then she opened hers wider, let her tongue slide deeper, brought Max's arm around her waist, pushed out a soft, breathy moan that was pure theatre—every inch of it aimed at Harry, like an arrow dipped in gasoline.

She could feel the heat of his glare sear the air between them, almost hear the crack of his patience splitting clean down the middle. That sexy, murderous calm he wore like his perfect suit. The quiet, intoxicating fury of a man used to control. She wanted to shatter that. Hence.

Poor sweet idiot Max thought that this was his win. When in truth, she was just using his mouth as her mirror, reflecting what she would like Harry to know. No one owned her unless she let them.

So she pushed her lips to Max like a queen bestowing favour. Slid one arm around his neck, the other deftly trailing down, fingers slipping against the back of the chain—click—and the clasp gave. The necklace dropped soundlessly into her palm, and just like that, mission: salvaged.

“I had so much fun with you tonight, Max. Will you call me?” she asked, brushing her lips with his, eyes wide with fake vulnerability, lashes at full-performance flutter.

“Don’t have your number,” he murmured, but—like a party trick—produced a business card from his jeans. Two fingers, smug grin.

He tucked it between her bra and blouse with a wink. The card brushed right over where the ring rested. Perfect. Layered lies, that always got her off.

“Go, baby girl,” he said, “before your dad pulls out a Glock on us.”

She almost lost it all to a snorting laugh. He was just so damn sincere. He honestly thought this was edgy roleplay and not a real-life power struggle with a man who could and maybe would pull a Glock.

He was sweet. And, like most sweet things in her life—disposable.

She turned, chain coiled in her fist like a snake, the heat of Max's lips fading, and walked back toward the Maybach, hips swinging just a little extra, enough to prove she wasn’t scared, and just to dare Harry to make a scene.

Harry, ever the gentleman—or sociopath—opened the door for her.

And as she passed him, his hand landed squarely on her ass.

Not what you’d expect from a stepfather. Unless, of course, you subscribed to very specific corners of the internet smut where shame and power blurred together with a click.

Because this wasn’t a grope. It was a claim.

Calculated, possessive, and arrogant as hell. His fingers squeezed in with the confidence that came from knowing every inch of her—past tense be damned. Smug fucking bastard.

Her spine straightened instinctively. Her breath caught—in that white-hot fuse of adrenaline and indignation. The gall of him. The sheer, effortless nerve. Sliding back into her orbit like he’d always been allowed there, her body was a place he still paid taxes on.

She said nothing, but her lips curved faintly.

Touché, Papi.

She slid into the leather seat, the door thunking shut behind her like the closing of a vault.

Harry moved with that predatory grace—shoulders fluid, jaw sharp with purpose. The chauffeur didn’t need a cue; whether machine or man, the car cruised forward like it knew his mind.

As they rolled past the curb, she glanced back.

Max was still standing there, his hands in his pockets, reeling. His mouth hung open slightly, one combat boot half-scuffed on the pavement like he’d tried to follow, like a man trying to figure out whether he'd just been mugged, ghosted, or seduced. (Newsflash: all three.)

His eyes met hers through the tinted window. She smiled sweetly.

He raised a hand to wave—slowly, hesitantly, like a puppy who didn’t know if he was still welcome. Such a cute little puppy.

She blew him a kiss.

Then turned her head just as he caught it, head forward, game face on, as the Maybach slid into traffic.

Because the ring was around her neck, her spoils of the night in her palm, and Harry—Harry fucking Castillo—was beside her.

If she thought this was over, she was sorely mistaken.

Proving that Harry Castillo was still a man—and, more damningly, still hers in some subterranean, unspoken crevice of himself—he couldn’t stop looking.

Not that he tried. Subtlety had never been his vice of choice.

His gaze, unapologetically male, raked down her legs, bared now without the safety net of stockings. She’d swapped the Louboutins for a pair of espadrille wedges that gave her just enough height to twist the knife. Her dress was floral—floral, for fuck’s sake. A dizzy little number with a cinched waist, soft cotton and a neckline that walked the line between innocent and criminal negligence. Her hair was different, too—soft waves framed her face and shoulders, and a thin, delicate braid spun across the back of her head like she was auditioning to be in a fairytale.

Last time he'd seen her, she'd looked like sex in a red wine glass. Now she was practically Thumbelina in a sundress. He wasn’t fooled, and neither was she.

She knew what she looked like—played it quite successfully, even—and yet somehow, Harry was still the one twitching in his own car.

She could feel the air crackle in the car every time his gaze dipped. The anticipation coiled tenser every time she adjusted the elastic bust or crossed one leg over the other. Not even for his benefit—but Jesus, it was working anyway. That was the thing—she wasn’t trying to seduce him. That ship had sailed, sunk, and was now rotting on the ocean floor with all the other men who’d thought they could handle her.

On a less desperate note, it was her first time in a Maybach. Hopefully, also her last.

It was more of a rolling reliquary for titans chasing immortality through market share and unresolved daddy issues. The leather was too plush, the silence too padded. Everything about it exclaimed power, permanence, and ownership. She wouldn’t lounge in these private-jet-on-wheels seats like some arm candy with Stockholm Syndrome, so she perched instead—like she might bolt at any second or bite you for trying.

At her feet, two chrome-plated champagne flutes sparkled like tiny totems of excess. The mini-fridge hummed softly under the console. And of course, there was a mounted touchscreen display for ‘mood lighting.’ She wondered what ‘mood’ it glowed when someone was being interrogated by an ex-one-night-stand-slash-target.

She stared at all the luxuries for a moment, counting up the invisible zeroes. How many zeroes did it take to turn a car into his bastion?

Harry finally spoke to break the five-minute silence, his voice low, amused, a touch accusatory, but still he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“What’s your winnings on this one?”

He was reclining a little ways from her, and his dark eyes were still somewhere south, too—pretending not to enjoy he way the dress hugged her chest too much, and failing with flair.

She turned just enough to see that. She toyed with a fingernail, let it hover innocently near her lips.

“Nothing major, Papi.”

His brows lifted, just a tick. A man politely pretending to be surprised. He looked away, scoffing under his breath. “You’re allergic to 'nothing.'”

God, he was so painfully predictable. She offered a sugar-slick smile and sang out, “A tiiiny necklace. And... a ring.”

His posture stiffened a fraction. Alert, now. His eyes, the very shade of dark rum and worse decisions, cut to hers. “Collecting trophies now, are we?”

“Maybe.” She tilted her head. “Or planning a garage sale. Depends on the market.”

Harry leaned toward her, eyes hardening like he was ready to shift into another register. “Don’t fuck with me, Eve.”

His gruelling scowl was almost convincing—if her name had actually been Eve. That meant he still didn’t know who she really was. Not her name, not her history—so what was this, then? Some twisted coincidence? A brush with fate? Had he really followed her across town, all smooth in his black Maybach, chasing nothing more than a memory? No plan, no confirmation—just a vague pull and a hunch?

If so, it was almost laughable. Almost romantic, too. But mostly dangerous.

So, she leaned in, too, because it was fun to play. Her voice dropped half a note. “I already did fuck with you.”

Harry exhaled, long and frayed at the edges, and ran a hand down his face like she was a stain he could wipe away.

“Sweetheart,” he muttered, and it landed somewhere between a threat and a bribe, “if you give me that ring, I’ll take you to Fifth Avenue right now. You want two more? A whole fucking hand? A bracelet to go with it? Done. My card and Cartier Building are yours.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, biting her lip to contain amusement. It was almost too easy. Men... just dangle a little sex, a little danger, and they’d throw diamonds at you like Mardi Gras beads.

She allowed herself a small laugh—cruel, delighted. “Are you trying to buy me off with guilt jewellery? A shiny booby prize?”

“I’m trying to stop you from being stupid.”

Her lips thinned into a surgical smile. “If you wanted me rational, Harry, you should’ve fucked an accountant.”

Harry gave a pleased, filthy little hum. “Do you still have it?”

“Who says I do?”

“You do,” he insisted, like it was gravity. “You wore it out of that suite like a goddamn medal.”

She turned back to the window. The city was starting to rise in the distance, blurred under bridge lights. “Maybe I pawned it. Maybe I mailed it to your ex-girlfriend, little miss matchmaker. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a koi pond in Brooklyn.”

He just stared at her, no humour or patience left.

She shifted in her seat, her sundress sliding higher, not for him, but his inhale still snagged. Luxury-wrapped warfare, and she was fully fucking armed.

She was dismantling him, with bare legs and a grin that said, ‘You wanted this. I want it more now.’ And somewhere deep in that beautiful bastard brain of his, Harry knew it.

The Maybach hummed like a well-fed predator through the avenues, insulated from honks and heat. Outside was chaos, inside was gloved luxury, stitched leather, and two people pretending they weren’t seconds from lunging across the seat.

Harry's hand rested like a loose threat on the centre console. Still watching her, cataloguing every inch as if she weren’t already in his bloodstream, whether he liked it or not.

“You know,” he said finally, voice cool, “I’ve handled mergers with less resistance. And, never so deep in stalker territory that they know about my exes.”

She examined her nails, chipped from the subway turnstile. “Well, curiosity never killed anyone. And you know,” she countered, “I’ve handled richer men with worse cars.”

He glanced around the cabin, unimpressed. “That’s not even true.”

“It’s sadly true,” she said, biting back a grin.

He snorted because a real laugh would be too generous. His eyes dragged over her once more.

“That ring,” he said, finally, “wasn’t for sale or for taking.”

She feigned shock, clutching her imaginary pearls. “So possessive. I thought you evolved past that.”

Harry leaned forward, entirely implying a threat. “You don’t even know what it is.”

She met his eyes, head tipped. “I know it’s worth enough to make you beg.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious. And useful.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, and a smile nearly escaped. “Jesus. You’re not even trying to tempt me, and somehow it’s working.”

That earned him a slow, wicked smile. “Good.”

And that was the problem. She wasn’t trying from the start of this. She was just being—aggravating, hungry, radiant—and it was working. She knew it was, she saw it in the way his jaw kept flexing like he wanted to kiss her stupid and strangle her at the same time. He hadn’t touched her since that little performance at the curb, but she could still feel his hand, ghosted and smug across her ass. An assertion. A pushpin.

He cracked a bit of tension in his neck. “You keep that ring, Eve, and you’re in deep shit. I don’t bluff.”

“No, you just hold women against their will in your little jet-car and call them sweetheart like it’s 1942. Very romantic.”

He turned toward her, elbow on the backrest, his voice silken steel. “You’re not even scared.”

“Nope,” she said, flicking her eyes toward him. “I’m starving.”

He blinked at her, thrown for a second.

Then she added, sweet as syrup: “And I’m guessing you’re not dumb enough to threaten me on an empty stomach.”

Harry leaned back, assessing her like an appraiser with a looted painting. “You’re doing a lot of talking for someone exceptionally screwed.”

“Oh, Harry.” She leaned in across the console, chin in her hand, close enough that her breath brushed his jaw. “I’m only proposing a dinner. In exchange for what you want. Seems generous, considering the resale value of your little emotional support ring.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not emotional.”

“Of course not,” she said, settling back. “Just as priceless as your ego.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And need I remind you, this is extortion?”

“No,” she chirped brightly. “That’s dinner with a woman far out of your tax bracket.”

“Sweetheart, you—”

She shrugged one bare shoulder, calm as a cat sunning itself on a windowsill. “Come on. You missed me. Admit it. You just didn’t know where to find me.”

“I did, too, find you,” he shot back.

She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “After I’d finished with Max. Lucky break.”

“Greased Lightning, sure,” he muttered. “Real prize. Had his hand halfway up your skirt, tongue on your tonsils.”

She pointed an accusatory finger. “Slut-shaming me isn’t the persuasive tactic you think it is, mister.”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, ravenous eyes wandering up from the hem of her dress to her legs. “Not shaming. Just saying—you have interesting taste in rebound mechanics.”

“You jealous?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

His silence was golden; she wanted it in her palms.

“I was,” he said finally. He said it like it hurt to admit.

She flashed all her teeth, brilliant and wicked. “Aw, my Papi. Feeling things for me.”

Without warning, Harry leaned across the console—a fluid, avaricious shift that closed the space between them.

A flinch would give her away. Her chin still rested delicately in her hand, fingers curled beneath it like a bored schoolgirl. Her eyes sharpened, her mouth twitched, she didn’t move exactly, but every cell in her was suddenly keyed in.

He dragged a knuckle down the line of her jaw, featherlight—and of course it was that territorial, ravenous touch of his. As though he was checking to see if she still had skin, if it still responded to him. Yes, it did, and she hated that he knew.

“You really let him touch you like that? Right in front of me?” he murmured, fingers down the expanse of her throat, words curling with conversational filth. “You have no idea how easy it'd be to take you somewhere dark, pull those panties aside and remind you who makes you come.”

Her breath caught—a moment of restraint slipping because the sharp, vivid mental picture bloomed uninvited.

He was close enough now for her to smell the faint trace of his cologne—the same bergamot, wood and fresh banknotes—and underneath that, worse: familiarity. She hated that she remembered how he smelled. She hated it more than it still made her soaked in her best pair of panties.

Yet, she didn’t lean away. She didn’t so much as bat an eye when his fingers grazed her collarbone, dipping lower. She let him find the chain—let him think he was in control for a beat too long.

“You really want to see if it’s there?” she asked softly, teasing, a whisper with claws.

He took the bait, all male and smug, lifting the chain from between her breasts like he was unveiling buried treasure.

And there it was.

His precious ring.

That big, fat emerald swung like a pendulum between them—silent, supine, damning. She watched his eyes lock on it, and the flicker of recognition sharpen into a darker emotion. Greed. Frustration. Lust. Who knew—with Harry, the difference was academic.

He stared at it like it was a rib she’d stolen from his body while he slept.

“Ben,” he said, voice a velvet growl, never taking his eyes off her.

“Sir,” the driver answered with CIA-level readiness. As if he wasn’t listening to foreplay masquerading as directions.

“Miss... Eve is feeling famished. Spring Street, please. Sixth Avenue. Thanks.”

“Copy,” Ben muttered, keying his mic on his wrist. Then, under his breath, too low for the intercom or for his passenger's ears: “Yeah, sure. Let’s get her something to eat before she swipes your socks, too.”

Upon his command, the Maybach veered off course. Even at the razor's edge, Harry had it in him to be the well-mannered rich boy he was raised to be.

And, honestly, saviour Ben deserved hazard pay for the things he heard behind tinted glass. He must've thought that these two were sick with tension. She stole his ring, and he changed course for dinner. That was either love or capture-bonding... with a tip included.

She smiled at the road ahead. A sinful thing that unfolded like a plan, because yes, this was exactly why she’d kept the ring. Not for the money, though, it was easily six figures. Not even for the power, not in the obvious way.

But because he wanted it back, and wanting made Harry sloppy.

It made him touch. It made him chase. It made him reckless and sweet and very, very red-blooded, dumb male. Which meant she’d already won. Before the wine or the check arrived at whatever overpriced hole they were headed to.

She was still the one who dictated the terms. And Harry—poor, rage-polished, ring-hungry Harry—was already halfway back on the leash.

She crossed one leg over the other, reclined just a touch deeper into the seat, and gave him that look—You can have me or the ring. But only if you beg.

He still thought he had the upper hand. Wasn’t it just so cute?

Just the same, Big Dick Castillo brought his A-game for dinner.

The restaurant wasn’t just high-end—it was the kind of place that required two weeks’ notice, a powerbroker’s name on the reservation, and a tolerance for quirky food that looked like modern art. The hostess notably buttered him up, simpered away, took his coat, and called him Mr. Castillo.

“Been here before?” Harry asked as they were guided to their booth.

She didn’t answer, only let her eyes sweep the place—white linen tablecloths, waiters gliding past, a floral arrangement taller than her ego.

She wasn’t dressed for this. Too much skin, not enough couture. The jute of her espadrille heels was scuffed, her clutch was vintage in the wrong way, and her dress—while cute—read detrimental in a room full of tasteful dialogue and five-figure watches. She wished she hadn’t given away the flying fuck she’d reserved for Harry.

So instead, she slid into the booth, crossed her legs slowly, and leaned back like fuck it, let them all look. She’d never belonged in rooms like this, but she knew how to survive them.

Two Michelin stars. Or was it three, maybe? The lighting was gloomy, the cutlery artisanal, and the food came served under glass domes, wreathed in mist like a gothic séance. Every plate looked like a photograph from an art film: uni foam over wild nettle jelly, soil-infused mushroom consommé, whale fat ice-cream (yes, that.) There was no fixed menu—just blind trust in the chef, a man in clogs and tattoos who barely acknowledged them.

This was indulgent, out of her league, so of course she pretended to be unimpressed, like it was routine—hair touched up in the restroom, lips glossy again with the applicator of a stolen Chanel lipstick, heels clicking on imported Italian tile, seated next to a man who could pay her rent for the rest of her life and still have cash left to purchase a moiety of New York.

She even sneaked a photo of the dessert course when Harry got up to take a call, because come on. When else did she get plated edible Parmesan air on gold-rimmed porcelain?

Her last meal had been oatmeal with water, for crying out loud. Not milk. Water.

You could always ask why she didn’t just marry rich. She was beautiful enough to hoodwink them, so why not find a bored billionaire, play the long con, inherit the empire, and vanish somewhere scenic—the Amalfi Coast, or whatever place rich widows went to drink too much rosé—and feign rebirth? And sure, she’d considered it more than once. She wasn’t above strategy.

But something in her—call it pride, call it defiance, hunger for independence—refused to take the easy exit. And maybe one day she would. Maybe she’d settle for a gorgeous, uncomplicated Harry Castillo with deep pockets and no prenup, let herself be worshipped into early retirement. Just not yet.

She was still young, still electric, still drop-dead sexy. There was too much potential and too much fun to be had. Why skip to the end when she could win first? Use her beauty and her brains, pull strings, stay one step ahead of men with power.

Now, in the curved booth, a gilded lamplight spotlit above them, sitting beside her—never across, god forbid—was her latest complication.

