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mrsvante · 26 days ago

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The Long Game XI

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: sugar daddy au, yandere, angst

summary: you never meant to catch his eye, you were just an intern. you were there to work, not bang the big wigs. you didn’t know who he was, so you just smiled politely and kept walking. that was the moment he decided you were his. and for a man who’s built his entire empire on control, the moment he noticed you was the moment he started to lose it.

warnings: power imbalance, jealousy, light stalking/surveillance, slow burn, smuuuuuuuuuut, praise kink, big dick joon, a little humiliation, possessiveness, overthinking that leads to internal/external spiraling, reader is hungry for that & i don’t blame her one bit, overstimulation, oral f!receiving, soft dom joonie, fingering f!receiving, mention of bc, mild breeding kink, aftercare, this is what happens when a man who controls empires decides you belong to him.

word count: 10,785

a word from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: sorry for going mia with this series. if i’m being honest, it got wayyy more popular than i anticipated. i started with a oneshot, then added a few more drabbles because my brain just doesn’t know when to quit. but seeing how much everyone loves it, i finally sat down & properly organized the series. so i figured why not give y’all a glimpse into how our favorite couple came to be. i hope you like it 🤗💕

Namjoon didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Not until the elevator doors opened on the twenty eighth floor of the Cheongdam Tower and you stepped out, balancing a coffee tray and a file folder in your arms, trying not to let either fall.

You looked completely ordinary.

Polished but simple. Nervous but determined. Dressed modestly in business casual with a pair of sensible shoes that said you were serious, practical, here to work not to be noticed.

But Namjoon noticed.

He was speaking with one of the legal partners in the corridor, something about merger clauses or breach conditions, he couldn’t remember. Because the second you passed by, the air shifted.

He turned his head.

The lawyer kept speaking but Namjoon didn’t hear a word.

There wasn’t anything particularly striking about you, not by traditional standards. You weren’t trying to catch anyone’s attention. You didn’t even glance in his direction. But that was what made it worse. You didn’t see him.

Everyone saw him.

Everyone paused, straightened, and recalculated.

But you just walked past with your brow furrowed and your lip caught between your teeth, as if your entire world lived in the task in your hands and nothing else.

And for a man like Namjoon, used to commanding rooms and rerouting empires, that was the moment he stopped listening to anything but the sound of your footsteps retreating down the hall.

You worked in one of MONOLITH’s smaller tech adjacent firms, tucked under a web of strategic subsidiaries. Your internship was the result of a school partnership and a well timed recommendation from a professor he didn’t particularly respect.

You weren’t special. Not on paper.

But something about you stuck in his chest. He looked you up before he stepped back into the meeting. It took two swipes on his phone.

Name. University. Academic record.

Clean.

But not untouched.

There were already emails in your inbox. Mentors, other interns, a junior associate who thought he was charming because he went to Yonsei and had perfect teeth.

Namjoon made a mental note of him first.

Then he called his assistant.

“Flag anything related to the ARCHIVE cohort. I want weekly updates,” he said. “No one gets bumped without me approving it.”

——

The next time he saw you, he made it seem accidental.

You were leaving a project debrief with your team, notebook pressed against your chest, hair pinned up messily. You looked tired. Overworked.

Namjoon caught the elevator doors before they closed.

“Hold, please,” he said, even though you’d already pressed the button.

You glanced up at him, offered a polite smile, and pressed yourself further into the corner as he stepped in.

You didn’t know who he was.

Not really.

He watched you through the glass reflection of the elevator wall. The way you shifted from foot to foot. The way your fingers tapped against the spiral of your notebook, like your thoughts never really stopped moving.

He didn’t speak.

Not until the doors slid open on the executive floor and you stepped aside to let him out.

“Good work on the Stratwell proposal,” he said as he passed you. “You have a sharp eye.”

You blinked at him, stunned.

“I—I wasn’t sure anyone saw that draft,” you said quietly.

“I did,” he replied, gaze sharp. “Keep at it.”

Then he was gone.

That night, Namjoon had flowers sent to your desk. Nothing over the top, just a small bouquet of peonies and white lilacs. Elegant and understated. No card.

He told himself it was to keep morale high. But he also flagged your name on the internal transfer list.

——-

He saw you again two days later. This time in the lobby, struggling with a jammed badge at the turnstile. He stepped in before security could.

“New cards are temperamental,” he said, swiping his for you.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed. “Thank you. I swear it was working yesterday.”

Namjoon smirked. “Technology’s fickle. Don’t take it personally.”

You laughed, a soft sound, airy and genuine. And that was the moment it clicked.

Your laugh.

That was what made the obsession calcify. Because when you laughed, Namjoon felt peace. And peace was dangerous for a man who had never needed anything outside of power. He needed to know that sound was always his.

He started showing up more often after that.

Not obviously. Never enough to spook you. Just enough to offer guidance when your project hit a wall. Just enough to make sure you were invited to closed door sessions with VPs and division heads. Just enough to ensure you knew he had noticed you, even if you didn’t fully understand why.

You didn’t ask for anything, never fished for credit, or ever sought his attention the way others did.

And that was exactly why you got it.

Namjoon moved mountains behind the scenes. Shielding you from office politics, keeping HR at bay when they tried to shift your department, ensuring you always had a direct line of communication to the resources you needed. All under the guise of mentorship. Talent acquisition. Just a hunch.

When he invited you to lunch under the pretense of discussing your career trajectory, you almost didn’t say yes.

He picked a quiet corner table at a restaurant where no one would question why a CEO was having lunch with an intern. He asked you questions. He listened. Not just to your answers, but to the way you spoke when you weren’t sure if you were allowed to hope out loud.

By the end of the meal, he wasn’t thinking about if he could have you.

He was thinking about how long he could make the game last before you realized it was over.

——

It started with the intern mixer.

Namjoon didn’t attend things like that. They were beneath his rank, his schedule, his carefully constructed persona. He was a figurehead. Admired from a distance, untouchable in curated suits and private conference rooms.

But when he saw your name on the email chain confirming attendance?

He rearranged his calendar.

He told himself it was for optics. Leadership visibility. An excuse to show the younger cohort MONOLITH’s investment in future talent.

He told himself a lot of things.

The venue was casual. A rooftop bar overlooking the Han, modest and modern, filled with floor to ceiling windows and long velvet booths. The kind of place young professionals went to feel expensive.

You were already there when Namjoon arrived.

Sitting at the far end of a low cocktail table with your legs crossed, sipping something clear with an orange peel garnish hanging from a short glass. You laughed at something someone said. Not too loud or flirty, just enough to tilt your head and touch your chest as your shoulders shook.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened.

He wasn’t listening to the introductions being rattled off around him. Didn’t register the polite greetings. He only watched the man sitting next to you, the same junior associate he’d flagged weeks ago, lean in a little too close. Smile a little too wide.

Namjoon felt it then, that tightness in his chest. A slow heat coiling behind his ribs.

Mine.

He caught himself before it showed, just barely.

He smiled as he approached the group, one hand tucked casually into his pants pocket. His watch glinted in the light. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and unbothered.

“Mind if I join you?”

The junior associate was startled, laughing nervously before he scrambled to make room, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. You looked up at Namjoon and blinked, surprised.

“Oh—Mr. Kim,” you said, straightening. “I didn’t think—”

“Namjoon’s fine,” he interrupted. “I was in the area. Thought I’d check in.”

You offered him a seat beside you without hesitation.

Of course you did.

Because you had no idea what he was doing.

You didn’t see the calculation behind his smile. The way he angled his body between you and the associate, cutting off eye contact without seeming rude. You didn’t hear the subtle bite in his tone when he asked, “How do you all know each other?”

His eyes never leaving the man beside you.

“Same cohort,” the guy replied. “She’s—uh—been a big help. Smart. Focused.”

“She is,” Namjoon said evenly.

You blushed.

The associate kept talking, but Namjoon wasn’t listening. He was watching the way your fingers toyed with your napkin, how you smiled softly at whoever spoke, always thoughtful, always sweet.

Too sweet.

Too unaware of the eyes on you. Of how that made him feel.

When the man beside you made a lighthearted joke and nudged your shoulder, Namjoon’s fingers clenched around his glass. The tension spiked fast, sharp, and unfamiliar. He had to set the drink down before the crystal cracked.

He hated it.

Not the man.

Not even the fact that he touched you.

He hated himself for the way it made him feel.

This wasn’t who he was.

He’d built an empire off discipline. Control. Calculated power.

But with you?

He was slipping.

And when you leaned in, whispering something to the guy that made him laugh, Namjoon realized, it didn’t matter if nothing was happening. The idea that something could, was enough to drive him insane.

That was the night everything changed.

Because as soon as he got back into his car, he wasn’t thinking about restraint. He was thinking about how to eliminate every variable between you and him.

——

The next morning, your desk was moved.

It was presented as a collaborative opportunity. You’d been paired with a new team lead in a different department. A better match for your strengths, they said.

A higher visibility role.

The junior associate? Sent on a six month remote project abroad.