Of course, Harry sat next to her, because across meant distance. Across meant restraint, and that would imply boundaries. This man didn't know how to spell the word, let alone observe it. He sat close enough that his thigh occasionally bumped hers. His scent was dark, warm, invasive, the same Jean Paul le Castillo, again, and his attention was even worse. Fork in one hand, wine glass in the other, and that goddamn heinous, hungry look in his eyes as he stared at her lips like it owed him answers.

The new ring—a ruby the size of a small nation—winked on his ring finger, gaudy and melodramatic. It clinked against his glass as he reached forward. His shirt sleeve inched up just enough to reveal his Hublot—black steel, custom dial, subtle as a gun to the temple. And paired with that bracelet, Damascus steel, he was cosplaying the final boss of Grand Theft Auto.

Her thighs pressed together. Inexcusable. Her hormones were staging a mutiny.

She’d spent the fundamental part of her life making sex a transaction. A leverage, a blade, for which men paid in obsession. And now, with him, her instincts were starting to betray her. Lust came up uninvited, and that wasn’t part of the plan.

Harry made her forget where the end was, made her want to tear off her own armour just to climb into his lap and beg. Before then, out of the blue—

“So, how many men came before me?”

He didn’t clarify. Lovers? Marks? The poor bastards who’d mistaken her for a doormat?

She took a slow sip of water, letting the silence stretch long enough to tighten the air. One brow ticked upward. “You want a number, or just a vague estimate that’ll challenge your gall? And also, ruin your appetite.”

He smirked, impressed. “I want honesty.”

She tilted her head. “Ooh, that's a new kink.”

“I’m possessive,” he admitted, pretty garish on his part. “Big difference.”

“Mm.” Her smile curved, feline. “Possessive is only sexy when the person saying it isn’t two drinks away from growling.”

“It’s sexy when it comes with dinner like this.” He waved his hand at the table.

She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, her heel dangling just a little. “You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“Why? You already got the ring. It's right in front of you. All polished and accounted for.”

He reached across the table and let his knuckle trace her cheekbone, then followed the angle of her jaw like he was mapping her. Shiftless, patient.

“You used it to bait me into dinner,” he said, a thumb stroking at her glistening lip. “Could’ve handed it over in the car. Hell, you could’ve pawned it, vanished. But you didn’t. So... you want me, too.”

She grinned at that—wide, unapologetic, teeth and trouble. “You’re adorable when you think you’re in charge.”

His gaze sharpened, darkened. But not in anger—he was starved. Amused, too. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, humming. “A better quality of dessert. Maybe something shiny to take home.”

“To wear or to sell?”

She pushed her bottom lip out. “Depends on whether you make me laugh.”

He shook his head, chuckling into his wine glass. “You’re the hysterical one, sweetheart.” He swallowed his sip, humming, “Do you ever think of doing anything else? Something legit?”

She pretended to think, tapping a finger against her chin. “You mean wait tables? Or marrying a hedge fund vampire who forgets my birthday every year but I have to offset with a wealth of blowjobs?”

He looked at her—a quiet examination that wasn’t judgment, as if wondering what it would take for her to stop running.

“I think you’re more priceless and smarter than you let on, or the little games you play.”

She laughed softly at that—a sound that had just the right amount of sadness tucked in the corners. “Yeah, well. The games pay the bills. And at least I get to choose the rules.”

Harry leaned in, an elbow resting on the table, voice a shade lower now—meant just for her. “You know, you don’t have to play a game to have me take you out. I would've abandoned an intergalactic arms deal if you wanted me here tonight.”

She burst with a giggle, and it was cute how much he took pride in making her laugh. She eventually locked eyes with him and said, calm and clean:

“But it’s so much more satisfying when I win first.”

That made him laugh. A proper, wrecked laugh dropped from his throat, and it surprised even him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, still half-winded. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could rob me blind and make me this hard at the same time.”

She bit her lip—as though it weren’t the exact effect she’d planned down to the second. Spoon clinked softly against the plate as she set it down with ceremony, eyes gleaming.

“I wanna see it,” she whispered, scooting closer to him on the leather booth, until her side was flush against his.

“Eve, sweetheart,” he warned.

She smoothed her lips against his jaw, playing a good little girl. “Show me. Please.”

Her fingers found the zipper of his tailored trousers, the expensive ones, that held shape like a secret. And it was amazing—how hard he was, how her palm couldn’t quite span the bold swell beneath, and how he throbbed to her touch.

She dragged her hand down, watching his face tighten—like a crackling electrical wire. His jaw flexed. His gaze darted briefly to the corners of the restaurant, the other elitist millionaires, scanning for anyone who might recognise the man unravelling.

Then he leaned in. A husky, thrumming caution. “If I knew you were going to get like this, I’d have asked for a private room.”

She stuck out her tongue, childish. “No fun.”

He laughed under his breath and traced a big fingertip down her cheek. “Tell me you missed me.”

“I did miss you,” she said like the sweetheart she was, and the best part was—it was true. Truth spoken with the cadence of a lie. Or a dare. “I thought you’d find me sooner. I waited for you.”

“Duty calls.” His voice dipped, like he hated saying it. “I'm sorry, honey. I was out of town yesterday.”

That explained everything and nothing. She was not satisfied.

She didn’t stop either, her hand kept its lazy rhythm over his bulge, like she was idly petting a wild animal. “I couldn’t sleep at night, Harry.”

His fathomless eyes were trained on her mouth. “Why not?”

“You know how much I missed you? How I was touching myself, wishing it was you inside me?” Her voice turned to silk—sinful, edged with heat, weaponised.

He exhaled sharply, words ghosting over her ear. “Prove it.”

She smiled, slow and wicked, like she’d been waiting for that line all night. With one last stroke, she removed her hand, pursuing her fingers up his jaw—lingering just enough to make his breath hitch. Down the line of his neck, across the snow-white shirt that skirted right around his shoulders, over that infuriatingly sculpted bicep, tough forearm, wrist—the original blueprint of sex—until she led his hand beneath her skirt, just enough to tilt the balance of power.

His long, large fingers took charge from there. They swept her panties aside without an afterthought and found her soaked right through and aching. Home turf, indeed.

A single long finger teased upward through her slick folds, the dewy little bead he wanted to tease all night. Her hips twitched, seeking more; she bit down on a moan that would’ve embarrassed her in any other life. But not here, not when she had the upper hand.

“Making such a mess,” he murmured, and started to push right in.

She caught his wrist—gently, firmly—and pulled his hand away. She wasn’t done playing. “Then let me clean up.”

Bringing his fingers to her mouth, ever so slowly, let her lips part just enough to catch one finger and draw it in. Her eyes never left his as she tasted herself on her tongue.

Harry’s nostrils flared. His jaw twitched, a visible glitch in his otherwise polished self-control. She could virtually hear the recalibration transpiring behind his eyes—an expensive machine overheating under pressure.

“You ever heard of taking turns?” he rasped, voice sandpapered and low.

She hummed into his finger with a grin.

Her tongue curled around the length of his finger in lazy, loving worship. She let her teeth graze the bone, just enough to sting, pulled away with a wet, filthy pop—then slid her hand back to the heat pressed against his trousers.

Still gloriously hard. Harder, maybe.

He made a sound. Barely audible, but visceral—her rich boy was about to snap.

“Mm, I missed my friend,” she teased, palm grazing along the thick outline of him, the way you'd check the heft of a stolen gold bar. “We need to take care of you.”

“Not in here,” he gritted, eyes flicking toward the very public preposterous restaurant, as if remembering too late they were still surrounded by pristine cutlery, half-finished wine glasses, and utterly oblivious millionaires.

She leaned in, voice sugarcoated and silk-wrapped. “Why not? Afraid the waitstaff will find out their favourite industrialist menace is getting head under the table?”

“Sweetheart,” he ground out, jaw tight, “you’re going to get us thrown out.”

She gasped, scandalised. “Oh, no. Not banned from a place where the peach coulis costs more than the average rent.” Her fingers traced the outline of him again, sinfully curious. “But it’s cute that you think I care.”

He gripped the table’s edge. “Outside.”

She leaned closer and click—her teeth snapped together in a playful bite.

What followed was a blur—his credit card swiped on the reader, the receipt signed with a flourish so fast it might’ve been a stock ticker. Between curt commands to the valet and a quiet, untamed “stand by for now,” to his head of security, there were brushes, glances, touches: her fingers sinking just beneath his waistband as he tipped the maître d’, his palm skating down her bare back where her dress dipped scandalously low. Every pass of skin-to-skin felt like a dare, an escalation, a lit fuse.

By the time they ducked into the alley behind the block—dimly illumined in cinematic amber—the anticipation between them had pulled taut enough to hum. The distant purr of traffic and the faint hiss of steam from a nearby vent were the accurate background noise to a heist in progress.

Harry didn’t even get the chance to lean to get her lips before she shoved him against the wall—decisive, insolent, the brick groaning against his back. Her eyes sparkled with that delicious edge, knowing she’d rehearsed the choreography in her dreams: a two-day fantasy played out frame by frame.

And he knew exactly what she was saying, without a single word. You’re mine right now.

Her hands slid up around his neck, fingers weaving into the short curls at his nape, nails just sharp enough to sting. She made him hiss through his teeth—and she smiled at that, feral satisfaction flashing across her lips. How could a man like the great Harry Castillo—so composed, so powerful, so painfully in control—still be reduced to deprived flesh under her touch?

“What did you say to me?” she panted. “That you'd drag me somewhere dark, pull my panties aside, and remind me who makes me come?”

His grin crooked sideways, as if it physically hurt to hold back a groan. “Still sounds like a solid plan to me.”

They let the words hang in the air between them, as her hips crushed into his, allowing him to feel the slow roll of her body against his, just so he damn sure remembered. She pulled back to lock eyes with him, and his expression was glowing with wicked amusement.

“Because that got me so wet,” she added, one brow lifting. “Truly. I’m so touched.”

He gave a rough laugh, hands twitching on her body. “Touched? If you keep grinding like that, I will absolutely bless the whole city block.”

She wrinkled her nose, displeased. “That's really gross, baby.”

He wrinkled his nose back at her. “Just get a move on. With you, my witty repartee functions scramble themselves.”

“That's really hot, baby.”

Then those same hands wandered. Down his collarbone, over his chest. She moved with the assurance of someone who’d mapped this terrain before, who knew every button as if it were a checkpoint on her way to spoils.

When she was rewarded with her kiss, it was a signature scrawled in heat—messy, urgent, binding—and branding him under his clothes, where no one could see. Oh, he’d feel it.

Then her fingers were at his belt.

A low, delighted laugh escaped her. Her rhythm was impatient, rhythm-less. Zipper down, cock out. Just as big, flushed dark, curving, and thick as she remembered him. She wrapped her awaiting palm around him, unmistakably reacquainting herself with an old luxury.

God, how she’d missed this. The raw him of it. The racy confidence, the amused shock in his eyes when she got ahead of him. The twitch in his cock, like it recognised her touch better than his.

“Omigod, Harry,” she breathed, eyes darting between his and the absurd girth in her grip. Imagine a sexy, artisanal baguette. If anything, French cuisine has never sounded more decadent.

“How are you still so hard?”

His head thunked back against the bricks, and a choked laugh dragged out of him. “And?”

She giggled, softer this time. “That’s... honestly, a little heroic. Amazing.”

He groaned, the edge in his voice splitting wide open. “I swear to god—I’m going it blow it right in your hand.”

She slowed her stroke, her hand sliding between his jacket and shirt to clamp down on his waist. “Oh no, baby. You don’t get to tap out when I’ve barely started. You’re gonna see the credits after the feature.”

She gripped him tighter, thumb sweeping the crown. His hips jerked—reflexive, needy.

She knew the tells better than most men knew their passwords. The tight clench of his thighs, the way his hips twitched in expectation, that little flicker in his jaw when he was fighting not to fall apart too soon. And then the low, involuntary groan he gave when she added that precise twist at the top.

So she did it again. And again. More intended, more viciously gentle. Until his body was practically quavering under her rhythm.

That’s when he saw it.

The ring.

His ring.

Gleaming like a petite green sin in the dim alley light—bold, unrepentant, perched snug between the ridges of her knuckles. She must’ve slipped it from its chain and onto her finger when he wasn’t looking—when his pants had come down, when his brain had gone sideways. It shone against her skin with all the drama of a closing argument, catching the movement of her hand every time it slid up and down his cock. Brazen. Ridiculous. Glorious.

He stared, eyes gone wide, chest heaving like he’d just run a fucking marathon in velvet loafers. Pure disbelief tempered only by the rising surge of pleasure threatening to knock him flat.

Her decadent grin spread wider. That same tilt she used before she broke into something expensive. Criminal.

“Look how gorgeous your ring looks on my hand, baby,” she purred, constricting her grip just enough to make him feel it. Then one long, mean stroke—merciless as it was smooth—had him grunting like she’d punched the air out of him.

Sugar in her tone, filth in the intent—“Right while I’m holding your cock.”

That almost undid him. It actually did... just not in the way she expected.

His hips bucked involuntarily—hard—one palm slapping against the wall beside them like he ought to brace against her, or the gravity of her power.

And she could feel it—how close he was, how his body betrayed him completely.

“Careful now,” she whispered, breath hot against his throat. “You’re gonna come all over your ring.”

“Fuck,” he hissed. “I need you.”

His palm found her waist first, then higher—greedier—spanning the swell of her breast, fingers slipping beneath the delicate strap of her dress. He touched her like a man unravelling, desperate to memorise her with his hands before he lost himself completely. She didn’t stop him or bother to slow down.

Ladies, listen up. You let him spiral, let him lose the plot. It, therefore, generates all these amazing results. First of all, you feel like a goddamn goddess.

If anything, the heat of his palm rolling over her chest, thumb brushing the peak of her nipple, made her hand tighten at the base of him, a lazy drag of friction that made his breath catch and his teeth bare. Good, she thought. He’d looked so calm at dinner—composed, controlled, smug. It was time she rattled that composure down to the bones.

His mouth landed near her jaw, warm and unravelling, his breath skipping against the sensitive shell of her ear.

“Christ, baby,” he gulped down. “You’ll kill me.”

“Just a little,” she whispered, a threat swathed in lace.

He gripped the back of her neck now—firm, desperate, tethering. But she could feel the tremble run through him, the growing urgency that turned every touch into a grasp, every kiss into a plea.

And when she felt that telltale twitch in her palm—close, so fucking close—she sank to her knees in one fluid, irreverent motion.

“Eve!” He growled.

“Might want to hold on for this,” she murmured, reaching out and dutifully closing his hand around her hair. Her personal hairband.

His head tipped to the wall with a dull thud, and his breath was knocked right out of him.

She took him into her mouth—no tease, no soft open. Just the hot, wet seal of her lips around him, engulfing pressure sliding down with a purpose that made men remember you. Her hand twisted at the base as her tongue flattened along the underside, every flick and hollow of her cheeks perfectly paced, free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently—almost as if she knew his body better than he did. Her hand stroked what she couldn’t take yet (a lot of it), but she was nothing if not determined, easing deeper, working her gasps and gags, her throat fluttering as she swallowed around him.

Then she pulled back just enough to kiss the tip, run her tongue around it in a slow, devastating circle, and whisper, “Look at me.”

When he did, wrecked and glassy-eyed, and nearly lost it when he saw the glint of the emerald—his emerald—catching the amber haze of the streetlight, shining vulgar and perfect as she worked him over with both mouth and hand, while that gem flashed in and out of sight like punctuation to her rhythm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gritted, hands flying into her hair, helpless to the thrusts into her mouth.

And still, she smiled around him with her eyes. Because down here, on her knees, oh-so-submissive, she fucking owned him. For a single second, she was entitled to billions and billions of dollars.

He let go with a broken sound, head tilted back, hands fastened in her hair. His release hit like a convulsion—deep, violent, ragged, unstoppable—and she took it. All of it.

She kept her lips closed around him, swallowed him down like a secret, let him spill hot down her throat, held still through every violent aftershock until he finally stopped pulsing against her tongue. Only then did she let him slide from her mouth, returning a relic to the altar.

As she littered a few kisses to his hipbone, above her, he was heaving. A ruin of breath and bone, one palm braced against the bricks, the other still fisted in her hair—completely, exquisitely unravelled.

Because for all his suits, his smirks, his predator calm, his moneyed arrogance, his big dick, and relentless pursuit—this was the real him. The one leaning against a piss-stained alley wall, jaw slack, pupils blown, chest rising like he’d been resuscitated by her mouth alone. That wide-eyed, blown-open stare—cracked devotion dressed as disbelief.

Ragged. Gutted. Hers.

She sat back on her heels, knees aching, throat raw, but her chin still tipped with defiance. The streetlamp lit her up from the side, catching the gleam of spit at the corner of her bruised lips, the waterline of her eyes, and the vulgar glint of his emerald still perched like a trophy on her finger.

She didn’t wipe her mouth or fix her hair. She wanted him to see it—the wreckage, the proof still painting her skin.

Look what you made me do, her body said. Now look what I did to you.

“To clarify,” she said, breath still ragged, eyes sharp with mischief. “Was that your soul I just sucked out or are you always this dramatic post-nut?”

He barked a laugh, dragging one trembling hand through his sweat-mussed hair, the other still propping him upright. “You are fucking unbelievable,” he panted.

“Mm.” She rose slowly, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulders and dusting her knees. “Takes one to chase one.”

But just as she turned to make her exit with all the flair of a woman who had already won, his hand caught her jaw.

He wasn’t anywhere near done with her.

He pulled her back around for a feral kiss, so strangely intimate, still so insatiate beneath the smug exterior. Tasting himself, tasting them, tongue plunging, moustache tickling, chasing whatever high was lost into her throat once more.

His other hand plunged low and hiked her thigh up around his hip in one swift motion, dragging her flush against him, pinning her, crowding her into the wall. She gasped at the feel of him again, already half-hard and thoughtless, thrusting up into the soaked heat of her panties, all the way through the flimsy lace and cotton barriers.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her gasping open mouth, “Let me return the favour, sweetheart. I'm a stickler for settling debts.”