Namjoon didn’t tell you any of this.

You just smiled when you passed him in the hallway, thanking him again for dropping by the mixer. You said it meant a lot to see someone like him care about the interns.

He nodded.

Said something polite.

But all he could think was…mine.

Namjoon didn’t act quickly. He acted precisely. He didn’t chase. He cornered. Which was why, the first time he truly took a look at your circle, he didn’t feel threatened.

He felt bothered.

The clingy ex-roommate who still sent you guilt tripping, passive aggressive texts about growing apart? Gone.

One anonymous tip about workplace misconduct, not even exaggerated, just curated, and her contract dissolved by the end of the week. Namjoon made sure the severance package included therapy credits. That wasn’t cruelty. That was care, neatly disguised in plausible deniability.

The senior TA at your university who liked to hover under your Instagram stories like a hungry stray?

A ghost by Monday.

Namjoon had a PI confirm his involvement in two separate HR complaints across campuses. He didn’t even need to make contact, just nudged the files into the right inbox. University bureaucracy did the rest.

And your manager?

The smug, middle aged caffeine tyrant who thought he could guilt you into covering shifts you never signed up for?

Namjoon bought the café.

He kept the staff, boosted wages, doubled benefits.

Except the manager. He was gone within seventy two hours, after a gentle offboarding discussion and an airtight NDA.

Namjoon told himself it was protection, preparation. That you’d never know he had his hands in the machinery behind you, smoothing the friction, removing the small, annoying gears that didn’t serve you…or him.

But the truth was, it only started that way.

Because by the time you were invited to a club downtown with a group of classmates, Namjoon was already pacing his penthouse like a man with splinters in his skin. Phone in hand with location services on the screen. Watching the tiny blinking dot of your phone drift through the city he knew too intimately to trust.

You were wearing a black dress. Short, tight, and had him harder than he’d been in years.

He hadn’t seen it in person.

But your friend had posted a blurry photo to her story. Your group lined up outside the velvet rope of the club entrance, laughing, arms slung around each other.

And you?

You looked radiant.

Unaware of how many eyes wanted you.

Namjoon wasn’t stalking you, not in the traditional sense.

He was nearby, attending a private event hosted by one of MONOLITH’s umbrella investors, just a few buildings down. He hadn’t planned on stopping by the club.

But he did.

He watched from the shadows near the bar, no drink in hand, no company at his side, just him. Observing long enough to notice how men looked at you.

Too long.

Too boldly.

And then it happened.

One of them reached for you.

Namjoon didn’t hear what he said, and he didn’t need to. He saw your polite smile stiffen. The way your body angled away. How your drink sloshed a little when the man leaned closer, fingers grazing your arm like he had permission.

Namjoon was across the room in less than five strides.

“Excuse me,” he said, clean and cold.

The man turned, confused. “What?”

Namjoon stepped forward, just enough to tower over the man. “She’s not interested.”

You spun at the voice. “Namjoon—?”

“It’s in your best interest,” he leaned in, “if you leave now while your legs still work.”

The man scoffed. Rolled his eyes. Muttered an insult under his breath before shoving past.

Namjoon’s hand flexed once, his jaw clenched. A thread stretched tight.

Then, your fingers curled around his wrist.

“We can go,” you whispered, words a little slurred. “’s fine. Let’s just go.”

Let’s.

That was all he needed.

—

The car ride was thick with silence at first. Namjoon’s driver knew better than to speak unless prompted.

You curled into the far corner of the leather seat. Your cheek pressed to the window, shadows softening your profile. For a while, you said nothing.

“Thanks. For earlier.”

Namjoon nodded. “Of course.”

“Didn’t know you were a clubber.”

He hesitated. “Neither did I. I had a thing nearby. Just stopped for a drink when I spotted you.”

You twisted your fingers in your lap. “He was being weird, right?”

His voice was steel wrapped in velvet. “He was being a prick. I should’ve broken his fucking nose.”

You laughed, startled. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

He turned his gaze toward you. “Like what?”

“Like… that. All protective.”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t shift. But something simmered beneath. “I’m always protective.”

“Of me?”

“Especially of you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was weighted. Loaded. Like the air between two tectonic plates, one tremor away from a shift that could reshape everything.

The car slowed in front of your apartment. Namjoon unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll walk you—”

But you turned before he could finish, cupped his jaw, and kissed him.

It was just a kiss, impulsive.

But not just a kiss.

Namjoon’s breath hitched. His hand found your thigh, thumb pressing into the fabric of your dress. His restraint hung by a thread, hunger clawing up his spine, rage and longing and need all compressed into a single moment.

But you pulled away too fast.

Eyes wide with the crash of clarity as your face turned bright red.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Shit. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Wait—”

“No.” You unbuckled your seatbelt quickly, scooting away and out of the car. “I’m drunk. That was—fuck. I’m sorry, Mr. Kim. I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

Namjoon didn’t stop you.

Didn’t follow.

Because he couldn’t, because if he did.

He might not have stopped.

—

He returned to the penthouse half an hour later.

Everything looked the same.

The soft amber lights, low hum of the air system. The faint scent of cedar and white tea lingering from the diffusers throughout. Even the half drunk glass of whiskey he’d left on the bar top still sat there, the condensation long dried.

But he didn’t feel the same.

He moved like a man sleepwalking.

Jacket off. Shoes shelved. Shirt unbuttoned and tossed in the hamper. Each movement was a ritual meant to anchor him, to keep his hands busy, his mind from spiraling.

But it didn’t work.

The memory of your lips followed him to the closet. Haunted him across the cold tile of the en suite.

By the time he stepped under the ice of the shower, he was already trembling. His jaw clenched, muscles taut, skin humming with want.

The water lashed at him, freezing.

But it didn’t wash away the feel of your kiss. Didn’t cleanse the heat of your breath, warm and shaky against his neck. Couldn’t drown out the sound of his name on your tongue.

He braced both hands against the wall, fingers splayed wide against the tile, trying to breathe.

Trying to will the ache away.

But his cock throbbed stubbornly, heavy and leaking, twitching with the phantom weight of your body beneath his hands. His stomach tightened, hips jolting forward with a hunger he couldn’t bury anymore.

His hand found cock before his brain could catch up.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat as he gripped hard, pumping fast, punishing.

This wasn’t about pleasure.

It wasn’t about relief.

It was about control.

About how little of it he had left.

He thought of the way your lips had parted, stunned and breathless. Like you hadn’t meant to kiss him, but couldn’t stop yourself. The way your fingers curled into his shirt like you were anchoring yourself, like you needed him.

His strokes grew faster, teeth gritted, forehead pressed to the wall so hard it bordered on pain.

Every breath was a curse.

Every thrust of his fist an admission.

He was losing the war he’d waged against himself. Losing it every time you smiled at him like he was something good.

“Fuck,” he snarled, voice raw, strained.

And then he came, violently, his whole body convulsing as the heat ripped through him, viscous and hot against the shower floor. His knees nearly buckled.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Steam curled around him like a shroud, the water still pounding against his spine.

Eventually, he forced himself upright, chest still heaving, throat dry.

He turned his face toward the glass.

And through the fog, there it was.

His reflection, hollow eyed and flushed. Not a man purged of lust, but one undone by need. A man who knew, with absolute certainty now, that kissing you had changed everything.

And that he might never survive doing it again.

But he would do it again, because he had to. Waiting wasn’t safety anymore.

It was torment.

And you were the only thing that could quiet the fire he couldn’t put out.

Soon.

You wouldn’t be confused next time. You’d be sure.

And you’d be his.

—

You’d been avoiding him for days.

He had to give it to you. You were careful. The kind of careful that knew exactly how many seconds it took to pass him in the hallway without seeming deliberate. The kind that knew how to redirect an email thread so that your replies stayed professional, but never outright rude.

But Namjoon noticed.

He noticed the way your shoulders stiffened when his name lit up your inbox. The way you chose the longer path through accounting to avoid the design floor entirely.

How your coffee cup always had your name scrawled in your own handwriting now, no longer gifted by his order.

He noticed all of it.

And he let you run.

Until the fourth day.

He didn’t mean to stop, he only meant to pass. But when he caught sight of you inside the copy room alone, head bowed over a mess of reports, teeth worrying your lip raw, something in his chest gave out.

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

You turned sharply, breath hitching. “Mr. Kim—”

“Namjoon,” he said, voice low. Not a suggestion. “We’ve been over this.”

You nodded, throat working. “Sorry. I was just printing something. For the marketing meeting. I’ll be out in—”

“I’m not here for the meeting.”

You sidestepped him, reaching for the tray, but he was already there. His body closing the space, hand braced beside your head, the other catching your wrist.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

Your gaze fell to the floor. “I haven’t.”

“You have.”

Not cruel. Not accusing. Just certain.

You pulled your hand from his grip. “I kissed you,” you said, voice breaking on the edges of the words. “I was drunk. It was inappropriate. And I panicked. I’m sorry.”

Namjoon tilted his head.

Then, just as your apology began to spill out again, he leaned in and kissed you.