“You're hard again?” she giggled, disbelieving. Her hand snuck back to confirm the evidence. “It's been two seconds.”

He grinned, teeth flashing. “It’s the new suit. Gets me going. You like?”

“Jesus, Harry,” she muttered, impressed. “This is either compulsive or Olympic. Have you been microdosing Viagra?”

“I’m just really, really motivated when I see you.”

She gave him a slow stroke through the fabric, lips parted in faux wonder. “Oh, I noticed. Your amazing dick has the recovery rate of a Marvel superhero.”

That husky, ruined laugh of his rang smoke signals all the way to her down there.

She will not deny it: she wanted to let him fuck her. She had been patient was a really long time (read, really two days.) That was practically monastic discipline.

She wanted to be slammed into that wall, chest down, hands crushed in the small of her back, and torn apart. She wanted him to slide into her fast, unrelenting, to fill her in one breathless, punishing thrust and ruin all the good work she’d done painting herself as unfuckwithable. She knew just how soaked she was, how badly her body wanted to cave in and make it impossible for him to forget her.

Instead, she pulled back far enough to break away from him. Her hands stayed on him whilst his desperate lips mouthed up her jaw and ears—one over his feverish heart, the other tenderly cradling his jaw.

Seemingly, fucking around and finding out included taking the win with her. So, she grinned, bright and goddamn invincible.

“Easy, big guy,” she murmured, dragging a lithe finger down his nose and lips. “You blow your load again, what’s left for the encore?”

He stared at her like she was both his best miracle and worst menace.

Then she dropped her leg, smoothed the hem of her dress, and leaned in one last time—her mouth teasing at the shell of his ear—and kissing the coarse arc of his cheek.

“Now, you owe me a ride.”

She hadn’t meant “ride” in the literal sense. But, of course, her recently sucked off, hedge-fund god had taken it that way.

Now here she was, waiting on a curb like a stranded groupie, knees hugged to her chest, fingers picking absently correcting her reapplied gloss, watching him pace twenty feet away, swirling through Important Business like he ran the New York Stock Exchange and the moon phases at the same time. Corporate acrobatics, last-minute deals, numbers, names, mergers.

Harry Castillo was the storm with no centre indeed. Elegant, effusive chaos.

She studied him, inventorying the little habits, just for herself to overthink later.

The way he loosened his collar half an inch, the fabric of his dress shirt tugging tight across his shoulder blades. The way he tilted his phone between his shoulder and ear to glance at his watch, never missing a beat in the conversation, another phone cradling market tickers and colour-coded blocks that meant nothing to her but had his full attention. The clipped, fricative syllables he used when someone tried to talk over him. The furrow of his brows. The press of his thumb and forefinger into his temple, as if the numbers both gave him migraines and fed his soul.

She wasn't supposed to notice this much, or even care. He was a depleted target.

After all, for her bravado, her games and schemes, she witnessed it in him: the sheer momentum of him. The time and tension. The experience that streaked his hair a little, crinkled at his eyes. He was the exemplar of hard work, empire-building and sleepless nights.

It was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen in any gentleman.

Yet, he made her feel small. Smaller than the filthy alley, the incredible sex, and the swagger had made her feel. It was that old, low-grade hum of self-loathing which unfurled in quiet moments when her five-dollar acrylics started to chip and bleed, and her bank account re-enacted a crime scene.

She was what she was. High school dropout, actress by ambition, hustler by necessity. Her résumé was an unconsolidated array of lies, fake eyelashes, and second jobs that paid in tips and IOUs. She didn’t articulate ‘Bloomberg,’ didn’t know what ‘price reflecting risk’ meant, and had never owned anything sparklier than a gold-plated nameplate necklace she hocked at sixteen.

She looked down at it now—his emerald ring glinting like she belonged under it's cocky gleam. Laughable, really. She twisted it round slowly, scrutinising the way it caught the streetlight as it threw new tints of the spectrum right into her undeserving eyes.

A low, motorised purr broke through her spiral.

She glanced up, confused at first, like the street itself had growled.

Something was coming. A fast, smooth statement. Sleek, angular, low-slung, orange—a tropical fruit had a baby with a warning sign. A McLaren, maybe? As far as her fluency in Car and Driver went, she could tell that thing had arguments about acceleration. Seriously, it belonged on a racetrack, not a city street. It was impractical, unreasonable, and utterly excessive—just like Harry.

As the car slid to a stop at the curb, she watched one of the suited security detail break formation and approach it while a man in gloves stepped out and performed a silent, expensive transaction with a key fob. And she—still on the curb, blinking—realised that she had been excluded from this entirely.

Oh, she wasn't part of this mean machine.

She was luggage. Really hot luggage in a pretty dress.

“It’s a platform play, but we can bolt on 2–3 tuck-ins within 18 months.” Harry was still speaking into his phone, utterly unfazed by the gravity-defying spaceship that had just landed in front of them. He was simply striding toward it like it was a goddamn Toyota.

Her stare ping-ponged between him, the security guy, the McLaren, and back to Harry. Soon, a slow surge of realisation struck her.

This was for her.

This was what happened when she joked about owing her a ride after blowing his mind (and him) in an alleyway. For one stupefied, unguarded second, she believed it—she might actually be fucked.

“We'll get this in front of IC and revert. Thanks, Mark.” A crisp click ended Harry's call, and the phones vanished into his jacket, so he turned his full attention to her.

He offered his hand, palm up, fingers splayed—infuriatingly gentlemanly. And the grin that spread across his face was downright criminal, that it should’ve come with a warning label.

“I believe I owe you a ride,” he rumbled.

She took one look at the orange beast purring by the curb and immediately shot up to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth to control a shrill squeal.

“Harry,” she breathed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart.”

“I should’ve given you head the first time we met.”

He snorted. “Oh, I remember. But you needed dental insurance before taking on the full... package?”

Every ounce of self-respect fled her system.

“I was joking!” she gasped, eyes locked on the car. “I mean, I’d give you your ring back—but you didn’t have to get me a sports car! This is insane. This is—”

She clapped her hands once, spun on her heel, convulsing, fanning a hand at her face. “—so goddamn sexy I might cry. Look at her! She has curves! She’s shiny! She’s so my type!”

Harry watched, entirely too amused and pleased with his own theatrics. His shoulders started to shake with deep, husky laughter.

“I hate to spoil your greedy little soul, but I just wanted a nightcap.” He tapped the hood of the car. “It was gathering dust, I figured you would appreciate—”

“I appreciate, I really, really appreciate.” She grinned, bouncing a little in place, pitch rising with every word. “Oh, we are breaking so many traffic laws tonight. We’re gonna crash this thing straight into an uppity country club.”

She bounced toward the passenger side like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to yank open the door—

“Other side.”

She halted mid-motion, narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

He raised the key fob near his head, pushed a button—and the car croaked an obedient electronic chirp as the driver’s side door lifted vertically, like a butterfly wing.

“You’re driving us tonight,” he informed.

She stared at him, attempting to render his words to her reality. She really must've blown off the one little screw that held his common sense together.

Her heart slammed against her ribs with a cocktail of adrenaline, arousal, and unbidden panic. And with it came the reveal of: “Harry. I haven’t driven anything in years.”

“Good,” he said, strolling about to the passenger side, leather shoes scuffing. “You’ve got experience.”

She scoffed. “What... and if I kill us?”

He shrugged with that aggravating impassivity. “For what I’m worth, they’d better build a memorial—not leave me smeared on the freeway.”

The key was dropped into her hand, and she looked down at it, then at the car—her reflection warped across its polished surface.

For a moment, it began flickering behind her eyes—that horrified, disbelieving piece of her that still didn’t think she deserved to touch a machine this exquisite, let alone drive it. A thief, a fake—what business did she have behind the wheel of a seven-figure car?

Despite that, she smiled. Well, that was not her now. She was made of wicked chaos, pink Chanel gloss, and full-figured hunger.

“Well, buckle up,” she said, ducking and gliding behind the wheel, basically stepping into her final form. “If we die, I’m haunting you with blue balls in the afterlife.”

He laughed, following her in. “Duly noted, sweetheart.”

And the door hissed shut, sealing her in.

One thing you needed to know about this city—laid out like a glittering, fatigued whore at her feet—was that even the rats had a hustle.

So before you judged her for jumping at the wheel of a hypercar she didn’t own, playing the coquette in knockoffs, maybe ask yourself this: what would you do, if a million-dollar engine thrummed at your fingertips and the man beside you looked at you like a sex god personified?

“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t give these nobodies no sympathy,” SZA whispered through the surround speakers, truth bleeding from her voice like philosophies.

She mouthed along to the words, head bobbing between the headrest, legs up on the dash.

She’d meant to steal one little big ring, and a few hours of air conditioning and affection. But somehow, she’d ended up here—idling by Riverside in a car that purred with decadent control, less an animal’s snarl, more a savvy grin. A flick of her foot on the pedal had set it forward like a breath—no lurch, no grunt. Just a seamless glide, the motion of a motor made to conquer without show.

New York City arrayed as circuitry in front of them—vast, shining, veined with red brake lights and screw-ups. They had chased the fringes of midnight toward a lookout she hadn’t been to in years, one of those places you only returned to when you had something to prove. Not anymore, the McLaren did it for her.

Her fingers traced the stitched grooves of the steering wheel, supple black leather, and the centre console illuminated the space like the cockpit of a fighter jet: chrome, carbon fibre, touchscreens glowing like digital seduction. Even the whole cabin smelled like ozone, leather and aerospace engineering. Every inch of it whispered, you don’t belong here.

Yeah, she didn’t. Her fingernails still had dirt under them. Her shoes were vintage consignment pretending to be Gucci. Her confidence, like most things in this city, was counterfeit—but expensive-looking.

And goddamn, did she look good pretending.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. The black sedan behind them hadn’t moved out of formation since the restaurant. No hazard lights, no overt tailing. Harry’s version of subtlety: a ghost that reeked of payroll.

Then her ex-target's voice cut through the hum of the engine.

“So,” he said, so offhandedly it almost sounded bored—if not for the fact that he was watching her like a man circling a flame. “Cartier or Harry Winston before closing time? I did promise you a handful of rings.”

She glanced over at him, lips quirking.

This man. This ludicrous, outrageous man. He had no idea the effect he had on her. Or maybe he did—and that was half the danger.

Here she was, fresh off scamming him into a disgustingly expensive dinner, jacking his family heirloom right under his nose, and now she was joyriding his million-dollar toy while he reclined in the passenger seat like some amused villain who’d already won.

She snorted, not bothering to hide the laugh. “I just need to say this out loud for the universe: I am using the absolute hell out of you.”

Harry leaned his head back, one arm slung behind her seat, the other lazily adjusting the cuff of his blazer. “If anything,” he said, “I’m disappointed you’re not using me more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t enough?”

“Hardly. If I were in your little shoes,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her strappy knockoffs, “we'd already be popping a bottle of Dom on a jet, halfway to Geneva right now.”

Her laugh cracked out before she could stop it. “Wow. Talk dirty to me, Papi.”

Grinning that tongue-in-cheek smile of his, he reached for her feet, pulling them up into his lap without asking. Scud dusted his sleek custom trousers, but he only focused on tracing lazy circles along her calf—intimate, absentminded, entitled, so domestic.

He toyed with the buckle of her shoe, lifting it with an index finger. “Speaking of, we need to get you a new pair. Maybe a dozen. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Jimmy Choos,” she said, going along with it.

“Done.”

“And while you’re at it, maybe a penthouse on the east side?”

“Take mine.” Then added, “Conditionally.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Still trying to bankroll what you can’t own.”

He kissed the inside of her ankle, exactly where she’d dabbed perfume to mask the shoe funk. “Still stealing what you secretly want to keep.”

Her heart thudded—almost annoyed at the betrayal. That little jump, that involuntary jolt at his voice, his closeness. As if her body hadn’t gotten the memo that she was supposed to be in control.

She let her head tip lazily toward him, eyes half-lidded. “You really want to be used by me?”

He leaned in, that sinuous way he did everything, as though gravity didn’t apply to him quite the same. “Only you.”

God knows she'd heard every variation of flattery laced in a threat—but that wrecked, gruff tone of his crushed under her ribs she didn’t care to name.

She held his gaze for a second too long, the moment coiling tight between them, breath warming the space where danger meets desire. She could taste it. This thing between them. It was scorched sweet.

He tilted his head, that lazy confidence coiled behind his jaw like a spring. “You’re the only one who uses me right, sweetheart. You do it selfish. And it works.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, because it was. But more so because it was true. In the non-tragic fucked-up way that made her heart twitch in a place she didn’t like to acknowledge.

“Is it?” he leaned in, letting his knuckles graze the inside of her thigh. “Because it sounded a hell of a lot like a compliment to me.”

She tilted her head with that dangerous little smirk, which usually preceded theft or sex.

“Tell me what you think I want from you,” she said, the implication lingering like steam off an expensive glass.

He didn't miss a beat; he met her gaze, dead-on. “Comfort. Sex. Money. Exactly in that order.”

Well. That was blunt. But she mostly got used to the sting.

It wasn’t a wrong guess, but it wasn’t the whole picture, either. That was the problem with men like Harry; they saw the silhouette and thought they interpreted the sculpture.

She projected that image—Eve, a loose, cocky, precocious thief in a pretty dress. It was the only currency that worked in most rooms. But… a part of her wanted to be seen through it, not as it. Charming fun. Clever girl. Desirable for more than how easily she slipped a watch off a man’s hand or a moan from his throat.

She inhaled through her nose, lips parting like a question left unsaid. “You really think that’s all I am?”

“I think you’ve figured out how to get what you want,” he said, his hand slipping casually down to the arch of her ankle. “And I respect the hell out of it.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t the yes she’d been half-daring him to say, either.

She looked away, a flick of her lashes down, forming a curtain between them. The lights of the city glimmered past the windshield, multicoloured, a little blurred. She didn’t even realise she’d gone quiet until—

His fingers clicked in front of her face. She blinked, coming back to herself, and turned just in time to catch his smirk.

“Earth to Eve?”

She sat up a little straighter, drawing her legs out over his lap in an easy stretch, avoiding a pang that was still ringing somewhere in her ribs. Her heel grazed the far car door, the other foot resting right where he wanted her. She could work with that.

She smiled—bright, artificial, wicked. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Back to our suite,” she lied, sugar-tipped, curling his hand between her bare knees. She guided it higher until his fingers found the hem of her dress and slipped beneath, “First, I want to know something.”

Thin lace. Warm skin. Low hum of history.

His palm cupped her, long fingers pressing against the soaked scrap of fabric as if he wasn’t already fluent in the language of her thighs. And still, she caught it—that stutter in his breath, the falter in his cool. Good. Let him lose his balance a little. She liked him like that.

“Does this question have to do with you coming on my hands?” he rasped.

She laughed, full-throated and bright, head tilted back like she'd just heard a good joke. “Don’t you want your ring back?”

He blinked, stunned, stupidly handsome. But before he could fathom a reply, she caught his hand in both of hers and pressed the car’s key fob into his palm. Then, with a magician’s flair—wrist tilted just so, fingers guiding the moment like sleight-of-hand, let the reveal land—there it was.

The emerald, back on his ring finger like it had never left. Gleaming.

“We’re even,” she said casually, all silk and smoke, like she hadn’t rehearsed that little flourish hours ago.

He gave a disbelieving laugh, a sound of him still catching up, halfway between fury and foreplay. She thrived with that sound on him—surprise laced with surrender.

“And this?” He gestured between them, a vague sweep of his hand as if it incorporated the entire cyclone.

“A draw, maybe,” she sang out. Then—after a beat—“Unless you want to raise the stakes.”

But his eyes flicked to hers—amusement glinting in the depths of them.

“You know,” he drawled, slow as molasses and twice as rich, “I promised myself I wouldn’t let you walk away tonight. I even…”

He undid his blazer button with a flick of his thumb, rolled the sleeve back, shirt cuff—pressed, white, expensive. Bare wrist, no watch.

The custom Hublot was missing. Only the steel bracelet jangled noiselessly, missing its pair.

Her smile bloomed—teeth and mischief. Pure delight with a cherry on top.

He looked at his wrist again, as if it might’ve reappeared, then at her. Half-outraged (you little shit), half-astonished (I really want to fuck you), and completely turned on. Her man.

“Way ahead of you, honey,” she whispered. Winking, but not bothering to show the prize. That wasn’t the point. She never flashed what she’d already claimed.

Theft was foreplay, and proof was irrelevant. And didn’t it feel good being her?

And the fact that somewhere between the appetiser and the edge of his self-control, he couldn’t stop chasing her even as she’d slipped through his fingers and walked off with both the crown and the kingdom.

In that moment, she felt like a force of nature. Beautiful, smug and completely untouchable.

And yet... she knew how this would go. How she’d go home eventually, peel off her heels, strip the night away, and set the Hublot down on her dresser like a trophy, her evidence of reality, even though it would never match anything she owned—too masculine, too boorish, too expensive.

And she’d lie awake, wondering if Harry was laughing right now, alone in his too-big bed, in a penthouse that echoed with emptiness. Or perhaps giving security some nondescript bullshit line like, “Don’t chase her. I'll find her soon.”

Now, she languidly drew her legs back into the footwell, all part of the final act. One last fluid exit, stage left. She reached for her satchel that she'd slotted somewhere by the console.

The butterfly door hissed open with a smooth hydraulic sigh, too much preposterous sex appeal. But before she could duck out, Harry’s warm, possessive hand caught her wrist.

“Give me something in return,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. Like if she didn’t, he’d unravel.

She turned, one brow lifting with theatrical grace—that signature look—you don’t know who you’re playing with, do you?

“I gave you something mind-blowing an hour ago,” she muttered, chin tilting.

He smirked, but didn’t let go. “Something of yours, sweetheart.” His gaze dropped to where her purse was on her lap, then climbed again, a lazy drag that felt like fingertips down her spine.

“I’m a materialist, too. You know that.”

That made her laugh, laced with irony only women like her could master—mostly weapon, all charm.