There was nothing delicate about it.

No nerves or hesitation.

It was the kind of kiss that burned, that said you’re not going anywhere. His hand slid to the base of your skull, fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head until your mouth parted for him.

And when he deepened the kiss, when he swallowed your gasp and pressed you back into the wall with the weight of everything he’d been holding in, your body betrayed you.

Your knees weakened. Hands clutched his arms as your heart stuttered in your chest.

When he finally pulled back, your breathing was ragged.

“This,” he said, his breath brushing your bottom lip, “is how you’ll kiss me from now on.”

You couldn’t speak.

He didn’t need you to.

“I’ll be at your apartment at seven,” he murmured, the command dressed as a promise. “Wear whatever makes you feel dangerous.”

Then he stepped back, smoothed the lapels of his jacket, and walked away. Leaving you stunned, breathless, and brimming with adrenaline you couldn’t shake.

—

The rest of the workday passed in a blur.

You tried to focus. But everything—the reports, the deadlines, the back to back calls—turned into background noise. Every thought returned to the moment his mouth met yours. The weight of his hand. The way he’d looked at you

So when you returned home and saw the garment bag hanging off the handle of your front door, your breath caught.

Inside was a dress spun from ink and starlight. Black silk, shot through with tiny flecks of silver. It shimmered like it knew secrets. Like it’d been chosen not just for you, but because of you.

There were matching heels. Jewelry. A bottle of perfume you’d once mentioned in passing but had never bought yourself.

And beside the necklace box, a note in his handwriting:

Tonight is about firsts. Be ready by seven.

— Joon

You stood in the doorway for a long time, fingers trembling.

Then you slipped into the dress.

Namjoon was waiting just outside the elevator.

He looked devastating in an all black suit. His Rolex glinting beneath the low light. He turned at the sound of your heels, and his expression shifted. Something devious settling over his features as he took you in.

“Stunning,” he said simply. He offered his hand as he stepped closer. “You’ve always been beautiful. But this?”

You hesitated, unused to the attention.

“…This makes me want to lock you away.”

You should’ve been alarmed. But instead you just…burned. Quietly, from the inside out.

In the car, he asked about your day. Your team. The coffee you’d spilled on your keyboard last week. His voice was gentle, and his gaze sharp. His thumb brushed yours every few minutes like a tether.

It was disarming. Intimate and a little surreal.

The restaurant was hidden behind an unmarked door. The decor was minimalistic but exuded exclusivity. The kind of place with no menu or photos. No distractions.

You weren’t just a guest here. You were being attended.

Taken care of.

Like everything else in Namjoon’s world.

By the time the wine arrived, you’d forgotten to be nervous. You were laughing, genuinely. His smile had teeth but it wasn’t dangerous.

Until it was.

Namjoon leaned back in his seat, fingers tracing the rim of his glass with casual elegance. “There’s something I want to run by you,” he said, voice low, thoughtful. “And I want to make sure it’s clear from the beginning.”

Your pulse skipped. “Okay…”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with intent. “I know how hard you’ve worked. Your education, your goals. I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected gentleness in his tone.

“I also know that the kind of connection I want with you… doesn’t really fit into the usual mold,” he continued, setting his glass down. “I’m not someone who dates casually. I don’t lead people on. And I don’t ask for things I can’t commit to.”

Your breath hitched.

“So I’m offering something different, something honest.”

He leaned in, elbows resting on the table. “You’ll be taken care of. Not in a vague, half hearted way, but fully. Financially, practically. I want you to be able to focus on your future without worrying about rent or tution or juggling three jobs to stay afloat. If you’re mine, you won’t have to.”

You stared at him.

“But in return,” he added, voice cooling just a touch, “I expect exclusivity. I don’t share. Not your time. Not your attention. Not your body.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften the words.

“I’m possessive,” he said simply, like it was just a fact. “And I’m not apologizing for it.”

The restaurant around you faded, dimmed. It felt like you were the only two people in the room.

“And if I say no?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.

His brows lifted, playful but firm. “You could say no… but you won’t.”

You gaped at him. Then, you laughed. Shoulders hunched and trembling with a hand over your mouth.

“You’re something else,” you murmured, shaking your head.

“I told you,” he said, raising his glass. “This is our first dinner. Not our last.”

You hesitated.

Then raised your glass to meet his.

“To the beginning.”

——

It happened quietly.

Like sugar dissolving in tea.

You didn’t even notice how fully Namjoon had embedded himself into your life until he was simply… there. Not suffocatingly, not overt, and never demanding.

But constant.

Present in ways that mattered.

There was the second Monday of your new team rotation when your lunch mysteriously arrived already paid for. A perfect match to the sandwich you’d been craving all morning, down to the brand of flavored sparkling water you liked and the extra cookie you’d half joked about wanting with a coworker in the breakroom.

There was no card. No signature.

But you knew.

Then came the flowers.

Not the kind that screamed guilt or apology. No overpriced red roses, no carnations that looked like funeral arrangements. Just soft and delicate lilies, peonies, ranunculus in shades that matched the changing seasons.

A bouquet at your apartment, waiting on your doorstep in a real crystal vase.

Another at work, perched on your desk.

Every time you thought it was too much, too indulgent, he’d somehow level it out. You’d mention needing a new umbrella, and three different colors would arrive by the end of the day. You’d jokingly complain about hating heels, and suddenly your go to sneakers came in five limited edition colors you’d never seen before.

And yet, he never crossed a line. No wandering hands, sleazy comments, or pressure.

Just kisses. And oh, the way he kissed you.

Like a starving man finally tasting something he’d been craving his whole life. Long, deep, passionate kisses that left you breathless. He kissed you like a slow burning fire, coaxing heat out of every nerve in your body until you were gripping his shoulders, thighs trembling, aching.

And then… he’d stop.

Every single time, he’d slow it down before things went further. He’d smooth your hair. Press a kiss to your neck or forehead. Help you sit up and tuck your clothes back into place like a fucking gentleman.

At first, you were charmed.

Chivalry? What a concept. And from a man with hands big enough to break down buildings, who had no shortage of power or ego? Even better.

But then it kept happening.

Date after date.

Dinner after dinner.

Kiss after kiss that left your underwear soaked and your body twitching for more.

Nothing.

You’d leave with trembling knees and a mind full of filth, only to take care of yourself in your bedroom later like a teenager with a crush. And the worst part?

You knew he wanted you.

You could feel it in the way he pressed his body against you, thick and hard beneath those expensive slacks. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched when you moaned into his mouth. You could hear it in the way he exhaled your name like a prayer.

But still… nothing.

And it was driving you crazy.

—

One night, curled into his side on the couch, half watching some black and white movie you’d both forgotten the name of, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You tilted your head, eyes dragging across the strong line of his throat to the faint pulse just beneath it. His arm was draped around you, hand resting innocently on your waist, like you weren’t silently buzzing with need.

You cleared your throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

Namjoon hummed, eyes still on the screen. “Of course.”

You hesitated. “Why haven’t you…?”

He blinked down at you. “Haven’t what?”

You lifted a brow. “You know.”

He smirked, but continued to play innocent. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You squirmed. “Why haven’t you tried to sleep with me?”

That got his full attention.

Namjoon turned toward you slowly, the weight of his gaze pressing heat into your skin. His brow arched, lips curling into a smirk.

“You want me to?”

Your breath caught. “Obviously.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his arm that had been resting behind you shifted lower, his large hand finding your thigh, giving it the lightest squeeze. Then his other hand came to your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“I do too,” he murmured. “Don’t think for a second I haven’t thought about it.”

His fingers stroked your cheek, his voice dipping lower with each word. “I dream about it. I fuck my fist to the thought of it. You straddling me, dripping, moaning my name like it’s a fucking prayer.”

You whimpered.

“But I know you,” he went on. “You’ve only ever known boys. Horny little boys who take because they don’t know any better.”

His hand slid higher.

“I’m not a boy.”

You sucked in a breath as his fingers brushed the hem of your shorts, teasing lightly against the curve of your inner thigh.

“I don’t take,” Namjoon whispered, voice dark silk against your skin. “I claim.”

Your heart skipped. Your thighs instinctively parted, just enough.

Namjoon smirked.

“But, if you need relief,” His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. “I’m more than happy to take care of you.”

You gasped when his fingers found your pussy, already soaked from nothing more than the sound of his voice. He groaned low in his throat, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So wet already. You’ve been holding this in for weeks, haven’t you?”

You could only nod, too breathless to speak as he stroked slow, deliberate circles over your clit before slipping two fingers into you, curling just right.

You gasped out a moan, you walls clenching around his fingers.

“I’ve waited this long to touch you,” he said, watching the way your face twisted in pleasure. “I can wait a little longer to have you. But if you need me—if you need this—then I’ll give you everything.”

Your back arched. His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm grinding against your clit in perfect rhythm.

“You’re my good girl,” he whispered. “You don’t even know how good you are for me.”

You clenched around him, “N-Namjoon,” your body trembling, mouth falling open as the heat inside you began to crest.

“That’s it,” Namjoon growled. “Cum for me.”

You exploded in his arms, hips jerking, fingers curling into his shirt as your orgasm rolled over you in waves. Namjoon held you through it, fingers still stroking, coaxing every last tremor until you were gasping, boneless.

Then he was lifting you, as if you weighed nothing.

You barely registered the motion, just the press of his chest against your cheek, the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his hand cradling your thigh. He carried you to your bedroom, set you gently on the bed, and brushed the hair from your damp forehead.

“Stay,” you whispered weakly.

He kissed your temple, then your forehead. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

He smiled, tucking the blanket around you. “You need rest. Not more of me.”

You pouted, eyes fluttering shut despite yourself.

Namjoon leaned down and kissed your forehead once more.

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

And then he was gone, like a fever dream.

——

You’d been to luxurious restaurants and hotels before. But Namjoon’s penthouse in Busan?

It was something else entirely.

Sunlight spilled through two story windows that overlooked the harbor, painting the marble floors in soft gold. The air smelled like salt and sandalwood, like ocean breeze and wealth. And everywhere you looked, his presence lingered. From the books stacked neatly on the nightstand to the workout gear folded at the foot of the bed.

It was too perfect.

So was he.

Namjoon had barely let go of your hand since the plane touched down.

He hadn’t left your side, hadn’t missed a beat. Every small need you didn’t realize you had, he’d already anticipated. Slippers in your size at the door. Your favorite skincare waiting in the bathroom. A matching robe that somehow fit you perfectly despite him never asking for your measurements.

It was your first trip together outside of Seoul, and yet, somehow he made it feel like your tenth anniversary.

Which only made the silence between your legs harder to ignore.

You were losing your mind.

On the plane, he’d fucked you with his hand until your thighs trembled, three fingers deep, palm grinding against your clit as he whispered filthy promises into your ear. You’d cum so hard, so loud, that the stewardess walked over with a frown and asked if you were alright.

Namjoon just smiled, while you hadn’t been able to look her in the eye for the rest of the flight.

And yet…he hadn’t fucked you.

Not then or when you’d wrapped your arms around him in the car. Not even after arriving, when you’d slipped into the silk robe, makeup off, skin flushed, eyes soft from anticipation.

Just kisses. Fingers. Tongue.

No cock.

No grand finale.

At first, you chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he didn’t want to rush. Maybe he was building toward something.

But it had been almost three months now. And it was starting to crawl under your skin.

It didn’t help that everything else about him was perfect.

He made you laugh. Let you pick the playlist in the car. Stopped to buy pastries from a local café just because you liked the smell. He whispered sweet nothings in your ear between meetings, rested his hand on your back when you walked through crowds, and brushed his lips over your shoulder while you sipped your morning coffee.

You should’ve been basking in it. Most women would.

Instead, you were spiraling.

Every compliment felt like a tease. Every soft touch a taunt. Every smile made your stomach twist because if he wanted you, why hadn’t he taken you yet?

You tried not to show it.

Tried to enjoy the shopping trip he took you on this morning after his early meeting, let yourself relax as he held your hand through boutiques, let yourself smile when he picked out earrings he said reminded him of the moonlight on your skin.

But still, it lingered.

That whisper of doubt, curled around your spine like smoke.

Maybe he thinks you’re not ready.

Maybe he thinks you’re not good enough.

Maybe this isn’t going anywhere. Maybe you’re just a phase.

Namjoon noticed something was off. Of course he did.

He watched you as you fingered silk scarves on a display, gaze distant.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmured beside you.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Just tired.”

He didn’t push. Just tucked your hand in his again and pulled you gently toward the next shop.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

Not even when he kissed your temple. Not even when he called you baby and helped you pick out the softest sweater you’d ever touched. Not even when he chided you to hand over your bags so he could carry them all himself so your arms wouldn’t get sore.

Because the worst part was, you wanted him.

Desperately.

And it was starting to feel like he didn’t want you back.

—

The car was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the road beneath the tires and the muted sound of the city slipping past the tinted windows. You were reclined in the plush leather backseat beside Namjoon, the privacy screen rolled up, the lights inside dim and low.

Dinner had been beautiful, at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the bay with candlelight and a bottle of red wine with a name you couldn’t pronounce. Namjoon had ordered for you both without hesitation, somehow always knowing exactly what you wanted before you did.

Now you were warm, relaxed, just buzzed enough to feel your limbs like silk, and Namjoon was all soft hands and quiet laughter beside you.

His palm rested on your thigh, fingers absently stroking the inside like he was drawing invisible patterns into your skin.

You didn’t stop him when his hand slid higher, grazing just under the hem of your dress, you shifted, giving him space. It had become a routine by now. A rhythm.

Until he started to slip his fingers into your panties, then you pulled away.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked to yours immediately, concern tightening his features. “Baby?”

Your heart pounded in your ears.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

His hand withdrew, but not far. “You sure?”

You looked away, jaw tight.

When he called your name again it was with that tone. Low. Measured. Serious now.

You exhaled, jaw trembling, then said the one thing that had been chewing through your brain for weeks.

“Why haven’t you fucked me?”

The air in the car went still.

Namjoon blinked once.

You laughed, but it sounded sharp, almost bitter. “Seriously, Namjoon. You eat me out like I’m your last meal. Fuck me with you hand until I can’t see straight. But you won’t fuck me.”

He opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“I’m not dumb. I can take a hint. If this is just supposed to be some pretty little arrangement where I warm your lap and you play with me like a doll, just say that.”

“Hey,” he said softly. “That’s not—”

“Or maybe it’s the age thing,” you snapped, the words bubbling out faster than you could catch them. “Maybe it’s the twelve years between us, maybe you think I’m just some little college brat with a pretty mouth who doesn’t know what she wants.”

His jaw flexed. His hand on your thigh tightened ever so slightly.

“I get it,” you said, trying to keep your voice from breaking. “I’m young. You’re rich. You want control. Fine. Just don’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

Silence.

For a long beat, he just looked at you.

Then he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Get over my lap.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“I said—” his voice dropped an octave, “—get over my lap.”

You hesitated, frozen.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened. “Now.”

You obeyed.

Slowly, you climbed onto his lap, straddling one thick thigh. His hand slid up the back of your neck, guiding your face close, lips brushing against your ear.

“You don’t come to me with your doubts,” he murmured. “You sit there. You smile. You let me hold you like you’re not losing sleep over these thoughts.”

Your breath shivered from your lungs.

His hand dipped between your thighs again, slipping beneath the lace of your panties.

“Let me be very clear,” he whispered. “I haven’t fucked you because I respect you. Because I want our first time to mean something. Not because you’re young. Not because you’re not ready. But because I am trying to not ruin this before I can give you everything you deserve.”

One finger slid inside you, slow and deep.

You gasped.

“I want you,” he growled, his other hand holding your hip firm. “I dream about you.”

Another finger slid in beside the first. The stretch made your hips jerk, breath catching in your throat.

Your hands curled around his shoulders. Your forehead dropped against his collarbone as he started to move in earnest, deep strokes that made your thighs tremble.

But there was a tension in his body. Not just lust. Something colder.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, voice low but sharp, like a blade sliding under your skin. “All those thoughts? All that doubt? You kept it to yourself and let it fester.”

You whimpered. “I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” he cut in, curling his fingers just right. “You let it eat you up instead of coming to me.”

Your body clenched around him, the pressure mounting fast, the edge in your periphery. One more stroke, just one, and you’d go crashing over it.

“Namjoon, please—” you gasped, hips twitching.

But just as the words left your mouth, he stopped.

Just like that.

Pulled his fingers out of you with a slow, final drag, wiping them calmly on the leg of his tailored slacks.

Your breath hitched, a broken sound that made his eyes soften for half a second. But he said nothing as he gently reached between your thighs, adjusted your panties back into place, and smoothed down your dress.

Then his fingers moved to your hair, brushing it away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

Still so tender it made your stomach twist.

The SUV rolled to a stop.

Namjoon straightened his jacket, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, then opened the door and stepped out.

You followed, legs shaking slightly, to find his hand was already waiting. He helped you down like nothing had happened, then placed a firm hand at the small of your back as you walked together into the building.

The elevator doors closed behind you.

He didn’t speak. Just kissed your temple softly, like he hadn’t just left you a trembling mess on the verge of breaking.

You stood beside him in silence, heart racing, nerves fraying at the edges. Because Namjoon wasn’t angry, he was calm. And that scared you more than anything else.

The moment the penthouse doors shut behind you, the air shifted.

You turned to speak—to apologize again, maybe—but his hand gently touched your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were leveled like glass over something dark and churning.

“Go to the bedroom,” he said softly, his voice low and even. “Strip and sit on the edge of the bed. I’ll be there in a moment.”

You blinked. “Namjoon—”

“Now, baby.”

He kissed your cheek. Then turned away, moving into the kitchen.

Your heart pounded, but you obeyed.