What was he, Prince Charming? Did he want a glass slipper, a trace of perfume, a lock of hair? Did he expect her to leave behind some totem of surrender, some girlish trace he could pine over, so he could come chasing after her with keen, awaiting arms and an incurable erection?

Oh, this poor man. Wrong fairytale.

His lopsided smile twitched, as if he were biting the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check, which also made her hesitate for half a second.

Just long enough for a thought to flicker through her. Unserious. Wildly inappropriate. Which, of course, meant it was perfect.

She shifted in her seat with catlike precision, eyes holding his, lifting her hips just enough to hook her thumbs beneath the waistband of her panties—white lace, delicate, and soaked through in the patternings that would make anyone blush. They slid down in an inching, methodical glide—past her soft thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles—until she held them between two fingers. A peace offering. A punchline. A poem in cursive.

But oh, Harry saw. His pupils expanded. His jaw ticked. There was the faintest inhale—so minor you could miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

And then she twirled them once, dainty and devilish, before looping the lace over the rearview mirror, letting them hang there like some heretical pair of fuzzy fucking dice.

“Fits right in your pocket,” she said with a girlish grin. “Low-upkeep. No batteries required.”

“I was hoping for your number,” Harry murmured, voice dragging a beat slower now, eyes still on the lace dangling from the mirror. “But I’ll have to look into your file for that. Might gild this.”

“Or sniff it like a sick fuck, I won't judge,” she replied, grinning as her fingers skimmed his jaw, affectionate enough to confuse.

Then she leaned in, cupped his jaw, and embossed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Absolute mockery to his devastation. She didn’t pull back right away; her lips hovered near his ear, voice dropping a fraction.

“You said file,” she murmured, the piece clicking into place. “That means you’ve been digging.”

His grin didn’t twitch. “You gave me a fake name, stole from me, then disappeared. What wronged man wouldn’t?”

Of fucking course.

That name. The one she’d given him in a silk-wrapped lie, born over fine liquor and misdirection. Eve—first woman, first sin, first scam. She’d let him keep it mostly because it worked, fit her like one of his tailored suits: sharp, pricey, vaguely challenging.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t stupid. Two days were plenty of time for a man like him to trace her name, her past, even her blood type if he really wanted. She knew the kind of resources he had, which meant either he’d been telling the truth—he had been out of town—or he’d been playing a longer game. And if he was playing, she needed to know the rules.

When she pulled back just enough to study his face, his eyes held hers with an agonising grace.

“Mm,” she mused. “And what’d you find?”

“I’m not a man who gives away his sources.”

She bit her lip. “But you’ve read it.”

His hand flexed on the leathered console, as if he were cogitating some undecipherable truth in his wide palm. “Skimmed,” he admitted. “Certain... hidden highlights.”

That made her laugh. “Did it come with a caution label?”

“Countless,” he said mordantly. “In red, underlined.”

She giggled, a little proud. “Bet you liked that so much it got you hard.”

He looked at her for a long, unreadable second. “You made sure of that.”

She smirked. “So, what else do you know?”

He let his miles-deep eyes trace her as though he were approximating her against intel he had in his desk somewhere. Fact versus sensation. Biography versus influence.

Finally, he said, “Enough to want more.”

“Of me?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Of the truth,” he said simply.

The way he said it got her wavering, which was no easy feat from someone like him. There was no flirtation or ploy involved. Harry was... interested. Still playing the game—but this time, one she hadn’t mapped out entirely.

So she flashed him a smile—bright, effortless, razor-edged. “Good luck with that,” she said breezily. “I charge by the minute.”

Then that smirk ghosted onto his face again—annoyingly familiar, dangerously fond. “I could pick up the tab for the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

Fuck, she wasn't kidding when she said that made her wet to her toes.

She was thinking through it all now. About files, how much he knew, about why the idea of being read like a dossier made her feel more exposed than when she’d dropped her panties for him.

He knew enough to chase, not enough to catch. Until then, that was the only leverage she had left on him.

“Thanks for your time, Mr Castillo,” she added, and that was the sting, of course it was—a jab at the custom Hublot she’d stolen straight off his wrist mid-handjob. She’d pocketed his time, and now she was thanking him for it. Full circle.

She slid out of the car, the hem of her dress flirting with indecency, heels tapping against the pavement, ass bared to the breeze like the night had to feel her too, and the wind responded—chasing her like it wanted to finish what they’d started.

She didn’t look back until she was halfway across the lot, because you know, lesson learned: drama demands distance.

Then she turned—just her head.

Harry was standing outside the car now, one hand braced against the hood like he needed it to stay upright. His thumb stroked at his smirking lower lip like he was trying to remember what just happened—and whether he wanted it to happen again. Shirt collar askew, hair messy from her hands, sweat matted, chest heaving, ring back on his finger—

He looked like debauchery on pause. A wealthy man wondering if, possibly, he’d just met the devil and preferred it to all the angels that roamed.

She gave him a smug, little fingers-only wave. Fucking couture.

The exit mask mattered. The smoking, final walk away in heels someone else paid for, hips swinging like a metronome wound up on spite and superiority.

Another dumbass bites the dust.

You need to know that, at the end of the day, Eve didn’t just chew on any apple. She carved it into slices, served it on stolen silver, and made sure God was watching.

Her bittersweet punishment was history.

Because temptation lingered, smiling when it burned, knowing where you kept your heart vaulted, and it definitely never forgot who bit first.

scam ideas for part 3? I'm thinking of the club and a bigshot entrepreneur 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads (you are my one and only), @woodxtock (my baby girllll, my whole life), @divine-timings , @jodiswiftle (BAY-BEH!), @bensonispunk @brittmb115 , @for-a-longlongtime (honey, thank you so much for the rants), @pedritotito , @desuidesu , @bluelightwrites , @isa942572 , @mallingcalling-blog , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @itstokyo-cos , @holholliday , @i-workwithpens , @any-corrie , @yourallaround-simp , @directfromreynaldo , @tezooks , @yungsuesi-blog , @czessianna , @aleariixx , @noisynightmarepoetry , @th3mrskory , @monamedeiros12 , @oliveksmoked , @gothcsz , @itstheanxietyforme , @lowrisemiller } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you for your support! 🌻🦋

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luxfuxxvii · 1 day ago

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sometimes writing is literally just hiding my phone under my pillow so that i stop doom scrolling and start fixing shit because like wtf is going on with this draft

#writer #writeblr #ao3 #ao3 writer #writer things #writers life #writing is hard #writing life #writing community #writing #writer problems #writer struggles #writing problems #writer thoughts #my love interest is literally so fucking passive like i actually had to brainstorm what it would be like in his pov just to fix it #being a fanfic writer is so hard when one of your main characters is a grumpy old man like pls sir where do you keep all that contempt #and how on earth am i supposed to be able to write it #hes not a very expressive person so i have to figure out how im supposed to make the mc be able to read him or like think about him and?????#its just so hard to be able to place it

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hollow-prior · 19 hours ago

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I read both pretty equally!

If anyone's looking for some non-fiction book recs:

- The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog by Bruce Perry (A bit heavy but it talks about childhood trauma and the effect it has on peoplem. Its written by a child psychologist [iirc... he may also be a psychiatrist] about some of the cases he's worked on)

- Stiff by Mary Roach (Pretty interesting book about human cadavers and their history and use in things like medical science, car driving tests, etc. It gets a bit dark at times but the author handles it incredibly well with a mix of humour and respect)

- Pollution is Colonialism by Max Liboiron (One of my FAVOURITE academics. This is one of their books on pollution from an Indigenous lens. I've only read a few chapters here and there because I'm waiting to take it out from the library but I love their writing and work in general [plus their gratuitous use of footnotes])

- Look Me in the Eye by John Elder Robinson (This is a memoir by a late-diagnosed autistic man. I read it a while ago so I'm not sure how well it's aged but it was a great read either way! There's some points/language that I disagree with but I think it's a pretty interesting book and it had a lot of information that I -- as an early-diagnosed guy -- never considered. His other book Raising Cubby is also pretty good!)

- The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker (It's a very good book about the fear response, threat assessment, and violence. It can be a bit heavy at times and there's some points I disagree with but I thought it was an interesting read)

literary kinsey scale time

i’m just curious what mix of fiction and nonfiction the average tumblrina is consuming

#polls #books #bookblr #book recs by me(at)

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izzyy-stuff · 3 days ago

Text

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐄 - 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐌𝐆𝐘𝐔

IN WHICH after waking up to a song playing outside of your window as if you were in a corny romance movie, you get to meet Choi Beomgyu, a boy so desperately in love that he drove across town to confess his love, just to find out he did so outside of the wrong house.

pairing– Choi Beomgyu x fem!reader

featuring– txt members, original characters, Heeseung and Jake of enhypen

genre– fluff, angst, suggestive — mature talks, topics, but no explicit smut

contains– band member!Beomgyu, nerd!Beomgyu, nerd!reader, school setting BUT EVERYONE IS OF AGE, reader works at a convenience store, Beomgyu has a crush on someone else at first, party + drinking on said party, reader lives with her parents, both parents mentioned, reader is mentioned to be a virgin, reader is able to play basketball, reader wearing a skirt, 10 things I hate about you mentions

word count– 18.2k

↪ izzy speaks... ahh my baby is finally here! I love writing fluff, it's how I was made to be—a girl that writes happy stories. I really think serenade is a cute one, and I'm so glad I decided to do it with Beomgyu, my love <3 I want to say thank you to Mae again for helping me with editing this, you saved my life <3 I also want to thank Adel—for always listening to my yaps about my stories and helping me sort out my thoughts. And everyone reading this. My stories happen because of y'all. :3

playlist | masterlist

It’s been a while since you’ve had a good night’s sleep. However, you knew that the moment your face hit the pillow and the exhaustion from the long week settled in, tonight was going to be the day. There was no need for you to wake up early tomorrow, and you were going to take advantage of that, ready to sleep throughout the entire morning.

But your plans on catching up onto your messed up sleep schedule fail once again when the guitar reaches your ears, stirring you awake. Then, the soft voice follows right after, making you rub your eyes with the back of your hand, glancing at the time on your phone. 8:12. There goes your dream of sleeping in.

You make it out of the bed, searching for where the sound is coming from. It couldn’t be your house, you’d have to own a guitar for that first. Once you reach your window and look outside to see a boy with a guitar, it all starts making sense.

Well actually, it makes even less sense.

You scan his figure, watching his brown hair fall in front of his eyes as he plays the instrument, a bike lying right beside his feet. You blink confusedly, listening to the soft melody you don’t recognize. And even though you can’t seem to wrap your head around why he is standing outside your house and singing a love song, it does sound amazing. His voice combined with the soft chords of the guitar warm your heart, causing you to open the window fully to see and hear better.

As soon as you do, his eyes lock with yours and he freezes. The song stops, his fingers stilled on the guitar strings as he scans your face, quickly looking around as if he was searching for someone. You both blink confusedly when your eyes meet again, trying to see what the hell is happening. He clears his throat first, awkwardly running his hand through his hair. “Is– Uhm, is Yuna here?” You frown, narrowing your eyes at him. “Who?” You question, watching his cheeks turn red, probably from embarrassment. “Kim Yuna? I uhm, isn’t this her house?”

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Of course this poor boy is confessing his love under your window for a different girl. You don’t know him, obviously, but it still manages to hit. “Are you from Haneul Academy?” You scan him all over again, getting your answer in the form of a slight nod. You nod as well, everything falling in pieces together. Kim Yuna, the one person you despise. Yeah, she definitely doesn’t live in your house.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no. She doesn’t even live on this street.” If his cheeks were red before, he doesn’t want to know what his face looks like now. It’s so utterly embarrassing. What was he even thinking about? Riding the bike with a guitar on his back on a Saturday morning to sing a love song for someone he wasn’t dating was already stupid enough, but this? This was terrible.

He moves around busily, grabbing his bike so quickly that his guitar almost breaks as it bumps into it. You open your mouth to say something, anything really, but you can’t find the right words. What are you supposed to say? Hey, it’s all good, at least you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of anyone else? You sigh, watching him get on his bike while mumbling soft, messy apologies without looking you in the eyes. He almost manages to fall off it when he fixes his guitar, but quickly gets himself back together, running away as if he’s just robbed a bank.

You watch him go from your bedroom window, your eyes softening just slightly. You feel bad for him, honestly. You’re sure he feels embarrassed, you would too, but a part of you thinks this might actually be better for him.

You know Yuna briefly. You’ve never talked to her outside of school, and even then, it was just when she wanted to borrow your notes before a test, but you still knew enough. A social butterfly with friends everywhere she looks, always around someone, no matter who it is. Her grades aren’t anything impressive, just average, and still, people seem to love her for a reason unknown to you. She’s pretty, you have to give her that, but you always believed in looking for more in a person, which leaves you confused on how it’s possible she is always dating someone.

Maybe she isn’t a bad person, you can’t know that, but you know she cheats her way through exams every semester, that she’s got a few upper classmates wrapped around her finger enough for them to always get her into the front of the line at the cafeteria, that she has started the ‘pretty contest’ in her first year just so the guys could rate girls at school for their own pleasure, and that much was definitely enough for you to dislike her.

You step away from the window, lingering for just a second before jumping into your bed again, your hands resting on your stomach as you stare at the ceiling, replaying the song in your head with a soft hum of the melody. You close your eyes shortly after, falling back into the dream realm, where you see the unknown boy again, singing a song only you could hear.

You regret signing up for an afternoon shift as soon as you step inside the store, your manager barely greeting you before running off, mumbling something about not being able to wait to get home and watch the football game. You settle behind the cash register, stretching your arms above your head.

It’s shortly after that the real work starts and you see customers walking in. It feels okay until people start asking you for help while you have a line at the cash register, trying your best to explain to them where they can find the product while scanning items of the person in front of you. They’re usually understanding, letting you do what you need and willing to wait a while, but there are also occasions where you get yelled at for being too slow or being a mess, making you clench your jaw. It’s not a hard job and it pays you good money, that’s why you like it so much, but people like that always make you want to quit.

Thankfully, it slows down before you can lose your mind and never come back. You breathe out in relief, sitting down in your chair and unlocking your phone. There’s ten minutes left before you can leave and you just pray no one else comes in. If you’re lucky, the manager gets here earlier and lets you leave even before your shift fully ends.

But of course, it’s not the manager that walks in. You raise your head and place your phone aside, your eyes widening when you see the same black zip up hoodie you did this morning. His hands are in his pockets, his feet leading him to a ramen alley before he can even notice you.

You watch him from your place, debating if it’s better to leave him alone and hope he doesn’t recognize you or approach him. Eventually, when he walks to the cash register to pay, you settle for the latter. “Hi,” you greet him awkwardly, scanning his cup of ramen. His eyes meet yours and his cheeks immediately turn pink, making him avert his eyes again as he greets you back. You smile, hoping to make it somehow less awkward while telling him his total. He places the exact amount in front of you and grabs his food, hesitating for a second. “I’m sorry, again,” he mumbles, raising his head again.

Your eyes soften a bit when you catch the blush hiding behind his glasses and messy hair, obviously still flustered. “I didn’t…did I wake you up?” He wonders when he remembers you standing in the window in your pajamas with your hair slightly ruffled from sleep. You shrug, putting the money away into the register before turning your head back to him. “Yeah but it’s fine, I wanted to wake up early anyway,” you lie so he doesn’t feel even worse, watching him hum in response.

“Can I, uhm, do you want anything from the store? Like coffee or ice cream? I…feel bad,” he admits, his eyes more sincere than you thought possible. You think about it, trying to see what the correct answer is, but when you figure there isn’t one, you just nod. “Coffee would be nice,” you agree, and before he can walk away to find a cup, you extend your hand towards him, your name slipping past your lips. He smiles, still awkward, as he shakes your hand, repeating your name inside his head to memorize it. “Choi Beomgyu.”

Your manager steps inside the store just as you collect the money for your coffee from Beomgyu. You smile at him, stepping out and making space for him at the register so he can lock it. It’s been around a year since you started working here and for some reason, he still doesn’t want you closing. At first, you found it weird, worried about what you did wrong, but then you learnt he is like that with every one of his part timers, no matter how long he’s known them for. His trust issues are bad, but honestly you can’t blame him. He’s just being careful.

Beomgyu stands on the side awkwardly, debating if this was his cue to leave. Your manager seems to catch onto that because his eyes flicker from him to you before sighing. “Yeah, you’re all good for today. Feel free to leave with your little boyfriend.” There were so many things wrong with the sentence, but you didn’t have a chance to correct him before Beomgyu hands you your drink, offering to walk you home since it’s dark outside.

You walk side by side, sipping on your coffee without a single word. You’re not sure if he minds or not. With his hands in his pockets again and his eyes glued to the ground beneath his feet, it’s hard to tell. “You don’t have to walk me home,” you mumble, making him look up. “It’s okay. I know where you live now anyway,” he jokes, but his laugh doesn’t sound entirely convincing, more like regretting.

“How did you end up there?” You wonder, watching the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. You narrow your eyes, trying your best to read him. “I’ve got the address from one of Yuna’s friends—Jia. I asked her for it last week, I doubt she moved out in the last few days and you started living there instead, though.” He kicks a few rocks on the ground and you nod. “Lived there my whole life,” you let him know and he hums. “I was stupid,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it’s something he expected deep down.

You’re not sure what to say or do. People never have a right or wrong answer, but most of the time, you can still tell what they expect from you or what they want to hear by the tone of their voice, by the way they stand, or any other body language. Beomgyu doesn’t give you any clues, though.

“Do you…like her a lot?” You ask instead, the words feeling sour on your lips. He seems to think for a second, weighing his pros and cons. “We’ve spoken twice,” he mumbles, blowing some air on his forehead to get his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t exactly know her, to be honest, but yeah, I do like her.”

“Why?” The question comes out more judging than you’d want it to but either he doesn’t notice, or simply doesn’t care. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “She was nice when we spoke. It surprised me. I never expected a girl like her to look my way, let alone ask me about music and when our performances are.”