You walked slowly, your heels silent on the polished floor, your body buzzing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The bedroom felt colder than usual, or maybe it was just your skin. Your fingers trembled as you unzipped your dress to let it pool at your feet, slid off your panties, and climbed onto the edge of the bed.

Waiting.

You crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, then folded your hands in your lap like a schoolgirl awaiting judgment.

You were still soaked.

Worse now, even.

Every brush of cool air against your thighs made you shiver.

And then you heard them…footsteps.

Namjoon entered, minus his jacket and tie, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His chest peeked through, golden and smooth and maddeningly defined.

He looked like a punishment dressed in designer.

And he was staring at you like a man two seconds from devouring you whole.

“I had it all planned,” he said quietly, walking toward you, each step controlled. “A vacation. Somewhere far, somewhere warm. No work. No school. Just you. Me. A few days of spoiling you before I ever slid between your pretty thighs.”

He unbuttoned another button. You swallowed hard.

“I was going to wine you, dine you, dress you in diamonds. Then take you to bed and bury myself so deep inside you you’d forget anyone else ever tried.”

You whimpered, thighs squeezing together.

He stood before you now and undid his belt, letting it drop. His shirt followed.

“But that’s not what you wanted, is it, princess?” he murmured, letting his slacks fall next before slipping out of his boxer briefs. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed and glistening at the tip as he slowly stroked it. “Your greedy little cunt wants to be filled now, doesn’t it?”

You squirmed, eyes glued to the way his hand moved.

“Answer me, baby,” he said softly, warningly. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

You nodded, sheepish but burning with want.

He groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, you’re so greedy,” he muttered. “Greedy and shy. It’s gonna ruin me.”

He leaned down and kissed you deep. It was rough, but tender, and a little desperate. Like he was punishing himself for waiting this long.

You moaned against his lips as he pushed you back on the bed, crawling over you with slow, aching deliberation. His hands trailed down your sides, smoothing over your skin, worshiping every inch.

Then his mouth was on your neck, slipping down to your collarbones, then trailing across your breasts.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other, switching back and forth until your body writhed beneath him.

Your fingers clutched at his hair, his shoulders, anything.

But when he kissed lower, trailing heat down your belly, he stopped just above your soaked folds.

His hand ghosted over your pussy, not touching, just hovering.

“You’ll be honest with me from now on,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

“Please—”

“Say it.”

You whined, back arching.

“Say it, baby. Promise me.”

You swallowed, hips twitching. “I’ll be—I’ll be honest…”

“With everything. What you want. What you need. What’s hurting you. I’m not a mind reader. So I listen when you speak.”

You nodded desperately. “Yes—yes, I promise.”

That was all it took.

His fingers slid between your folds, spreading you open. His tongue followed, hot and wild and sinful.

You cried out, one leg thrown over his shoulder as he devoured you with the precision of a man who knew exactly how you tasted. How you clenched. How you begged.

He stroked your walls while he sucked your clit, dragging his fingers in and out while curling them perfectly, his tongue relentless as he pulled wave after wave from you.

“Again,” he murmured when you collapsed from the first orgasm, lips slick with your release. “You’re not done.”

“Namjoon—please—”

“You can give me more, baby. I need to prep you for my cock,” he said, voice strained with restraint. “You think I’d forgive myself if I hurt you? Never.”

He added a third finger.

You screamed.

He kissed your thighs, your hips, your belly. “Good girl. That’s it. One more.”

Your body shook as another orgasm short circuited your nerves. Overwhelmed and overstimulated with pleasure, but he wasn't done.

Namjoon hovered over you, every line of his body controlled, like he was holding himself back with the last thread of his will.

Your thighs were trembling, slick with arousal, your chest rising and falling in ragged pulls of breath. His fingers were still wet with you, his tongue only just retreating from where it had drawn orgasm after orgasm from your ruined body.

He lifted from between your thighs to fold over you, caging you under his massive body as he settled against your dripping cunt.

He kissed you again, tongues dancing, as he lined himself up. The swollen head of his cock pressed gently against your entrance, and you gasped into his mouth, the stretch already making your thighs twitch.

“Breathe,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “Let me in slow. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Every inch of him stretched you open, cock thick and unrelenting. Your body arching and quaking beneath him as your pussy clenched instinctively around the intrusion, struggling to take him all.

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets beside you.

“Shh, baby,” he cooed, stilling inside you. “I know. I know—it’s a lot.”

His hand smoothed over your thigh, sliding up your waist to palm your breast, thumb brushing your nipple. He kissed the edge of your jaw, your temple, the crown of your head.

“I’m gonna fuck you until your pussy molds to my cock,” he murmured, voice hoarse with restraint. “So perfect, so tight… like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, already too full, already drowning.

But you didn’t want him to stop.

“N-Namjoon,” you gasped, voice thin and desperate, “please—”

“I’m here,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours. “I’ve got you. You okay?”

You nodded, barely able to find your voice. “Yes.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel right. I need to hear you.”

You nodded, a little frantic this time.

And then he began to move.

The first thrust was slow. He pulled out just a bit, then eased back in, groaning against your neck as he bottomed out.

Your breath hitched. Your nails dug into his biceps, clawing for something to hold onto.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “You take me so well. So fucking tight.”

Another thrust. Then another.

Your eyes fluttered shut, mouth parted in a helpless moan as your body began to adjust, to crave the stretch and drag of him.

Then he shifted, hands gripping your hips with authority. Your thighs parted wider before he hooked one over his shoulder, folding you open.

Your breath caught, shocked at how much deeper he could go, how easily he reached places no one else had.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s it. Just like that. Look at you—look how well you take me.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t look. You couldn’t think. You could only feel.

He began to move harder now, his hand slipping between your bodies to toy with your clit. You jolted, gasped, a choked sound breaking from your throat.

Your hands scrambled across his shoulders, his back, searching for purchase, for anchor, as he drove into you with a pace that bordered on punishing, but was somehow still tender.

And his mouth? Filthy.

“Gonna ruin you, princess,” he growled, each word pressed hot against your throat. “Stretch your pussy open so wide you’ll forget what it felt like to be empty.”

He thrust harder and you swear you could have felt it in your spine, your toes curling as another strangled moan escaped your lips. Your walls fluttered, already clinging to him like you couldn’t bear the thought of being without him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, eyes locked on yours as he fucked into you with maddening precision. “How tight you are—how wet?”

You nodded, a broken sound catching in your throat.

He leaned in, biting softly at your jaw as his pace picked up. “You’re dripping,” he rasped, “making a mess of us both. My messy girl.”

His hand slipped between your thighs again, spreading the slick that coated your skin, groaning when he felt the way your arousal had soaked everything below.

“Wanna see you dripping down your thighs,” he said, voice darker now—carnal, hungry. “Wanna see the mess I make of you every time I pull out.”

But he didn’t.

He stayed buried deep, rocking into you slow and hard until your breath hitched again.

“You think I’m gonna stop after this, now that I’ve finally had you?” he murmured against your mouth. “No, baby. I’m gonna keep you full all night so I can watch my cum leak out every time you move.”

You whimpered utterly undone.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his gaze wild with something possessive and terrifyingly tender.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered. “And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

A broken sob escaped your throat and his smirk was all teeth and hunger.

“God, listen to you,” he growled. “So fucking wet. You love this. Love how I fuck you.”

You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t think past the pleasure. Couldn’t speak past the pressure.

He brought you to the edge—once, twice—only to stop, to hold you there, writhing beneath him, begging with tears in your eyes.

Then he started again.

“Please,” you cried, “please—Joon—”

“You want it now?” he breathed, thumb circling your clit again. “You wanna cum around my cock, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically, the tears spilling over.

“Do it,” he groaned. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel it.”

And you did.

You shattered around him, a scream tearing loose from your chest as your body seized, muscles clamping down around him like a vice, your cunt gushing with the force of it.

Soaking him, soaking the sheets.

Namjoon moaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt, shaking from the effort of holding back.

“Fuck—just like that, princess—so perfect—”

You trembled beneath him, your body raw and overstimulated, breath hitching in broken gasps as he fucked you through the aftershocks. Still thick inside you, still so achingly hard.

He hadn’t cum, not yet.

Even now, with your cunt milking him, fluttering greedily around his cock, Namjoon was still holding back.

He leaned over you, panting into your mouth, forehead resting against yours.

“Tell me something, baby…” he murmured, grinding deep, slow, torturously. “Have you been taking that little pill like we agreed?”

Your lashes fluttered, vision blurred. “Yes,” you whispered. “Every morning.”

He groaned like it hurt him. Like it broke him apart.

“You’re sure?”

You nodded, desperate. “I promise.”

He kissed you then, like he was anchoring himself in you.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “Because I’m not pulling out.”

You moaned, wrecked.

Namjoon growled low, finally surrendering to the need that had been clawing at him from the moment he laid eyes on you. His pace turned punishing again, each thrust deeper, more desperate, more consuming.

His hands were everywhere—your hips, your throat, your breasts, your thighs—like he needed every part of you to be his.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he gritted. “Fill you so full you feel me for days. Fuck you until you’re dripping.”