“A girl like what?” You frown, quickly masking it by taking another sip. “A pretty girl,” he says casually, and when he senses you quiet down, his eyes widen, quickly shaking his hands in the air to correct himself. “Which isn’t supposed to mean that the girls that do talk to me normally are ugly. Not that many girls talk to me. I– uhm– I think everyone is pretty, in their own way. She just is kind of out of my league, you know? And that makes me even stupider for thinking there would be a chance but–”

“Calm down,” you interrupt his panicking, a snicker escaping your lips. He’s blushing again and it’s honestly kind of cute. “If you think you’re stupid, then you probably have a chance with her, she likes that kind.” He rolls his eyes at your comment, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, making your lips curl up into a smile. You’re glad he understands a joke and doesn’t attack you immediately—which is something you’re sure all of the boys she keeps around herself would do.

“Sorry for the rambling. I don’t exactly know how you’re supposed to talk to girls,” he admits, making you chuckle. You let the conversation settle into a comfortable silence again, thinking about everything he’s said until now. The longer you spend with him, the less he makes sense to you. He’s nice, calm, quiet, innocent and pure, so why does he look at someone like Yuna? You can’t wrap your head around it. There’s a specific type of guys she’s dated, from what you observed, always the exact opposite of what Beomgyu is.

“The song is really nice by the way,” you proclaim, finishing your drink. “What song?” He asks confusedly, processing your sentence for a second before he connects the dots, his eyes widening. “It’s cringe,” he corrects you, averting his eyes again in embarrassment. “Do you really think that?” — “Yeah,” he nods, but you don’t believe him. To you, it seems more like he’s building up a wall in case you were going to agree, change your mind and say it’s the worst song you’ve ever heard.

“Well, I think it’s really good,” you assure him. “It’s been playing on repeat in my head.”

“Really?” He blinks hopefully, your smile widening as you nod. “Yeah. You wrote it, right?”

“I did,” he agrees, biting back his smile. “It’s stupid, though, isn’t it? Writing a song for a girl that I know will reject me.”

“You keep saying that you’re stupid and that what you do is stupid,” you mumble, shaking your head slightly. “But I don’t think that’s right.” He seems caught off guard by your words, struggling to find the right answer.

“I’m not stupid,” he says finally, tilting his head slightly with a sigh. “But I make decisions like that, sometimes.”

“You think liking her is one of them?” He doesn’t even rethink his answer before nodding, mumbling something about a hierarchy in popularity and the slim chances of her liking him back. When you ask why he decided to confess then, if he’s so sure he doesn’t have any chances with her, he tells you about how his friends boosted his ego the night before and he ended up believing in himself more. You listen closely, thinking about how it’d feel to be in his position.

After learning about Beomgyu’s crush and the way he sees Yuna, you naturally shift the conversation to something lighter, something that you’ve been wondering about and you know he won’t mind talking about—music.

He tells you about his band, the process behind his song writing and how he got into music at first, making you smile as you listen to his story on your way home. Honestly, you could have been home at least ten minutes ago, but for some reason, you didn’t want to leave. You enjoy talking to him, seeing his viewpoint on certain stuff and listening to his soft voice, making you take a longer route just to be with him longer.

You don’t think he minds, his laugh and stories making you think he likes being around you just as much as you do.

Once you do finally reach your house, Beomgyu stops mid step, smiling awkwardly again as he stands in the exact same place he did this morning. You smile back at him, glancing at the house, the soft light in the living room window letting you know your parents are there. “Thank you for the coffee.” He shakes his head slightly, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Thank you for liking my song. Possibly more than the person it was meant for.” Somehow, he doesn’t sound sad. In fact, it’s almost like he’s making fun of the situation now.

“Good night, Beomgyu,” you smile gently, his lips forming the same grin. “Good night.”

You feel exhausted by the time lunch comes around on monday, the lack of sleep from the previous night finally getting to you. Still, it feels worth it when you know it helped you do well on today’s tests. Sometimes, you question if it’s really necessary to do all this for some grades, but after another success, your worries wash off and everything makes sense again.

You walk through the full cafeteria, looking for a table to sit at, when your eyes fall to a familiar face, his lips turning into a soft smile when he notices you. You smile back at him but don’t move, still trying to find a table—preferably one that is empty. You’re not sure what Beomgyu’s smile means, if it’s an invitation to sit with him and his friend, but you don’t want to risk the embarrassment if it’s not.

But no matter how closely you look, you find nothing, your feet slowly bringing you to his table anyway. “Mind if I sit here?” You ask carefully and Beomgyu doesn’t hesitate moving to create space for you. You slide beside him, smiling awkwardly as a form of gratitude. “Sorry for interrupting– Taehyun?” You blink when your eyes land on the boy opposite you, recognizing him from one of the math competitions the school held just a few weeks ago. He greets you warmly, even though the confusion in his voice is obvious.

“Oh, wait,” his eyes widen in realization, flickering between you and Beomgyu. “Are you the girl he ambushed?” — “I didn’t ambush anyone!” Beomgyu argues immediately, his cheeks turning red after realizing how loud he must have been just now. “Of course not,” Taehyun scoffs. “You just sang a love song–”

“Alright, shut up,” Beomgyu interrupts him, glancing at you apologetically. You shake your head with a light chuckle, brushing it off. “I’ve already told you it’s fine.”

“He’s lucky it was you, honestly,” Taehyun comments between bites. You raise an eyebrow, blinking confusedly. He simply shrugs, “There are hundreds of students here, if Jia gave him the address of, like Minseo, a video of him would be trending all over the internet by now, and he’ll never have a chance again.” Beomgyu buries his head in the table, practically hiding under it with a groan as his friend continues embarrassing him. You do think he has a point, though. Meeting you was definitely on the lower side of all the embarrassing scenarios that could have happened.

“You both seriously need to shut up before the whole school finds out,” Beomgyu grumbles, looking around as if to check if anyone was spying on you. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tease him further, but before you can, he kicks you under the table. You hiss, but instead of yelling at him, you confusedly watch his face turn redder and his eyes follow someone behind you. You carefully turn around, watching Yuna walk past to her usual table. You look at Beomgyu again, your eyes softening when you manage to read his eyes—broken, desperate, lost.

A heavy sigh leaves his lips when she disappears from his sight, his eyes focusing on you and Taehyun again. You both give him a knowing look that he doesn’t seem to understand. “What? I’m just… I was looking for Soobin!” He comes up with an excuse quickly, making Taehyun scoff. “I completely forgot he doesn’t have lunch for another hour.”

“Right, as if.” Beomgyu closes his mouth again, knowing arguing with him is pointless. Beomgyu knew he was smart, always on top of the class, but Taehyun was on a different level. It was no use trying to outsmart him.

You hesitate, rethinking the situation again before finally placing down your utensils, turning to face Beomgyu. “I’ll help you,” you state, his eyes scanning your face confusedly. “With?” — “With your crush.”

He doesn’t have time to ask you what you mean before you continue, the confidence in your voice scaring him slightly. “I think there is a chance for you. We just have to work on some things.”

“Like?” Taehyun urges, the tone of his voice giving away that he doesn’t believe in what you’ve planned. “Getting him into things she likes,” you say confidently. “If they have more things in common, it’ll be easier for them to talk, ergo he needs to find out what she likes and then apply it to himself. Think of it like a test. If you prepare well enough, you won’t need to worry about failing.”

When you put it that way, Beomgyu doesn’t think it’s completely impossible. And even though you can see Taehyun doesn’t agree, as long as Beomgyu does, you can be useful. “I have a group project with Minseo,” you inform them, frowning slightly at the thought. Group projects were never something you loved, especially if you were paired with people who didn’t care about their grades. On the very first day it was assigned, you asked Minseo when she was free to research information and she straight up asked you to do it on your own, mumbling something about her head hurting every time she thinks for too long.

You hated being paired up with her, but it could be useful now at least. “I can figure out what Yuna likes through her. It won’t be too hard.” The hard part will be convincing her to meet with you. But once you do, you’re certain to get the information out of her. After all, she’s always been known to be an open book.

“Good luck with that,” Taehyun shakes his head, getting up. “Don’t turn him into a completely different person in the process, I’d hate to be his friend if he turns into one of the football jocks she seems to be dating all the time.” Beomgyu doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention, barely mumbling a bye back as his eyes find Yuna again, watching her laugh with her group of friends a few tables away.

“Let’s do it,” he agrees, turning his head to you again. “Let’s try what we can.”

Getting Minseo to meet up with you was actually easier than you expected. She did have a bunch of excuses at first, but after you told her you would buy her ice coffee and take care of the presentation fully on your own, she agreed.

So now, you were sitting in a campus café, waiting for her arrival with Beomgyu a few tables away. You told him you would handle it alone, but he insisted, saying that he needed to know immediately. You didn’t see a point in arguing with him, letting him tag along if that was what he wanted to do. You could see that he was nervous, fidgeting with his fingers on top of the table. Seeing him like this was what made you want to help. Because even though you couldn’t say you would wish Beomgyu someone like Yuna, you do think he deserves to be loved just like everyone else. Who he chooses to be loved by is not for you to decide.

It is Friday now, almost two weeks since you’ve met him for the first time. You’ve learnt that he isn’t as shy as you thought he was at first when he started greeting you in the hallways as if you were friends for years, inviting you to sit with him, Taehyun, and occasionally Soobin every day for lunch. He was nice, and whenever he talked about his music like it was the love of his life, you found yourself smiling, listening to every word.

You sip on your coffee, eyes locked onto the iced latte opposite you. She was five minutes late already. Taking out your phone to text her and ask her if she is on her way, you notice a different message, from no one else but Beomgyu. You look his way, telling him to shut up with your eyes. He’s telling you to sit still and hold on for a while longer, reminding you that girls like Minseo don’t care about other people enough to be on time but will always show up eventually. You can see that he’s worried you might just get up and leave and this whole plan would go to vain, and you hate that he can read you so well because that’s exactly what you wanted to do.

You sigh, putting your phone face down on the table and staring a hole into the café door, waiting for your project partner to show up.

When she finally turns up, your coffee cup is almost empty. You watch her walk in with a smile on her face, one so fake you want to pretend it’s not directed at you. But she sits down on the chair opposite you and you can’t pretend she’s not there with you anymore. “Hey,” you offer a soft greeting that she brushes off, taking a sip of her latte. “This is good, is that vanilla?” She wonders, watching the glass with amusement. “I– yeah,” you blink. “You asked for vanilla when we talked yesterday.”

“Right,” she nods, narrowing her eyes at you as if she was trying to remember who you were. It was annoying. “Why am I here actually?” Minseo tilts her head slightly, a small gesture that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s weird talking to her like this, even more so knowing that the first real interaction you have with her is being watched by someone who believes in you more than he probably should.

“I wrote the paper and I know your head hurts when you study for too long, but I just need you to read it to have a general idea of what it’s about and sign yourself under it so we can say you contributed to the work,” you explain just like you prepared earlier with the guys at lunch. She hums, not saying anything in protest as you hand her the two pieces of paper. You can see the disgust in her face but as long as she doesn’t say anything, you won’t either. That’s not really why you’re there anyway.

You start the conversation slowly, asking her about a boy from the basketball team you heard she’s been seeing. At first, you were worried it wouldn’t work, that she would think you were weird for asking her about things like this as that’s what you would do if a stranger asked you about your personal life, but she casually starts answering your questions, the excitement in her voice when she has an excuse to stop reading the paper obvious.

You don’t have to do much as she naturally shifts the conversation from herself to the other girls, gossip falling off her lips like it’s her second nature. You must say, you never heard so many disturbing things about people you didn’t know before.

As soon as she mentions Yuna and her obsession with athletes, your ears perk up. “Oh really? I didn’t know her type was that simple,” you comment casually and Minseo takes a sip of her coffee, the paper long out of her hands, laying untouched right beside her cup. “Oh no, athletes aren’t the only thing she is into. You know Jinho from the swimming team? He definitely wouldn’t make the cut,” she shakes her head like it’s the most obvious fact. You frown slightly, trying to remember him. When you realize you can’t put a face to the name, you figure that’s why he doesn’t fall under her type. She doesn’t like people whose names others don’t know.

“It’s someone like Yeonjun that she’d kill for. She’s been trying to get him ever since our first year. Weirdly enough, he isn’t interested.” Yeonjun is a name you do recognize. A star of every party that mattered, someone who was always surrounded by other people, just like Yuna. If it was by choice or not wasn’t your business. He was handsome, you could see why girls would like him, but he wasn’t your type. You’d much rather have someone who could solve a math problem than a guy who could drink a bottle of beer upside down.

“I see,” you hum. “So what would you say her type is?” It’s a simple question, that’s what it’s meant to be, but to your surprise, it’s also a question Minseo could talk about for hours. Hadn’t you known better, you would think she was still talking about herself. “She loves fashion, you know? Like there’s something so hot about a guy that can dress,” she says, looking around the café quickly. “See? That guy right there. It’s so hot,” she points at a guy in his twenties ordering a drink, waving with an innocent smile when he notices her. He looks flustered.

Even though you don’t want to admit it, you must say she is right. The rolled up sleeves of his button up that reveal his forearms are hot. You shake your head to snap out of your thoughts quickly and take a proper look at what he’s wearing. It’s the opposite of what Beomgyu has on himself right now. Yet, it’s not something you think he wouldn’t be able to pull.

“Oh! And him!” She whisper-yells, pointing at another guy who just walked in. When you see the black shirt and gray sweatpants he has on, you roll your eyes slightly. In his case, it’s definitely not the clothes she is attracted to but the muscles beneath them. “What else is there?”

Minseo thinks for a second, finally averting her eyes from the unknown boy and looking back at you. “Someone popular,” she states the obvious. “Who has connections, and like a bunch of followers.” You fight the urge to scoff at the simplicity of the girl. You weren’t exactly expecting her to say someone nice and kind, but a part of you still had hope until now. “He also needs to go to parties with her, you know her,” she laughs. It’s the same laugh she always gives her friends at lunch and it makes you think if she’s always this fast at befriending people. If that’s what you can call whatever this is.

“I was so surprised when she told me this, but apparently she also likes when guys get soft or whatever. She talked about emotions so much it made my head spin. She said a soft but popular guy like in the movies would be the best combination. I don’t necessarily agree though, I like them without all the emotions and shit.” — “What about you?” She tilts her head and you quickly blink in shock to make sure you’ve heard her right. “Is there anyone I could help you with?” Her smile widens at the idea, leaning closer to you. “If you want my recommendation, Minho from the football team might have been the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Your cheeks flush and you quickly shake your head to stop her. “I think– I think I’m good. I don’t really, uhm,” you avert your eyes, glancing over to Beomgyu for a brief second to see if he was still watching. Thankfully, your eyes don’t meet as he is busy texting someone on his phone. “Oh my, are you a virgin?” That question caught you off guard even more, your eyes widening. When your eyes shoot back to hers, it's enough of an answer for her. “Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,” she laughs, but to your surprise it doesn’t sound like she’s laughing at you. “Maybe you should try your luck with Yeonjun then, I’ve heard he likes virgins.”

“I see,” you nod, your voice shaking slightly. It’s embarrassing. This whole conversation, sitting there in front of her and talking about things like these. “But what did you say your type was again? Maybe I know someone better.”

You open your mouth to answer and then close it again. You’re not sure what she wants you to say, if she expects an honest answer, if she wants you to say athletes just so you could fit into her group, or if she simply wants to make fun of you and there’s no right or wrong answer.

After giving it a second thought, you open your mouth again. “I like kind people. Ones you don’t have to worry will judge you or make fun of you. I like when they are able to hold a meaningful conversation and have their own opinions on stuff,” you says, searching her face for any sign of not liking where you were going with this. When you don’t find anything, certain that she’s still listening, you continue. “I also like when guys aren’t scared to show their girl off, I think that’s very cute—when a guy proudly talks about his girlfriend.”

“I see, you’re one of those,” she giggles, leaning back in her chair. “How about looks?” You think about it for a second but then just shake your head. “Someone taller than me, I guess? I don’t know.” She shakes her head as well, but her smile never falls off. “I like you,” she proclaims, your surprise turning into a soft giggle when she messes up your name. Still, it’s something. “It’s bad you never attend any parties, you’re not only smart but also nice to talk to. Do you drink?”

“Sometimes, I guess,” you nod and her smile widens. “You should come to my party then. I haven’t told anyone about it yet but I want to do one next month, make sure you’re free. The girls and I can help you find someone, I’m sure you’ll be able to pick one of the guys there.” You don’t refuse her, you don’t say anything really. You’re not sure what you should say. So you just nod slightly, figuring that she’ll probably forget about this in a few days anyway.

She stretches her arms above her head, her yawn informing you that this was the end of her attention span. “This was really great,” your name is still a mess, but it’s closer this time, making you think that the next time you see her she might actually get it right. “But I should go now. The paper, uh, looks awesome.” You smile, nodding even though you know she hasn’t read a single word of it. It’s fine, you didn’t expect her to in the first place.

Minseo get’s up from her chair, giving you one last smile—one way less fake than the one you received when she came in—before walking off. You sigh, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes. When you open them again, the chair opposite you is occupied again. “God, since when do you walk like a ghost?” You ask, exhaling sharply. Beomgyu chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Looks like you’ve made a new friend. I didn’t know you were into gossip and all,” he teases you, making you roll your eyes. It’s crazy how quickly he got comfortable around you, turning from a mumbling and blushing mess to an annoying smartass.

“Don’t laugh too much, the work starts now. We need to buy you new clothes.”

Your eyes scan the rack of clothing in front of you, searching for what might suit Yuna’s style. If it was up to you, what Beomgyu was wearing now would be ideal. You shake your head at yourself, picking up a dark blue jacket you’re sure you’ve seen Yeonjun wear in a different color.

You turn around to show the piece to Beomgyu, seeing him holding up a pair of jeans himself. You narrow your eyes. “It’s the same one you’re wearing right now,” you point out and he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “I like my jeans, why not buy another pair if I’m comfortable in them?” He’s right, you can’t argue with that. You sigh, brushing it off and handing him the jacket for him to try on. He takes it without another word, looking around and browsing for more. You do the same, leaving him to do his thing while you go look through the other side of the store.

You walk around, trying to figure out what could look good. You’re not sure honestly, and the more time you spend at the store, the more you question if you’re fit to be the person helping him. You had your own style that you liked and didn’t care if others found it stylish or not, barely keeping up with the latest trends unlike Yuna. At the end of the day, you and her were the complete opposites, so how were you supposed to get him to fit her style?

When you meet Beomgyu again near the changing rooms, his hands are full. You smile, glad that he found it so easy picking out something that would fit both his and Yuna’s preferences. It’s only when you sit down and watch him come out in the first outfit that you realize he didn’t even try picking up clothes that weren’t in his usual style.

“This is nice, right?” He asks, doing a small spin so you can see. Baggy, ripped jeans and a comfortable hoodie. You scan his outfit, raising your eyebrow. It did look nice. It was similar to what he wore normally — except for the backwards cap on his head — so you couldn’t say you wouldn’t like it, the opposite actually.

For some reason, he looked different standing in front of you now. It wasn’t the same boy you’ve met outside of your house, it wasn’t the boy that walked you home from work the same night and talked about a girl he likes, it wasn’t even the same boy that you got comfortable around so quickly. The Beomgyu standing in front of you now felt like a boy just for you.

With his soft smile and glasses framing his face, he was just a boy you wanted to get serenaded by.

“It’s totally a boyfriend vibe, you know?” He fixes his hat, looking into the mirror to check himself. “What do you think?” You blink quickly, nodding. “Yeah, it looks great,” you agree, swallowing a lump in your throat as the memory of Beomgyu singing outside of your window comes back to you.

“Right? Taehyun and Soobin need to stop arguing with me about having a better style. I’m the best,” he laughs, disappearing into the changing room before you can say anything else. When he comes out again, he has a new pair of jeans on—black ones this time—a simple white shirt and the jacket you picked up before.

Your eyes widen just slightly, biting the inside of your cheek as he steps closer to you, watching himself in the mirror beside you. “I didn’t think this would suit me too well,” he mumbles, hiding his hands in the jacket pockets, smiling. “But it actually looks amazing. I think I’ll get this.”

“Yeah, you should,” you nod, mentally slapping yourself to snap out of it. You need to focus, not think about how well he looks. “I’m sure Yuna will like it,” the words come out broken but you’re not sure why. You do think she will like it. It’d be stupid of her not to. He looks amazing.

“Okay, I have one more outfit there,” he says, fixing his hair quickly. “Come on.”

“Where?” You blink confusedly, slowly standing up. “I chose an outfit for you as well.” Your eyes widen as you follow him inside one of the cabins and he hands you the clothes. You don’t get the chance to say anything before he closes the door behind you, sliding back into his cabin.

You stand there for a second, not moving an inch while listening to his soft hums of the song playing on the store speakers. As soon as your mind processes what has happened, you take a look at the clothes you’re holding, making a mental note that he likes the color pink.

You step out while fixing your hair, Beomgyu already waiting for you with his back turned to you. You clear your throat and he immediately turns to face you, his eyes widening for a brief second. You feel a bit awkward as he watches you, his eyes scanning your whole body as if he saw you for the first time.

He has a neat, light blue button-up, half of the buttons undone, revealing a white tank top beneath it. His pants are black, formal, something you didn’t think you’d see on him. The more you watch him, the more you question if there’s something he doesn’t look good in.

“I… you look amazing,” he compliments you, finally averting his eyes. His head falls low as he buttons his shirt, focusing on anything but how you look right now. He closes his eyes, trying to snap out of his thoughts, but the only thing he sees when he does is you again, standing right there with your innocent eyes and the clothes he picked up.

While looking for his clothes, he stumbled into the women section, his eyes immediately landing on a pink sweater. He isn’t sure why, but the first thought that popped up in his mind was about how nice it would look on you. He knew he was shopping for his clothes but he couldn’t help it, ending up browsing the women’s section for something to go with the sweater. And he did find something—a white skirt. He thought it would look cute on you, what he didn’t know was that it would look this cute.

The skirt was shorter than he expected, revealing more skin than he was ready for. Just seconds ago, he was thinking about how good he looked in his clothes and now, he was a mess. He shakes his head, avoiding looking at you again as he swallows a lump in his throat, asking you what you think of his outfit.

“You look handsome.”

The words come out before you can stop it, making you avert your eyes as well, your cheeks lightly flushed.

You both stand there, avoiding meeting each other’s eyes from embarrassment as if you’ve just walked in on him naked. It’s irrational if you think about it from a different perspective, but you can’t look him in the eyes, no matter how much you try to.

You’d rather not look at him again if it’d mean getting your heart to calm down and not making you feel like you’re going to get a heart attack any second.

You’d rather not meet his eyes again than admit a part of you wishes he was dressing up like this for you instead of Yuna.

Beomgyu walks out of the store with two plastic bags—one for himself and the other for you. You did like what he picked out, and as soon as you said it out loud, his eyes met yours instantly, putting his embarrassment aside and saying he’ll buy it for you. You tried arguing at first but gave up halfway, letting him do whatever he wanted.

“Is there another thing we could check off the list today?” He wonders, walking through the mall with you by his side.

“Aren’t you tired?”

He hesitates for a second, shrugging. “No, not really,” he mumbles. “I don’t have anything else to do tonight.” It’s a small lie if he’s honest. He could find what to do. He has his guitar, his band that is waiting for him to compose another song they could play at the spring festival the school holds, and there’s the game he’s been promising Soobin to play for the past few weeks. Still, he doesn’t want to go home just yet, doesn’t want to close himself in his room for hours with music when he could hang out with you. It’s the first for him.

Beomgyu was always someone who loved music. No matter what it was—the sound of a guitar, his old music teacher teaching him her favorite songs, the sound of his pencil drumming against the desk when he was bored in class, or even the birds singing in the morning when he woke up.

He wasn’t sure why spending time with you suddenly sounded better than music but he didn’t want to question it.

All he wants to do is enjoy the rest of his day, preferably by your side.

“Sure,” you nod, looking at your phone to see the time. “We can watch a movie together,” you offer, already sending a quick text to your mom to let her know you wouldn’t come home alone. “Yuna likes romance movies.”

He hums, listening to your every word as you talk about all the possible movies that come to mind at the moment, giving a quick commentary to each of them so he could picture them.

“Do you have a favorite?” You think it through, remembering exactly how you felt watching each movie you’ve just mentioned. “10 things I hate about you,” you answer finally, confident in your response. There were so many good ones you could watch, but this one holds a special place in your heart. “Let’s watch that one then.”

The light is on in the living room when you reach your house, Beomgyu awkwardly hanging behind you as you walk inside, a loud “I’m home,” leaving your lips. You peek into the living room, waving at Beomgyu to come closer when you see both of your parents cuddled up on the couch, watching your mom’s favorite reality show.

“Good afternoon,” Beomgyu greets them nervously, pushing his glasses up when they slide down his nose. “I’m Choi Beomgyu, I go to Haneul Academy with your daughter.” Your parents glance up upon hearing the unfamiliar voice, your mom’s smile widening immediately. “Oh my,” she quickly stands up, motioning for your dad to follow as she makes her way over to you.

You shake your head slightly as you watch your mom extend her hand towards him, introducing herself with a smile, your dad mirroring her actions. “You’re handsome,” she comments, nodding as if she was approving. You shoot her a look but she ignores it, offering Beomgyu something to eat.

“I, uhm, thank you,” he smiles, chuckling nervously. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“We’re going to watch a movie,” you inform them, getting their attention back to yourself. You’d rather not scare him away immediately. “Have fun,” your mom beams, glancing at your dad briefly. “I’ll get you something to eat as soon as our show ends.”

“Thank you.”

Beomgyu follows you into your room while you mumble apologies but he just shakes his head, brushing it off over and over again. “Your parents seem really nice.” You nod, closing the door behind you. “They are, but I get it if my mom seems like a lot right now.”

“She’s nice,” he repeats, assuring you it’s okay as he carefully sits on your bed. “Besides, even if she was an evil witch, it wouldn’t be your responsibility to apologize for her behaviour.” You bite back your smile, averting your eyes from him again and grabbing your laptop from the table.

“You’re really nice as well, you know,” you mumble, sitting down and placing the laptop on top of your thighs.

You’re really nice. The words echo in his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again as the movie starts playing, the sentence stuck in his throat. The intro music plays and he has to force himself to take his eyes off you and focus on the movie instead.

You soon learn Beomgyu can’t shut his mouth for longer than a few minutes, not even while watching a movie.

“This makes no sense. He can’t actually be that stupid, can he?” — “As you can see, some guys don’t have more than one brain cell,” you laugh, watching Joey pay Patrick as if it was his idea all along.

“Your eyes have a little green in them.” You smile, a soft giggle leaving your lips when she throws up right after that. Beomgyu beside you chuckles as well, glancing at you. “I’m starting to get it,” he says and your eyes meet. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean,” he clears his throat as if he was embarrassed. “They are cute together. It’s nice seeing them,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. “And it’s easy to imagine myself in there.”

“Yeah? Who would you be if you were there?” You question, your eyes flickering between the screen and the boy beside you. “Cameron,” he answers without hesitation and your smile falters for just a second. “I assume I know who Bianca would be.” He shrugs, not meeting your eyes again.

It doesn’t surprise you. You can see him in the position, pining over a girl while she flirts with the popular guy, playing around with him until she realizes what she’s missing out on. It’s funny, how just the thought of Beomgyu and Yuna makes you feel sick in the stomach even though you were the one offering your help with his crush.

The movie playing on your laptop along with a few soft laughs at times is the only thing that fills the room after that. You stay quiet, ignoring the way your shoulder brushes against his, watching in silence as Patrick and Kat get together, as Cameron and Bianca start seeing each other, even as Kat finds out she’s been played and Beomgyu starts asking questions, wondering if they are going to be okay.

“Is it that bad?”

“You mean being lied to and finding out he wasn’t interested from the start?” You raise your eyebrow and he closes his mouth again. “I get that just…you can see it in him that he loves her, right?”

“That’s true,” you nod slightly. “And that’s why they’re not going to stay apart forever.” That seems to quiet him down, eyes focused on the movie again.

As soon as the movie finishes, you shift in your place, Beomgyu’s eyes falling to your figure. “So? What do you think?” You ask to break the awkward silence. At least that’s what it seems like to you. “It’s really good,” he nods, his voice quiet. You want to ask if he’s okay, what is he thinking about and if he wants a glass or water or anything, but before you can do so, he is already on his feet, fixing his pants. “I should go now,” he says and you notice he doesn’t look you in the eyes. “It’s late and my mom is probably waiting for me.”

You nod, unsure of what to do. A part of you wants to stop him, ask him to stay longer and talk with you—about school, your part-time job, anything he wants—but you know you can’t. So instead, you stand up as well, leaving the laptop on your bed as you walk him out, watching him say his goodbye to your parents and them returning it with such a bright smile you’d think they’re talking to your best friend.

You linger at the door as Beomgyu walks out of your house, a plastic bag with his new clothes swinging in one of his hands. He looks back just once, your eyes meeting for a brief second, a spark flickering in them before he gives you one of his soft smiles, waving at you before disappearing into the dark.

You’re not sure what it is that had him running out of your room so quickly, but you know one thing—spending the day with him changed something.

Something you couldn’t quite name yet.

There has to be a logical explanation for the sudden change, and you doubt it’s the different clothes.

Taehyun seems to think the same, his eyes narrowing as he glances between you, Beomgyu, and the girl standing near the table, a smile on her face. Your eyes lock with his and he immediately wonders what’s happening. You shrug, as confused as he is. Soobin besides you doesn’t look as fazed, his eyes focused on his food, completely ignoring the situation happening around.

He wasn’t always eating lunch with the three of you but he knew about the situation. Beomgyu’s crush wasn’t a secret, and because they were best friends, there was no need to hide his plan from him either.

“Thanks for the help with the english homework,” Yuna smiles, making you roll your eyes. When you see Taehyun scoffing opposite you, you smile as well. You’re glad you’re not the only one feeling this way—like her whole presence near you is an irony.

“No problem,” Beomgyu answers with a shy smile. “Anytime.”

“This soup is really good,” Soobin interrupts and you’re not sure if he can’t read the room or just doesn’t care. Either way, Beomgyu glares at him, ignoring his comment completely.

“Okay,” she giggles gently, a sound so perfect you can see why Beomgyu would fall for her. Despite your differences and your disagreement with her actions, you get it. Deep down, you understand. She’s pretty, with long shiny hair and glossy lips. Her skin looks as soft as she sounds when she speaks, and her laugh sounds more beautiful than you expected.

“I’ll see you around then,” Beomgyu smiles at her awkwardly as she walks off to her table of friends, humming instead of answering. You wouldn’t consider this a real conversation or progress but when you see his eyes, you can’t say it out loud. He looks too proud of himself for that. “Did you guys see that?”

“No, not really,” Soobin says, not bothered at all. Beomgyu rolls his eyes at him but his smile doesn’t fall off his lips. “I’ve seen it. It’s weird,” Taehyun frowns.

“It’s not weird.”

“It is.”

“You don’t think it’s weird, do you?” Beomgyu looks at you, making you blink quickly. Your eyes flicker from him to his two friends, searching for help. Because honestly, you’re not sure.

“You like her,” you shrug, brushing the question off. Beomgyu raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else, the topic slowly drifting to something no one minds talking about—their band practice.

Taehyun tells you about a new song they’re working on, complimenting Beomgyu’s work on the music—which makes his neck turn red—and laughing as he remembers how Kai’s legs got tangled with the cables and he knocked down a bunch of instruments. You gasp when you hear the story, worried about him and all the instruments that must have been damaged. Thankfully, Taehyun assures you no one got hurt, not a single guitar or band member.

“Have you prepared for the spring festival yet?” Soobin wonders, munching on his food. “There’s a month left and you’re performing, right?”

“Forty days,” Beomgyu corrects. “And…not really. I’m working on it, I promise. I told the manager we’d be performing three new songs so I need to make that happen,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Inspiration has been avoiding me lately.”

“What normally works for you?” You ask, watching his eyes widen slightly. He thinks about it, his mouth falling open and then closing again multiple times. “I’m not… I’m not sure actually. It usually just appears out of nowhere, I don’t think there’s a pattern or something that would make me write good music.”

“Relaxed mind,” Taehyun speaks up. “And memories. That usually works for me.”

You nod, glancing between the three boys. It’s true that ever since you went shopping with him, he’s been out of it. Sure, he still talks like he is on crack a lot of the time, his brain working faster than yours ever could, but every time you mention his music, his smile seems to falter for a second. And now that you know he hasn’t been able to write anything lately, it starts to make sense.

“Alright. We should do something then. Relaxed mind and memories? I think I know of a way to connect that with our little mission,” you smile gently, ignoring Taehyun narrowing his eyes at you, studying you, and only focusing on Beomgyu, his lips turning into a soft smile you’ve grown to love over the past few days. “Have you ever played basketball?”

Athletes were one of the most obvious things on Yuna’s like-list. Her dating history said enough. It was only natural for the next step of your plan to be something to do with sports—but Beomgyu certainly didn’t expect to be playing on the school court with the captain of the basketball team.

“You’re late,” he comments, looking at a non-existential watch on his hand. “Wasn’t Jake supposed to be here?” You ask instead of answering, walking closer to Heeseung, one of your old friends from middle school, Beomgyu following right after you. “Change of plans,” he shrugs innocently. “He had a chore to run to and I wanted to check out who you were so eager to teach basketball to.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice that makes you roll your eyes because you know exactly what he’s referring to. The last time you asked him and Jake to play basketball with you was when you wanted to introduce your boyfriend to them, but this was a different situation.

A completely different one.

“Heeseung, meet Beomgyu. Beomgyu, Heeseung,” you introduce them briefly. “He wants to impress a girl and needs to be good at sports for that.” Beomgyu shoots you a look immediately, a silent plea not to tell on him completely. It’s enough that he has to listen to Taehyun’s constant ranting about how stupid it is and Kai’s teasing, he doesn’t need it from a stranger as well.

“Nice to meet you,” Beomgyu extends his arm awkwardly, a brief smile on his lips. Heeseung shakes his hand without a second of hesitation, his smile much wider. “Who’s the lucky girl?” He wonders and before Beomgyu can answer, you turn to him. “He always wants to know all the gossip to have a clear picture of others in his head but he doesn’t tell others. You don’t have to worry about anyone finding out.”

Beomgyu nods. “Yuna,” he admits, quickly looking around to check no one else was in. It’s kind of cute. It would be if he wasn’t talking about the one girl you don’t want him to talk about. You think it might feel a lot better if it wasn’t someone so different from you—if it was someone you didn’t compare yourself to so often.

Heeseung whistles, laughing softly. “That’s a tough one.” — “Do you think it’s not worth it?” Heeseung tilts his head slightly, taking a proper look at the boy in front of him. “That’s something you have to decide on your own. I don’t think you’re a bad guy, otherwise she wouldn’t be talking to you,” his eyes fall to you quickly before he looks back at Beomgyu. “And that alone gives you a chance with anyone.”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes at him, glancing at you. “I don’t think that was an encouragement.” Heeseung laughs at him, shaking his head. “If you want my insight, Yuna is not someone everyone can deal with. And I’m not one to tell you if she’s good for you or the other way around.”

You shake your head. “Just tell him it’s all worth it. It better be when we are putting so much effort in for her,” you laugh, the sound bitter. Heeseung raises an eyebrow at you, eyeing you up and down but before he can ask anything, you tell them to start playing already because you don’t have the whole day for them. It’s a lie. Once you knew you’d be spending the afternoon with Beomgyu again, you cancelled your shift and free-upped the rest of your day.

You don’t want to be time limited. Not when you’re with him.