You sobbed his name, legs locking around his waist, pulling him in.

“Your pussy’s too good,” he groaned. “Can’t let it go. Can’t leave it empty ever again.”

And then, with one final desperate thrust, he came.

It wrecked him.

A cry tore from his chest as he spilled deep inside you, his cock throbbing with every pulse. You felt it, hot and thick and endless as he filled you, burying his face in your neck like the moment itself was too much to hold.

You clung to him, arms wrapped tight, heart hammering with the weight of everything between you.

Namjoon didn’t move. Didn’t pull out. Just stayed there inside you, wrapped around you, his breath stuttering against your skin. You were still trembling beneath him, your body humming, slick thighs clinging to his hips, his cum warm and thick inside you.

He lifted away from your neck, eyes dark, a little crazed, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. You blinked up at him, dazed, flushed, and boneless.

“Nam…joon” you whispered, voice barely there.

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, his other hand skimming down your spine. “You feel better than anything I’ve ever imagined.”

He kissed your cheek. Your nose. Your mouth.

Then he shifted, flipping you gently but quickly until you were on top of him, his cock still half hard, slick with both of your release, already starting to throb with need again.

You gasped at the sudden movement, blinking down at him.

“Ride me,” he said softly. “I want to watch you take it.”

Your breath caught, your body still sore and twitching with aftershocks. But he looked at you like you were divine, like you were the universe’s best kept secret, made flesh and laid bare in his bed.

You nodded slowly, hands bracing on his chest.

Namjoon grunted softly as you sank back down, the stretch just as intense the second time, maybe more so. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he filled you again.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his head falling back.

You whimpered, thighs trembling as you began to move, trying to find your rhythm.

Namjoon’s hands immediately moved, one cupping your ass, the other sliding up your front to squeeze your tits.

“You’re perfect like this,” he panted. “So fucking pretty on top of me. Look at you.”

His fingers pinched your nipples, and your pussy clenched around him so hard he nearly bucked off the bed.

“Ohhh fuck, do that again,” he growled. “Clench like that again and I’ll cum just from watching you.”

You moaned, your back arching as his lips found your breasts. Pressing them together in his hands, he suckled on both of your nipples at once. Licking and biting and dragging his tongue until you were whimpering with every bounce of your hips.

The stimulation was overwhelming.

Your body pulsing, your head spinning, but you kept going, desperate for more, for all of him.

He groaned into your skin, sucking harder as your movements faltered.

“Legs tired?” he murmured, voice all velvet and sin. “Let me help.”

Before you could speak, his hands gripped your hips and he started thrusting up into you, slow at first making your breath catch.

Then harder, and faster, and deeper.

You cried out, hands scrambling for purchase on his chest as he slammed up into you with unrelenting purpose.

“You love this,” he growled. “Love being fucked like this, don’t you?”

You could barely nod, your head falling forward, nails digging into his skin.

And then he moved again.

Flipping you onto your stomach with an ease that made you feel weightless. His hands lifted your hips, arching your back to meet him as he knelt behind you.

You cried out as he pressed back in, the angle impossibly deep.

Namjoon groaned, one hand gripping your waist, the other pulling your arm behind your back, keeping you pinned.

Even like this, even with him fully sheathed inside you, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room, he was still gentle in the way he touched you. Still kissed your shoulder. Still whispered your name like a prayer.

But all the other words spilling from his mouth?

Anything but gentle.

“Can’t stop thinking about this pussy, even when I’m inside of you,” he groaned. “You’re unreal. Taking me so well. You’re mine, baby. All mine.”

“Ah, Namjoon—please I don’t—”

“You said you wanted it,” he teased, voice thick with lust. “Said you wanted to be fucked, needed to be filled with my cock. You’re not throwing in the towel now, are you princess?”

You shook your head, body jerking from overstimulation, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Namjoon pressed kisses along your spine, even as he kept thrusting. “That’s my girl. You’re being so good for me.”

Then his thumb was back on your clit, slow, soft circles that made your legs shake.

He could feel how close you were. Practically choking his cock while gushing around him.

“One more, sweetheart,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “Let me feel you cum one more time.”

You didn’t last much longer.

“Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon please—“

With a wrecked sob, your body clenched hard, your back arched as you came again, soaking his cock, your thighs trembling, your hands clawing at the sheets.

And this time he followed right behind you.

Namjoon growled, his body snapping forward, one arm curling under your waist to pull you back against him as he buried himself deep and came hard. His teeth sank into the soft skin of your shoulder, hard enough to mark, before his mouth soothed the sting with kisses as his cum filled you in desperate spurts.

You collapsed together, tangled and trembling, every nerve fried and every part of you claimed.

He didn’t pull out, not right away.

Just held you, kissed your spine, your shoulder, and your cheek. Even after the trembling stopped. Even after your breath evened out. Even after the heat between your bodies began to cool and the sweat on your skin began to dry. He held you like you were something he couldn’t risk letting slip through his fingers.

One arm wrapped around your waist, the other stroking slow, soothing lines along your thigh.

Your body was limp, your eyes fluttering shut, your breathing soft and shallow. You were barely conscious, but the way your fingers stayed curled around his wrist told him everything he needed to know.

You weren’t ready for distance.

He wasn’t either.

Still, eventually, he shifted with a soft grunt, murmuring, “Easy, baby,” as he carefully pulled out of you, his cock soft and slick with the mess you’d made together.

You whimpered, your body twitching at the loss.

“I know, princess,” he cooed. “I know. You were perfect.”

You barely registered his movements as he slipped out of bed, disappearing into the ensuite. A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp cloth, his brows furrowed in concentration, his jaw tight from focus.

He eased your legs apart again and cleaned you gently, whispering soft apologies every time you flinched, every time you whimpered from the sensitivity.

“You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

The cloth disappeared, and a moment later you felt the dip of the bed, the heat of his chest returning.

“Drink this, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding a glass of water to your lips. “Nice and slow.”

You sipped, eyes barely open, and he watched every swallow like it was holy.

“Good girl,” he praised softly. “That’s it.”

When you’d had enough, he set the glass down on the nightstand and kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.

Then, he reached for the shirt he’d discarded earlier, soft black cotton, and carefully tugged it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves like he was dressing porcelain.

You blinked slowly, lips curved in the faintest smile. “Your shirt…”

“Yours now,” he murmured, brushing your hair from your face. “Looks better on you.”

He tucked you into the sheets, climbed in beside you, and pulled you into his chest with your face pressed to his throat, your limbs tangled with his. His arms a fortress. Scent wrapping around you like an extra blanket.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispered against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You murmured something soft in return—unintelligible, band quiet—and Namjoon’s heart swelled so full it ached.

His thumb brushed lazy circles over your hip. “I don’t think you even realize what you’re doing to me,” he whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lips lingering there for a moment like he was trying to brand the feeling into his bones.

Another kiss.

“Sleep, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, wrapped in his arms, blanketed in his warmth, you drifted off.

Namjoon stayed awake long after your breathing had evened out, just watching you, touching your skin like it was a secret. Trying to figure out how someone could already mean this much to him without even trying.

“You’re becoming so important to me, princess,” he whispered, voice barely audible in the dark. “More than I expected… more than I should let you be.”

He inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed for a long moment.

“It’s getting hard already to pretend this is casual,” he added. “Hard to keep pretending I don’t already need you.”

The words lingered, suspended in the hush between your breathing. Namjoon pressed one last kiss to your temple, his voice tinged with that feeling that stirred in him the first time he’d heard your laugh.

“I’m not letting you go. You’re mine.”

ten | masterlist

#bts #bts army #bangtanarmynet #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts kim namjoon #bts namjoon #bts smut #bts yandere #sugar dom #sugar bae #the long game #SoundCloud

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ashlynlovestlou · 1 month ago

Note

hi hi idk if you can but could you write boss abby helping reader with a panic attack at work or smth???

hii of course i can

tw: panic attack comfort ; gn!reader ; cursing ; (reader is embarrassed about it)

masterlist

ellie version

you knew when you woke up this morning with a pit in your stomach that today would be hard. of course, you didn't exactly anticipate sitting at your cubicle in front of your computer, shaking so hard that your entire body hurts.

what caused the panic attack, you don't know. all you know is that you want it to be over. for the thoughts and the shaking to stop, just so you could have a moment of peace.

and of course, today of all days, abby fucking anderson is in the building. now, usually this wouldn't be a problem. abby is sweet to all of her employees and colleagues. nobody really has anything to say about her, except how awesome her bonuses are around the holidays.

but you're unsure of how she would react if she saw you in the state you are in now. sitting silently, not doing anything productive, just having a panic attack. she's not cruel, you know that much, but you also happen to know that she values her business and doesn't believe in wasting time.

so you type away idly at the computer, writing off emails to clients and trying to push through.

the doors to the room open, a few other employees' heads popping up out of their cubicles to see who's there, so you do the same.

of fucking course.

abby anderson and her long braid and tailored suit. she and her... perfectly sculpted jawline and soft eyes and... wow, has she been working out?

seeing her was a nice distraction for a moment, before you're pulled back into reality. your anxiety was almost making you feel nauseous, the "pit" from this morning growing into something much, much more extreme.

you duck your head inside your cubicle, trying to control your breathing as abby makes her way around the room, graciously greeting all of the employees.

head ducked, hands sweaty and shaking. god, please just get it over with before she comes over here. please, please, please.