Heeseung throws the ball to Beomgyu, daring him to show off what he is capable of. He hesitates, eyes flickering between you and Heeseung before he starts dribbling, trying to get around the captain. But this is Heeseung’s arena and he doesn’t let him win easily, stealing the ball the first chance he gets and running to the other side of the court, scoring perfectly.

It goes like that for a while, Beomgyu slowly getting used to the pace and learning when to try going through Heeseung and when not. It’s not easy at all but that’s something he expected. Playing with the captain couldn’t be easy.

“You’re good,” Heeseung praises, scoring another point. Beomgyu scoffs, pushing his sweaty hair back. “You learn fast and are confident.”

“I haven’t scored even half as many times as you did.”

“Yeah but I’ve been training my whole life,” he says, running around Beomgyu again before calling out to you. You raise your eyebrows confusedly, your eyes widening when the ball comes to you. You catch it, questioning what that was for. “Let’s play,” he explains simply, wrapping his arm around Beomgyu’s shoulder. “You haven’t gotten out of your form, have you?”

“You play?” Beomgyu asks confusedly, his eyes wide. You smile, dribbling slowly as you walk closer. “It’s impossible not to when you’re surrounded with people that do,” you shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. “But I’m not any good, don’t worry.”

“That’s a lie,” Heeseung leans closer to Beomgyu, chuckling. “I always ask her to play against our newbies to see how good they are. She never loses,” the praises leave his lips as if it’s his second nature, making you roll your eyes. However, when Beomgyu smiles at you, saying he wants to play with you, a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as well. “Let me take my glasses off first, they’re pissing me off.”

You watch him take them off and hide them inside his bag, your eyes never leaving him. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without them and a part of you is grateful for that. It’s really hard to focus on anything when he looks like that—absolutely gorgeous with his big brown eyes sparkling with excitement. Yeah, this wasn’t good for you at all.

Running around the court, sweating your ass off, was never something you enjoyed a lot. It was the main reason why you never wanted to play basketball for a club. But running around with Heeseung and Beomgyu by your side was something completely different. You were laughing, your stomach hurting from how much. Your hair was sticking to your forehead and you were sure it wasn’t a pleasing sight, but you couldn’t care less at the moment. Not when your eyes were focused on the sweat on Beomgyu’s forehead, his laugh addicting.

If it was with him, you could run forever on this court.

“Timeout, timeout,” Beomgyu repeats over and over again, his breathing heavy as he leans forward, his hands resting on his knees. Despite the exhaustion, he is still laughing softly, trying to collect himself again. His whole body feels too heavy all of a sudden. He falls to the floor, laying on his back and closing his eyes. Heeseung beside you laughs while you slowly walk over to him, sitting down beside him.

Your own breathing is unsteady but you’re still doing better than him, resting your hands on the ground beside you and blowing air up to your forehead in a lame attempt to get your hair out of your face.

“I’m not turning into an athlete,” he states, visibly exhausted. You chuckle. “You’d be good at it.” He shakes his head, still not opening his eyes. “Absolutely not. I think I have asthma.”

“Well then, it’s good you’re so smart,” you mumble and he prompts himself up on his eyebrows, watching you curiously. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You panic slightly, shaking your hands in front of your face. “I mean, you don’t have to be sporty! You are, obviously, uhm, I–”

His soft laugh interrupts you, a sigh full of relief escaping your lips. “I’m just teasing you. I’m glad I’m smart as well,” he assures you, glancing at Heeseung who is still standing up, a bottle of water in his hands now. You’re not sure where he got it but you need one as well, extending your arm towards him and asking him to pass it over. “Not that anything would be wrong with being an athlete, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Heeseung laughs, handing you the water. “You’re good,” he shakes his head, joining you on the ground. “That was fun, though. You do have a talent,” he assures him and you smile again, agreeing. Beomgyu grins proudly, mumbling something about always knowing he’d be good. It makes you laugh again. It’s amazing how easy it is for him to make you laugh but you definitely don’t complain.

As you’re collecting your things from the ground and saying your goodbyes to Heeseung, he pulls out his phone, telling you to wait. Both you and Beomgyu look over, questioning what he needs. “Let’s exchange numbers.”

Beomgyu smiles, quickly pulling out his phone and handing it to Heeseung for him to put his number in. “I’ve got a few pictures when you two were playing, let me send it to you.” You frown confusedly but Heeseung only smirks at you, Beomgyu’s phone lighting up with a new message instantly. “I think they are good, you should post them.”

There’s a bunch of photos of the two of you playing and laughing, some solo shots of Beomgyu, and even a picture of him laying on the ground just a few minutes ago. His smile widens, an idea sparkling in his head. Beomgyu quickly turns towards you, showing you a picture of him with the ball, his forehead sweaty, hair falling into his eyes. “Yuna said she likes big followings, right? I should start posting anyway, and this one is good, right?”

You freeze for a second, nodding slightly. “Yeah,” you mumble, biting your bottom lip to make sure you don’t say anything else. The words, “Can’t you do something just for yourself and not her?” hanging dangerously on the tip of your tongue.

“Alright, I see you around,” Heeseung says, sensing the sudden shift in your energy. “Call me later, yeah?” You nod, smiling awkwardly, holding tightly onto your bag. “I will,” you agree, meeting Beomgyu’s eyes again, hoping he can’t see how broken you feel over something so stupid. “Let’s go?”

When you get home you notice Beomgyu’s new post. The same picture he showed you earlier. When you scroll to another picture, he’s laughing with you and it makes you smile. The last picture he posted is of him laying on the ground, exhaustion visible. You think back to the moment and even though it’s only been minutes since you last saw him, you find yourself missing him already.

You want to spend more time with him, create more memories and laugh with him. But as soon as your eyes fall to the like button under his post, the silly wish disappears because you know you can’t ask for that. Not when his eyes are already on someone else.

Liked by yunaluxe and others.

You turn your phone off, throwing it beside you on the bed and burying your face in your pillow, a loud, regretting groan leaving your mouth.

The club room is loud, the electric guitar shaking the walls when Beomgyu walks in. Taehyun doesn’t notice him at first, his eyes closed as he plays, his grimace making Beomgyu wonder what he’s thinking about. It’s been long since he heard him play like that. Taehyun was usually calm, keeping his troubles to himself in order not to bother others.

“Hey,” Beomgyu greets him, Taehyun’s fingers stopping mid move as his eyes flutter open. “Hey. Sorry that was,” he tilts his head and swallows a lump in his throat, his brows furrowed as he thinks about how to explain himself. “I needed to cool off for a second.”

“Everything good?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he shakes his head. “Just a rough day. Math and all,” he brushes it off and even though Beomgyu feels a bit uneasy, he nods, getting his guitar out of the case. “Yeah, math sucks,” he plays into it, smiling as he joins his side. “It completely tired me today as well. Should we play it off together?”

Taehyun’s lips turn into a smile, “Sure.”

Kai laughs awkwardly as he walks into the club room, making both Taehyun and Beomgyu turn his way. The two of them are sitting at a table in the corner of the room now, chatting about nothing in particular while waiting for their third member. He’s late, which isn’t usual for him.

“You got lost or what?” Beomgyu asks with a light laugh, his smile falling off when he notices another figure behind Kai. “Kind of,” he chuckles, a teasing smirk on his face as he steps aside for the two boys to see. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Yuna smiles warmly, fixing her skirt in a way that has Beomgyu thinking she wants him to look. He clears his throat, glancing at Taehyun instead. “I’m going to absolutely embarrass myself,” he whispers, his eyes screaming for any sort of help. Taehyun just rolls his eyes at him, jumping down from the table. “What brings you here?”

“I saw Huening in the hallway and asked him about you,” her eyes briefly flicker to Beomgyu, his neck turning red under her gaze. “And when he said you’ve got practice right now, I asked if it would be possible to join you.”

Beomgyu pulls a chair for her, unsure if he should yell at Kai or be thankful. He feels like a mess, with no idea what to do. There has to be a right and wrong answer but he can’t find them for some reason. So he simply grabs his guitar, squeezing it tightly as he waits for his band mates to prepare as well.

It’s awkward. He avoids meeting her eyes as much as possible while her gaze lingers on his figure in a way he didn’t think was possible. A part of him feels excited, but the other is just tensed, insecure, and intimidated. Sure, they’ve played for others before. The three of them stood together on a podium in front of a bunch of people since middle school, but this was different—intimate.

“Okay, uhm, let’s start with spring,” Beomgyu looks over his shoulder at Kai behind the drums and then back at Yuna, sharing an awkward smile with her before his fingers gently move over the strings, one hand holding the pick and determining the rhythm while the other switches between different chords.

As the soft melody echoes through the room, his eyes close, focusing on his voice as he starts with the first verse. Spring is an old song from four years ago they play to this date to warm up. It was also one of the first songs Beomgyu has written, and even though he knows he has improved a lot since then, he still feels proud.

“Should we do Wake up next?” Kai suggests as soon as the song comes to an end. Beomgyu’s eyes widen, anxiety running through his whole body. “Yeah, let’s do that,” Taehyun agrees without hesitation, ignoring Beomgyu’s panicked look. Wake up is a recent song, one he wrote with Yuna in mind. It’s embarrassing on its own, even more so when he’s supposed to play it in front of her.

“Oh, is that a new song? I haven’t heard of that one,” Yuna asks excitedly, her bright eyes catching him off guard. It feels like he is talking to a completely different person. Just a few weeks ago, he was convinced there wasn’t an universe where she would like him back and now, he felt like he was in a dream. Beomgyu from a month ago would be jealous of him now, absolutely excited to play a song for her.

But now, he doesn’t feel that. He feels lost and confused as his voice fills the room because it’s not Yuna or her pretty smile that his mind drifts to.

It’s you, the girl he’s spent so much of his time with lately he can’t see a reality in which he doesn’t talk to you.

His fingers slip. The chord misses. His heart stutters, faster than the tempo, his head clouded with memories of everything you did together. It’s weird, wrong. He’s supposed to be thrilled, jumping from excitement that he gets to show off his music in front of Yuna and possibly get closer to her, so why is it only you he can think of while playing a love song he wrote?

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Beomgyu shakes his head, stopping before the song ends. Taehyun and Kai stop their movements as well, watching him confusedly. “My head is elsewhere,” he admits, mentally slapping himself to snap out of it. “It’s okay,” Taehyun assures him, his voice giving away that he is confused. This hasn’t happened before. If anyone was out of it during practice, it was Kai. Beomgyu was always focused, relaxing with the music and getting his mind off any unnecessary thoughts. It was weird.

“We can take a break,” Kai suggests, anxious when he looks at Yuna. He brought her in because he wanted to help Beomgyu and make them closer, he’d hate for this little mistake to cause the opposite. Thankfully, she doesn’t look disgusted like he expects her to, the same warm smile on her lips that calms him down a bit. “Sorry,” Beomgyu mumbles again, placing his guitar on the stand.

“It was really great,” Yuna says softly and Beomgyu’s eyes finally meet hers. “Don’t worry about it, the song sounds amazing.” — “Right,” he nods slightly, jumping up on the same table as before, his feet swinging in the air. “It’ll be better at the spring festival.” It’s a light promise that causes Yuna’s smile to widen, nodding happily. “I can’t wait to listen to it. I should go now, Minseo needs my help with getting alcohol for her party,” she giggles, the sound sending a shiver down Beomgyu’s spine. “You’re all coming, right?”

The guys exchange a look, unsure of what to say. Beomgyu only heard of the party when Minseo was talking to you about it in the café and honestly, he completely forgot about it. He didn’t think he was invited anyway, he never was. “You have to, it’ll be fun,” she encourages them, grabbing her hand back from the floor and standing up. “I’ll see you there,” she grins before any of them even answer her, not giving them a choice. And just like that, she walks away, leaving the three boys alone in the room.

Kai blinks confusedly, trying to figure out what just happened. He thought something was up right when Yuna approached him and asked him about their practice, but this was on a completely new level of insane. He turns his head towards Beomgyu who is as lost as he is, his gaze lingering at the door.

But for some reason, he doesn’t miss Yuna, doesn’t look there and imagine her figure. No, all he can think about is how wrong it felt playing the song for her, and how much he wishes it was you sitting on the chair in front of him, laughing with them at the stupid jokes Kai made or the way he messed up the chords.

Because with you he doesn’t feel the same pressure as with Yuna.

With you, it just feels easy.

“You haven’t forgotten, right?” You blink confusedly, looking up to see who’s talking to you. Your confusion only grows when your eyes meet Minseo who you haven’t talked to since the day in the café. “About…?” She gasps, shaking her head in disappointment. “The party, obviously! You have to come.” The fact she’s talking to you doesn’t surprise you as much as the way she finally says your name correctly does.

“I…when is it?” You ask carefully, hoping she doesn’t yell at you. She simply sighs, opening her phone to show you something. “Have you lived under a rock until now? It’s bold on here,” she turns her screen towards you, your eyes quickly scanning her story with the time and address. It is clear and you’re sure everyone knows about it already. It’s your fault for not following her.

“Tell me you don’t have anything today. We talked about this a month ago already.”

“I, no, I’m free,” you nod, a little uncertain. Parties weren’t exactly your thing, but you didn’t know how to tell her no. It was the first time someone out of her circle talked to you about anything other than homework they needed help with, and even though you knew it was pathetic holding onto it so much when you complained about their lack of intellect a lot before, you didn’t want to miss out on your chance to prove to them you weren’t just a nerd who didn’t have any hobbies outside of studying.

“Then it’s settled,” she claps her hands happily. “Bring whoever you want with yourself as long as they’re fun, I don’t care.” You nod, someone popping into your head immediately. She grins, waving at you slightly before walking out of the class, already chatting with someone else.

You brush your hands on your skirt awkwardly, trying to get them to stop sweating as you step out of the car, Beomgyu and his two friends right behind you. Kai’s older sister quickly wishes you to have fun, telling Kai to call her once he needs a ride back before driving off, leaving the four of you at the sidewalk.

“This is so weird,” Taehyun comments, looking at the already full house. Some people are in the garden, laughing around the pool while one of Minseo’s friends stands behind the DJ pult, mixing songs in a way that gives away that she is definitely not supposed to touch the device.

“Tell me about it,” Beomgyu mumbles while Kai just grins, way more excited than the three of you. “Oh, come on. It’s going to be fun!”

“Or extremely embarrassing.” Kai rolls his eyes, wrapping his arm around Taehyun’s shoulder and walking towards the house, yelling how lame you and Beomgyu are. You watch their back in disbelief, glancing at Gyu beside you. He’s wearing one of his ripped jeans with an oversized band shirt, looking as handsome as ever. He also isn’t wearing his glasses, and so when he turns his head towards you, his eyes meeting yours, you feel weak in the knees.

“Let’s go,” he smiles and you avert your eyes, squeezing the bottom of your skirt as you gaze into the ground beneath your feet. He seems to notice your uneasiness, wrapping his hand around your shoulder and pulling you closer into a brief side hug. You raise your head again, surprise written all over your face as you watch him, eyes wide. “You look amazing,” he assures you, thinking that’s what’s bothering you. “I told you when we were buying the clothes and I’ll tell you all over again until you believe it.”

It’s incredible how easy it is for Beomgyu to have your heart racing. His words echo in your head, his cologne reaching your nose as he slowly walks with you towards the house as well, keeping you close. You look down on your clothes again, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you stare at the white skirt and pink sweater—the same clothes he bought for you a few weeks back.

Beomgyu grabs a drink for you and him as soon as you get inside, finding a space in the corner of the room. He tells you about a new show he’s been watching, how his new song has been going, and even about his failure at cooking dinner last night. You laugh, slowly getting comfortable again and forgetting about everyone else, your world only having two people in it—you and him.

You’re not sure where Kai and Taehyun disappeared or if they were having fun but it’s what bothers you the least at the moment, unable to focus on anything that wasn’t Choi Beomgyu and his soft voice.

But your little bubble is interrupted when your eyes meet Yuna’s behind Beomgyu and she walks over, greeting you with the same annoyingly beautiful smile. You take a sip of your drink and a small step back to make space for her, Beomgyu mimicking your movements. “Hey,” he greets her back, introducing you to her as if you didn’t already know who she was. “Oh, yeah, my bio girl, right?” She asks and you grit your teeth, nodding.

It’s ridiculous. You’ve been in her bio class for two years and she always came to you asking for help or homework answers, often cheating off your tests as well, so how were you still only labeled as her bio girl? It made you feel like a joke.

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she mumbles. You bite back the insult you want to say and simply smile, letting Beomgyu answer. “Yeah, we’ve been friends for a while,” he nods, glancing at you. There’s a flicker of something you can’t name in his eyes, making you blink confusedly. Haven’t you known better, you think it’s pain, regretted behind those words. Does he not see you as his friend?

“Oh, right, I saw you on Beomgyu’s post when he was playing basketball, right?” You nod again, shaking it off and focusing your attention at Yuna again. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she says, shutting you out of the conversation before you can say anything else. “I don’t have anything to drink, mind grabbing something with me?” Beomgyu opens his mouth and closes it again, his eyes flickering between the two of you before he nods hesitantly, letting her wrap her arm around his and pull him away, leaving you standing there alone with just a cup of vodka in your hands.

You’d be lying if you said you don’t feel like shit but there’s nothing you can do, watching them from your corner while sipping on your drink, looking like someone drained life out of you. Minseo seems to notice when she walks over to you to greet you, her smile turning into a frown as she asks what’s going on. You don’t answer. Can’t. But she figures it out on her own, her eyes following yours and finding Beomgyu and Yuna chatting near the drinks, both laughing over something he said.

“Oh,” she breathes out, standing in front of you to cover the sight. She raises her cup, unsure of what to say to make you feel better. “Yuna is… I didn’t know… I mean,” she clears her throat, feeling the pain in her gaze. You shake your head, raising your cup as well and forcing a smile, drinking with her. Your eyebrows furrow when the bitter taste fully settles in, the grimace you make making Minseo laugh. You’re glad at least one of you is able to laugh at the moment.