"whoa, you okay?" her soft, sultry voice says from behind you.

you turn, trying to keep your cool as you respond. your mouth opens with the intention of speaking, but only a quiet, strangled breath comes out.

abby had read your employee file, along with everyone else's, front to back. something about "feeling closer to your employees." or whatever. so she knew about your condition, and she knows how it can get in the way of working. plus, it didn't take a genius to figure you out.

"come with me to my office." she murmurs, putting a hand in the center of your back to guide you out of your chair and too her office in the front and center of the room.

as soon as you hear the door click behind you, you break down into tears, your breathing increasingly shaky.

"okay, slow down." she says, guiding you to sit down on one of her faux leather chairs, "breathe. slowly."

you try to calm down, attempting to calm yourself out of the sheer embarrassment. jesus christ, why does your boss have to see this?

"talk to me. what's going on?" she coos, putting her hand back on your back and rubbing large circles with her soft, yet calloused hand. why is she being so... understanding?

"i need to go back to work." you choke out.

she's quick to tut at you, "the hell you are. you're staying right here until you calm down. can i get you anything?"

you shake your head no, swallowing the lump in your throat. you're too busy in your head to notice abby's thick thumbs swiping the tears off your cheeks.

"do you want to talk?" she asks in the softest voice you'd ever heard. god, why does she have to be so sweet?

you numbly shake your head to her question, the tightness that consumed your throat starting to ease, breathing becoming just the slightest bit easier. she could tell, too, by the way that your chest didn't rise and fall as fast, and that your eyebrows relaxed after being squeezed together.

"better?" she asks after a moment, to which you nod.

you didn't know why, but your heart was still racing. not with panic, no, but this time with something else.

sorry i haven't written in a while guys🥲 this probably sucks

#the last of us #queer #fanfic #ashlynlovestlou #ellie williams #tlou #tlou 2 #joel miller #tlou2 #abby anderson x you #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #the last of us x reader #abby tlou 2 #abby tlou #tlou abby

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wlwnovak · 2 months ago

Text

Sweet Bribes

Link for part 1

You and Casey finally get that date you’ve both been dancing around.

word count: 2099

Casey had said yes to coffee.

Not dinner—coffee. But you didn’t mind. You’d suggested it that way on purpose, to keep the pressure low. Still, it felt like the biggest thing you’d done in months.

You usually hated when Cragen handed you paperwork duty, but today, you were grateful.

Your hands were trembling just enough to make your notes illegible, and your mind kept drifting: what you’d wear, what you’d say, how you’d avoid completely blowing it. You were meeting Casey after work — a coffee date — and your anxiety was off the charts. The last thing you needed today was a crime scene or a traumatized witness.

You were mid-eye-roll at your own sloppy handwriting when a voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.

“Hate to interrupt the exhilarating world of forms in triplicate,” Munch said, appearing from thin air, “but I need a favor.”

You glanced up. He stood beside your desk, sipping coffee like he’d just walked off the set of a 1950s detective flick.

“Need you to head over to Novak’s,” he continued. “We need a subpoena for the perp’s computer. She’s working out of her office today.”

You blinked. “Novak’s?”

Munch raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Redhead. Sharp suits. Law degree and weaponized sarcasm. Ring a bell?”

Your face flushed instantly. Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. You suddenly noticed how clammy your palms were.

“I, uh... sure. Yeah. Of course.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, annoyingly perceptive. “You okay, detective? You look like I just asked you to deliver a severed head.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, already getting to your feet and grabbing the folder. “Just tired.”

“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Tell Novak I said hi. And maybe try not to combust on the way there.”

You turned quickly, only to bump straight into Elliot, who was holding a coffee.

“Oh God! I’m so sorry, Elliot — I’ll pay for it, or I can go grab another one right now, just give me a second—”

“Relax,” he said, shaking his hand to brush off the spill. “It was yours anyway. You can drink it, spill it, baptize yourself with it. Your call.”

You blinked. “Wait — you brought me coffee?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “You got cursed with paperwork. Thought you might need a little pick-me-up.”

“Wow... thanks. Sorry I completely destroyed it, though,” you chuckled awkwardly.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He looked at you more closely. “But seriously, what’s up with you? You seem... on edge.”

“I was just on my way to Casey’s office for a—”

Before you could finish, Munch swiped the file out of your hand and kept walking. “I got it,” he called over his shoulder.

You sighed. “...Nothing, I guess.”

Elliot studied you, his piercing blue eyes reading far too much. “I see,” he said, smirking. “I was gonna invite you to grab a drink with me, Liv, and Fin after work... but I’m guessing you’ve got plans?”

Your eyes narrowed. “How did you—?”

He laughed. “We’re detectives, Y/N. Remember?”

-----------------------/////////////////////-----------------------------------

The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat, the kind of place that smelled like nutmeg and played acoustic covers of 80s songs. She showed up right on time, in a grey trench coat and minimal makeup, with a warm contagious smile.

You sat across from each other, cradling warm mugs. You talked about books, the ridiculous ways lawyers wrote emails, and the worst court lunches either of you had suffered through. It was easy in the way things are when they’re meant to be.

“So, Y/N, how are things going at the precinct? Better? Or do I need to order an extra desk in my office?” Casey asked.

“It’s better… They still treat me like I’m too fragile to handle some of the cases, but… I realized that’s just because they care. They don’t want me to get too traumatized and quit....Oh! and Elliot bought me coffee today!.”

''Stabler?'' Casey raised her eyebrows. ''That's huge, he usually just buys coffee for Liv. How was it?''

''Oh I wouldn't know I... I ran into him and i made him spill it all over the floor''. Casey laughed.

“well that’s good to hear, Y/N. I’ve gotta admit, I was getting scared you’d leave if things didn’t get easier for you here,” Casey admitted.

“I don’t give up easily.”

“I don’t either,” Casey said with a smile.

You kept talking until the place was about to close. You pulled out your wallet, but Casey interrupted you.

“Nu-uh, this one’s on me,” she said, already handing her credit card to the waitress.

“Casey, you don’t have to. We can split if you don’t want me to—”

She cut you off again. “Let me spend money on you for once, okay? I owe you way more for all those cookies you’ve been leaving on my desk.” She laughed.

You sighed, letting her pay, trying to hide the fact that that small gesture had just won her another point on the internal love meter.

You didn’t kiss. You didn’t even touch. Damn.

----------------------------------/////////////////--------------------------

“Coward,” you muttered to yourself as she walked away from you outside the coffee shop.

Since straightforwardness wasn’t your thing, you had to try something else. Because like you told her—you don’t give up easily.

-----------------------------------/////////////////-------------------------

The next morning, you left her a cinnamon roll. Not just any cinnamon roll, your best one. Homemade, thick icing, just like the one she’d ordered yesterday. It sat in a little paper box, neatly labeled: “Homemade. No money spent.”

Casey didn’t say anything that day. Instead, she sent you a photo of an empty napkin and the message:

“This was dangerous. Also, I didn’t know basic baking groceries were $0. Wow.”

You smiled at your phone longer than you meant to.

The day after, you left a cupcake. Red velvet, with cream cheese frosting piped into a swirl.

On the third day, it was a brownie with M&M’s mixed in. The note read: “Recipe by Fin (making friends).”

By the fourth day—mini blueberry muffins—Casey leaned against the doorframe of your office, box in hand, one brow lifted.

“You know, I’m starting to wonder,” she said, half-smiling. “Are you trying to make me gain weight?”

You looked up from your desk, startled, then caught the teasing glint in her eyes. She wasn’t mad. She was curious. Playful. Waiting for an answer.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shrugged.

“Wh-what?” you said, voice tight with nerves.

“If my pencil skirt feels tight for the next trial, I’m blaming you.”

You looked pale as a ghost, totally unsure how to answer.

Casey tilted her head, examining you more closely. “Seriously though. What’s going on? Not that I’m complaining—I’m definitely not—but this is starting to feel like a very well-camouflaged courtship...unless you're the Hansel & Gretel witch”

You hesitated and nervously laughed. Looked down at your hands. Then, very quietly:

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said finally. “This… showing affection...love... It’s easier to give than to talk. I figured real gifts would be too much. Too obvious. But you love coffee, and sweets go with coffee. And I thought maybe, if I made them myself instead of buying them, you’d… understand.”

The silence stretched just long enough for you to want to disappear.

Then Casey’s expression softened. She stepped further into your office, setting the box down on your desk.

“You could’ve just said you liked me,” she murmured, not unkindly.

“I’m saying it now.”

She nodded, lips curving slightly. “You are.”

You glanced at the box. “And I made muffins.”

Casey chuckled. “So this is a confession and a bribe?”