“You know, I’m not as stupid as everyone thinks,” she says suddenly, glancing back at them again. “So I really enjoy talking to you because I know you’re not stupid either.” — “Thanks?” You interrupt confusedly and she sighs. “My point is, I wanted to have a friend who was smart and also could talk about stupid boys with me so I wanted to help you get a boy, I told you that, right?” You nod, trying to see where her monologue is going. “But he’s…I can’t really help you when Yuna wants him as well. You understand, right?”

Your eyes widen, your lips shaking a bit as you try to answer her. But what is it that you’re supposed to say? Yeah, no worries, I get that she wins every time? Oh thank you for being such a great friend, Minseo?

Instead, you brush it off, changing the conversation before she can say anything else and make you feel even worse. She seems to prefer it that way as well. Her smile returns and she tells you about the boy she is seeing at the moment, complaining about him not showing up today before she drags you with herself towards the center of the room, introducing you to a few people as if you were really her friend.

You sit down on the couch right beside her, fixing your skirt when it rolls up higher than you’d want. One of the guys offers you his drink but you refuse, saying you’re good. It’s only when you see Yuna holding Beomgyu’s hand and pulling him with herself for a dance that you grab the drink from him, gulping it down in one go. There’s a few whistles around you and cheers but they don’t reach your ears. The only thing you can hear is Minseo telling you to be careful before you receive another cup with who knows what.

You’re not sure how long you’re sitting there, drinking and chatting with Minseo’s friends but it does help make you feel better. You push Beomgyu out of your head for a while, thinking about getting home and watching a movie with your mom instead of the boy that keeps breaking your heart over and over again without knowing about it. It feels nice to be able to focus on something else for once, but with your luck, it doesn’t last long.

“Here you are,” Beomgyu’s voice is a little panicked when he finds you, sounding as if he was looking for you all over the house. His breathing is unsteady as he looks around the group of people surrounding you, frowning. It’s an unusual crowd to say the least, especially when it’s Minseo of all people telling you to stop drinking because you’ve had enough. Your eyes flicker to him, your smile falling off. “Oh, hey.”

“Hi,” he greets you back even though he doesn’t understand, your name gentle on his lips. “Are you okay?” He asks, worried as he comes to stand beside you. You nod, smiling again. “Peachy.”

“She drank quite a lot,” Minseo tells him, making you roll your eyes. They’re acting as if you were wasted, unable to hear them. But you’re sitting right between them, annoyed with both of them. “The last time I checked I was able to drink however much I want,” you mumble, asking for another drink. Yeonjun who’s sitting opposite you reaches over and offers you his cup. You grab it without hesitation.

Beomgyu says your name again in a poor attempt to stop you but it only makes you want it more. You need to drown the pain he causes you. Need to shut his voice out before you start crying in front of everyone without even knowing why.

“Come on, we should go. Your mom will be worried,” he tries again and you shake your head. “I think she’s perfectly fine here,” Yeonjun interrupts him with a teasing smirk, leaning back in his seat. “Right, princess?” You nod, ignoring the nickname. “I’m sure her pretty little head can think for herself. And either way, there’s nothing to be worried about when she’s with us.”

His words make Beomgyu even more uncertain, his blood boiling when he watches Yeonjun’s eyes trail down your body. It’s disgusting, really. He stands between you without hesitation. “Let’s go,” he tries again, watching your cheeks turn red as you look up at him, hoping for the couch to swallow your whole so you could disappear.

His eyes are pleasing and part of you wants nothing more than to leave with him right now, but it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

Beomgyu grabs your hand before you can speak, pulling you up so you’re standing in front of him. You watch him confusedly, opening your mouth to argue with him and tell him you want to stay. However, he interrupts you before you can even do so, his empty hand cupping your cheek as he leans closer, pressing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widen, feeling your heart is about to jump out of your chest when he tilts his head slightly, his eyes closed as he tastes your lips, his other hand moving from your to your waist, keeping you flush against him.

You’re out of breath when he pulls away, the loud cheers around making you snap out of your thoughts and realize what’s going on. Beomgyu holds your hand again, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “Can we go now?” You nod this time, squeezing his hand tightly as he pulls you away from the crowd, getting out of the house without looking back once.

You don’t look back either, your eyes fixed on your intertwined hands, unable to think straight as he pulls you towards Lae’s car, Taehyun and Kai already waiting inside.

He holds your hand throughout the whole ride without a single word, only letting you go when the car stops in front of your house and you step outside, your gaze lingering on him until Lea drives off and you’re finally able to break down, tears slowly rolling down your cheeks.

You don’t want to get out of your bed the next morning, frowning when the light from outside reaches your face. You hide your head under your blanket, groaning. You reach your hand out, trying to find your phone somewhere on the bed. Once you do, you’re left disappointed when you see it’s dead, slowly rolling out of the bed to charge it.

It feels like someone beat your head the whole night but you force yourself to get out of your room and find something to eat, trying your hardest to ignore the sickening feeling in your stomach that reminds you just how poor your decisions were last night.

“You’re awake,” your mom smiles from the kitchen counter, already handing you a glass of water and some scrambled eggs. You smile as you grab them from her, sitting down at the table where your dad is drinking his morning coffee. “Did you throw up last night?” He asks and you shake your head immediately, assuring him it wasn’t that bad.

“Beomgyu came by earlier,” your mom says as she settles into a chair beside you. Your eyes widen. “Asked if he could talk to you but you were asleep so I sent him back home. Did something happen?” You hesitate as you take a bite of your breakfast, remembering the way his lips felt against your last night. There’s a few things from last night that are blurry. You don’t remember how much you drank or what it was, but you remember this clearly.

“No, nothing happened,” you shake your head in the end. “It probably wasn’t that important, don’t worry about it.”

Nothing important. You try to convince yourself of that as well but as soon as you’re done eating, you rush back to your room, grabbing your phone immediately. Your lips curve into a smile when you see new messages from Beomgyu, feeling like for once, maybe life is going your way.

Beomgyu: Are you awake yet? Beomgyu: Can we talk? Beomgyu: I’m on my way to your house Beomgyu: Your mom said you’re still sleeping, just call me when you wake up? Beomgyu: I need to talk to you Beomgyu: And preferably see you as well Beomgyu: I miss you

He’s adorable. You rush to press the call button but freeze when you get a new notification. Yunaluxe shared a new story.

You click on the notification even though a part of you knows you shouldn’t. Your stomach immediately drops when you see a picture of her and Beomgyu from last night, her arm wrapped around his waist while the other holds up a drink. He is smiling, his arm around her waist as well. You feel sick as you read the caption. Love finding future celebrities before they’re famous.

You turn your phone off again and let it charge, jumping back into bed and closing your eyes, Beomgyu’s messages staying there unanswered. You can’t talk to him. Not when you know he thinks last night was a mistake. He likes Yuna, right? There’s no reason for him to talk to you.

Life never goes your way.

It hurts avoiding him, but it hurts even more seeing him. You turn away every time you catch just a glimpse of Beomgyu in the hallways, avoiding all his messages and calls. It’s been four days since you properly looked at your phone, not wanting to see what he texted you. You can’t. You’re sure that if you read his messages you’d cry again, and you’ve had enough of that.

So instead, you buried yourself in work. You took a shift every day of this week and once your classes ended, you ran to the basketball court immediately to be with Heeseung and Jake, making sure there wasn’t a minute you could meet or think about Beomgyu.

It worked.

At least until it didn’t.

You hear your name from behind, squeezing your eyes shut at the familiarity of it. You want to run away and pretend you didn’t hear him but before you can do so, he grabs your hand and your eyes widen. You slowly turn around, pulling your hand away from him. “Hey,” you greet him awkwardly.

He sighs. You expect him to accuse you of avoiding him, be mad, or even yell at you. Instead, he does the complete opposite. “Hi,” he says simply, his voice as soft as you remember it. You meet his eyes hesitantly, your heart shattering into tiny pieces when he smiles at you. “Can we talk?”

He doesn’t give you the chance to refuse, pulling you aside so you don’t stand in the way of other students. You’re both quiet for a while, unsure of what you’re supposed to say. An apology hangs at the tip of your tongue but the words never come out, the nervousness building up more and more the longer you stand there.

Eventually, you break the awkward silence. “It looks like your wish became reality.” His eyes widen, looking at you confusedly. You clear your throat, looking away. “Yuna likes you, it’s super obvious. You’ve been talking to her, right? I’m sure it’s going well for the two of you.”

“What? No– you– are you serious?” Now this is more in the tone of how you expected this conversation to go, the annoyance in his voice clear as day. “This has nothing to do with her. I wanted to talk to you. To you, about you.”

“Did Taehyun get used to her yet? I’m sure she’s also eating lunch with you now, right? I hope he isn’t making it too hard for you,” you say as if you couldn’t hear anything he said.

“Can’t you hear me?” He questions, taking a step forward. “This is not about Yuna or anyone else, I don’t care what Taehyun thinks of her. And no, she is not fucking eating lunch with us, which you would know if you weren’t running away from me. Seriously? Can’t you just talk to me, please.”

His voice breaks at the end and you have to bite the inside of your cheek. No, you can’t talk to him. It’s too hard. Too painful. You need to run away from him, this conversation, everything he makes you feel.

“I can’t,” you admit, focusing everything you have left on making sure your voice doesn’t break. If it did, you’re sure you’d cry. “I can’t, Beomgyu. Please, just go be happy with her and let me get over you in peace. I want to be your friend, I really do, but I need to be alone at first to be able to do that.”

Beomgyu opens his mouth to argue, tell you how stupid it all is and that he doesn’t want you to do that, that he needs you closer than ever now. You walk away before he can do so, breathing heavily as you turn your back to him. It’s not fair.

It’s the only thing both of you can think about. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair he gets to walk around all happy with his dream girl liking him back while you have to watch, every word that comes out of his mouth breaking you in a different way.

It’s not fair you get to walk away and look for closure while he is left standing there alone, unable to do anything but watch you as he regrets everything that happened in the past few weeks. As he regrets everything except for you.

Beomgyu doesn’t need to speak for his friends to know something is wrong. As soon as he walks into the club room and sits down, it’s obvious he isn’t okay. Taehyun and Kai exchange a quick look before walking over to him, sitting beside him without a word.

“Is everything…good?” Taehyun asks awkwardly, immediately shutting his eyes closed and regretting how off he sounds. “Perfect,” Beomgyu mumbles, only confirming their worries. “What happened?”

Beomgyu hesitates, staying quiet for a while and repeating everything inside his head. Yeah, what did happened? When did everything go so fucking wrong? “We kissed,” he admits with a sigh. “Who?” Kai frowns and Taehyun immediately slaps his shoulder, shaking his head. Beomgyu rolls his eyes, your name leaving his lips before he can stop it. “On the party. And as you might have noticed, she’s been ignoring me since.”

“Wait, slow down, you kissed her? I thought you wanted Yuna?” Kai asks confusedly, the surprise in his voice obvious. “Dude, it was so obvious they have feelings for each other,” Taehyun says and Beomgyu immediately turns his head towards him. “You think she has feelings for me?” He wonders, a little too excited.

“I know she does. Have you seen the way she looks at you?”

A smile forms on his lips, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared when he remembers you don’t want to see him right now, even if you do like him. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now. She doesn’t want me around and says I should be with Yuna.”

“Wasn’t that what you always wanted?” Beomgyu glares at Kai and the poor boy raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, you can’t blame her when Yuna has been the only thing you’ve been able to talk about for weeks.”

“That’s not true,” he argues even though he doesn’t believe it himself.

“It’s slightly true,” Taehyun nods. “But it’s definitely not lost yet,” he assures him quickly when he sees the pain in his eyes. “I know you and I know her, you two are way too good friends to be able to stay apart for so long. I’ve known you for years, Beomgyu, and as long as I’ve known you, Soobin was always your best friend. But after meeting her? It was so painfully obvious you like her the most out of all of us. I wondered all the time if you only see her as a friend. And she looks at you the same. Like you’re the whole world.”

Beomgyu doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. Silence takes over the room again and Taehyun wonders if he said something wrong, nervously glancing at Kai.

“Do you want to cancel practice today? We don’t have to have one. We are basically perfect,” the youngest asks carefully but Beomgyu just shakes his head, standing up slowly. “No, we should practice. The spring festival is in a few days and we can’t mess up. I’ve heard some recording companies will be there.”

They don’t argue with him, following him to their instruments without saying anything else. The silence is weird, uncomfortable, and it makes Taehyun and Kai uneasy. It’s the first time since they started playing together that their practice was this quiet.

Beomgyu grumbles as he keeps messing up the chords, his head too loud compared to the silence in the room. It’s unbearable. But he pushes through anyway, not wanting to bother his friends with something so small as a failed crush he realized he had too late.

It’s only when Taehyun suggests playing a different song that he finally manages to play somewhat stable. The right melody finally echoing through the club room. And as Taehyun starts singing and Beomgyu prepares for his verse, his mind drifts off again. He sees you, standing right in front of him and cheering him on with your big eyes, watching him like he is the star.

And in that moment, it feels like all of his pain vanishes, only the happy memories he has with you remaining.

“I need to go,” he blurts out all of a sudden, quickly packing his guitar. His friends watch him confusedly, blinking as he runs off without another word, unsure of what to do now.

Beomgyu doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that it was he who insisted on having this practice or that he was a complete mess until now. There’s something more important to do at the moment than to drown himself in sadness. He has a song to write.

You’re not sure about this. You stare down at your outfit, thinking if you should change again. You’re wearing a light blue dress that you’d normally love but for some reason can’t seem to feel good in right now.

“You look gorgeous, I promise. Beomgyu is going to fall to his knees when he sees you,” Heeseung assures you, watching you from your bed. But it’s not about whether he’ll like it or not, you don’t even know if you want him to. Jake turns off his phone and looks at you as well, a soft smile playing on his lips as he shakes his head at you. “It’s beautiful. No need to stress it. We’re going there to have fun, not for some dumb dude. What was his name? Beomhuj? Or something like that.” You giggle as Jake playfully winks at you, making you feel better without having to try much.

You’re glad they are going with you. You don’t think you’d be able to go alone. When you met Soobin in the hallway two days ago, he offered to go with you and you doubted he knew anything about what happened with you and Beomgyu so you simply rejected his offer softly. You weren’t going to go anyway. Just last night, you were set on staying home and laying in bed with your comfort movies, but then Heeseung and Jake came over, also set on something—making you go with them.

You weren’t in the mood to argue with them and so you got dressed, letting them convince you.

And now, you’re standing right behind the barricade with each boy on your side, awkwardly looking around the empty podium. You told yourself you weren’t excited, that you were there simply because your friends made you, so why were you searching for a certain boy with your eyes the whole time?

Beomgyu, Taehyun and Kai walk on the podium shortly after, the cheers and whistles loud around you. Even though you’re supposed to feel sad, mad even, all you are at the moment is proud. They are incredible. You know how hard they worked up to this point and seeing the crowd cheering for them makes you giddy. They deserve this, no matter what anyone else says.

You watch Beomgyu introduce their band, his eyes nervously scanning the whole crowd. It might be just your imagination but you swear you catch a glimpse of his smile when his eyes finally land on you, clearing his throat as Kai starts playing the drums and music takes over the place.

You smile as you listen to their music, all the sadness and emptiness you felt before washing off. You can’t help it. Even though a part of you wants to run away and hide so you never have to see him again, your other half heals when you listen to him. It always had.

The song comes to an end and Beomgyu glances at his bandmates quickly before wrapping his hand around the mic, smiling at the crowd.

“This is the first time we’re playing this song and it’s quite fresh, so I’m sorry if we sound a bit off,” he laughs awkwardly. “I wrote it at my worst and best at the same time. This one is for, uhm, a special someone,” he proclaims, avoiding eye contact as he thinks over his words. “It’s for the girl who makes me feel so much at once I’m unable to think straight, someone who has been there with me even when I was so oblivious it hurt her,” you see him glance at you briefly, his eyes saying everything you wanted to hear after accepting the fact you like him. You swallow a lump in your throat, shifting nervously and glancing at the two boys beside you.

“This one is called Because of you. I hope you like it.”

You blink confusedly as the melody surrounds you, the excitement in your eyes obvious as you look at Heeseung to make sure you’re not dreaming. He has a playful smirk on his lips, nodding as if he could read your mind completely.

“You laughed at things I couldn’t say, And made them rhyme inside my chest, I thought I’d lost the words one day, But with you, I found the rest,”

Beomgyu’s voice makes you melt in an instant, your eyes glued to his as he sings his song, a song just for the two of you. You get your serenade, you realize. A song he wrote for you and no one else. Your smile widens, cheering him on with the rest of the crowd, causing his grin to widen as well.

“Because of you, I raise my voice, Not to impress, but to rejoice, You turned the noise into a song, And showed me where my words belong, I used to run, now I stand through, Because of you,”

The words play in your head the same way the first song you’ve heard him play did, the melody already stuck in your head as you hum along, singing with him as if you’ve known the song for years. Maybe it’s because it’s him, maybe because it’s the two of you, but you don’t care. Not when he stares at you throughout the whole song, even though you know Yuna is somewhere in the crowd as well.

As soon as the song ends, Beomgyu glances at Taehyun for reassurance, giggling when he sees the proud nod he gives him. He rolls his eyes playfully when he sees how excited Beomgyu is, shaking his head. “Do I need to tell you everything? Get down there,” he encourages.

Beomgyu turns towards the crowd again, laughing awkwardly. “If you guys excuse me for a moment.” He doesn’t wait for their answer, doesn’t wait for anything really as he puts away his guitar and rushes down the podium to the barricade. You watch him with amusement, giggling softly as Jake claps beside you.

“Hi,” he smiles as soon as he stands in front of you. You giggle again, hiding your face in your hands. “Hey.” Beomgyu holds your hands and brings them away so he can look at you, an annoyingly beautiful smile spread across his lips as he pulls you closer and connects your lips with his again.

It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you wanting more, making you feel absolutely drunk on him. You kiss him back without hesitation, smiling. If every kiss with him feels like butterflies exist in your stomach—you want to kiss him forever.

He pulls back a little breathless, resting his forehead against yours.

“It’s you. Deep down, I knew it’s always been you.”

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