You smiled, sheepish. “Something like that.”

A beat passed. She looked at you like she was seeing you more clearly than ever.

“Meet me in my office in five, okay?”

-----------------------------//////////////////--------------------------------

Your palms were sweating.

Five minutes. You were supposed to walk into her office like it was no big deal, like you hadn’t just spilled your guts over muffins and baked goods. Like she hadn’t not said she liked you back. Like your heart wasn’t currently beating somewhere in your throat.

You lingered in the hallway an extra thirty seconds, pretending to check your phone, wipe your hands on your jeans, breathe. Then, before you could overthink yourself into oblivion, you knocked softly on her office door and stepped inside.

Casey looked up from her desk. Then stood.

You didn’t even get a full word out before she was crossing the room.

She didn’t say hi, didn’t sit you down, didn’t do anything logical or lawyerly or slow. She just walked right up to you—close enough that you forgot how to stand—and kissed you.

Soft. Certain. No questions, no hesitation.

You froze for a second, shocked. Then melted into it like sugar in hot coffee.

She pulled back just slightly, eyes still half-lidded, searching your face. “Just so there’s no confusion,” she said softly. “I like you too.”

You blinked. “You... do?”

She huffed a laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Y/N. You’ve been feeding me for a week straight like I’m your favorite raccoon. You think I’d let just anyone get away with that?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, heart thudding against your ribs like it wanted to jump into her hands.

“I was scared I was being too much.”

Casey shook her head. “You’re not too much. You’re just... you. And I’ve never met anyone like you.”

You stared at her, completely unsure what to do with the warmth crawling up your spine. “So… muffins work?”

“They’re effective,” she teased, grinning. “But you can stop now. You already got the girl.”

You bit your lip, still unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Okay,” you said softly, trying not to look like you were glowing.

“Although,” Casey added, arching a brow as she stepped back, “I wouldn’t say no to the occasional cookie. For… professional morale.”

You snorted. “Noted, ADA Novak. Morale boosters incoming.”

She smiled. “See? We’re already a team.”

You couldn’t help it, you smiled. A real one. The kind that felt too big for your face.

“A team, huh?” you echoed, half-playful, half-awestruck.

“Mm-hmm,” Casey said, casually picking up the muffin box again. “You handle emotional repression with baked goods, I handle sarcasm and legal threats. Balanced partnership.”

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “Wow. We should put that on business cards.”

She gave a mock-serious nod. “Or wedding invites.”

You froze for a second, eyes wide.

Casey blinked. “Too soon?”

You gave a nervous chuckle. “a little.”

“And there you were, thinking you were a lot” she said, stepping closer again. “What about... a label?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean, unless you’re not into that,” she added quickly, the edge of vulnerability peeking out beneath her usual cool. “I just—I like this. I like you. And I’d kind of like to stop pretending I’m not hoping you’ll keep showing up to my office.”

You stared at her for a beat, your heart drumming in your ears.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?” you asked, voice a little shaky but warm.

Casey gave a sheepish little smile. “I’m a lawyer. I like things defined.”

You swallowed, then smiled so wide your cheeks hurt. “Then yeah. Define it. I’m yours.”

Casey leaned in again, resting her forehead lightly against yours. “Good. Because I’m definitely yours too.”

There was no dramatic kiss this time. Just the quiet understanding between two people who’d finally stumbled their way into something honest, sweet, and real.

You stayed like that for a moment longer—still close, still smiling—until she pulled back just enough to look at you again.

“Come over tonight,” she said softly. “I’ll cook. You bring whatever dessert you were going to make for tomorrow. We’ll call it even.”

Your heart jumped. “Your place?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Just... something simple. No pressure. Just us.”

You grinned. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Casey said, her voice warm, eyes soft. “Because I’ve already got a bottle of wine and absolutely no self-control when it comes to your baking...or you.”

You walked out of her office with your heart full, big smile, and your hands no longer shaking.

#casey novak #law and order svu #svu #casey novak x reader #casey novak fanfic #fanfic #diane neal

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eternallyordinary · 5 months ago

Text

“He Belongs to You” - Part 11

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Series Masterlist<3

Summary: Homelander struggles between his instincts and emotions, forcing himself to maintain control—but he begins to unravel.

Warnings: smut, violence, harassment, language, graphic detail of violence, sexual assault trauma, alcohol, possessive behavior, yandere, (if i forgot any pls let me know<3)

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Homelander had always been a man of action.

He was driven by impulse, ruled by instinct.

If he wanted something, he took it.

If someone crossed him, they didn’t get the luxury of a second thought—hell, they barely got a final breath.

He didn’t do patience.

He didn’t do restraint.

But for this?

For this, he would wait.

Because more than anything, he had to.

Not because of consequences—he had long since surpassed the need to fear any.

He held more power than the President of the United States, more influence than entire governments.

He could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

But this wasn’t about power.

This was about you.

He wanted this to be perfect.

Ceremonial.

A moment you would remember for the rest of your life.

The monsters who had taken your innocence, the filth who had burdened you with all that pain—they would finally be gone.

And it had to be done right.

So he had made it his mission to know everything about them.

Where they lived.

Where they worked.

What they ate for breakfast.

He put out feelers.

Quietly.

Subtly.

Vought Cyber Security had access to everything—military records, criminal files, social media, private emails, bank accounts.

With a simple command, they began tracking every move of the four men.

No one dared to ask Homelander why.

He knew no one would ask.

They just did what they were told.

The hunt had begun.

And those pathetic excuses for men had no fucking idea.

They were living their miserable little lives, clinking beer glasses, scrolling through their phones.

Breathing as if their past sins were dead and buried. As if they weren’t walking corpses.

He wanted them to think that.

Because when he finally came for them?

He wanted them begging for an end that wouldn’t come quick.

—

The Seven’s briefing room was silent except for the soft taps of Homelander scrolling on his tablet.

Seated at the round table, he scrolled through the extensive files Jerry from Cyber Security had compiled together.

Every detail of the four men laid bare before him.

Each swipe revealing another picture, another video, another piece of their insignificant little lives.

It was like Tinder, except instead of picking a date, he was choosing whose suffering would be the most satisfying to watch.

The anticipation made his blood hum, his fingers twitch.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself as a familiar heat coiled low in his stomach.

He would be your knight in shining armor.

He would fix this.

And the thought of it—you looking at him like he was your hero?

It was intoxicating.

The only other person in the room was Sage, sprawled lazily across the couch.

His right-hand woman.

His most trusted advisor.

Always there to steer him—whether he liked it or not.

And she did not like this.

She had been watching him all week, eyes sharp, assessing.

And for good reason.

He had changed.

It was like he had been born again. Like some normal fucking guy who had found salvation.

You had done that to him.

You had turned his world upside down.

And instead of feeling lost, he felt clear.

He knew he would never be normal, but with you… the human parts of himself—the ones he had spent a lifetime suppressing—felt real.

For the first time, he wasn’t scheming.

He wasn’t plotting.

He was just living.

And Sage hated that.

She finally broke the silence.

“What the hell has gotten into you?”

Homelander barely glanced up, ignoring her, his fingers still moving across the screen.

Sage scoffed, throwing her arms over the back of the couch.

“Jesus Christ, look at you. I’m over here coming up with new campaigns, ways to make you look stronger, and you’re acting like a goddamn high school kid with a crush.”

His grip on the tablet tightened, but he didn’t react. Just kept scrolling.

“What’s your problem?” His voice flat, detached.

Sage smirked. “You.”

She sat forward, elbows on her knees, studying him like a puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out.

“You’re pissing yourself over some girl, acting like a lovesick teenager. People are noticing.”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting.

“It makes you look weak.”

His jaw twitched. His fingers clenched. But his face remained impassive.

Because deep down, he knew she wasn’t wrong.

You had softened him. Wrapped him so tightly around your little fucking finger that even now, while he was planning to gut four men for you, all he could think about was how much he loved you.

And it had only been a week.

But Sage saying it out loud?

That was unacceptable.

“Careful,” he said smoothly, setting the tablet down. His voice calm, but dangerous.

“Your brain is all you have. I wouldn’t make me angry.”

“I’m just telling you the truth. When you asked me to join the Seven, you said you wanted someone who wouldn’t be afraid to tell you how it is.”

She leaned back, stretching her legs out.

“So, I’m telling you. You haven’t been the same since she crawled into your bed. Where’s the real you, huh? The man who doesn’t bow down to anyone?”

The words slithered into his brain like poison.

Because fuck, what if she was right?

Had he lost himself in you?

Had he—the greatest Supe to ever live—become less, just because he fell for you?

His teeth ground together.

He needed to fix this.

He needed to remind everyone who the fuck he was.

And then—

You walked in.

Your eyes met his, and your heart fluttered.

A week ago, he had been a myth to you. An untouchable force.

Now? He was yours—even if you were still waiting for him to ask the old fashioned way.

You smiled at him—that smile.

Innocent. Open. Trusting. God.

But when you reached for him—when you expected the touch he always gave you—

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Didn’t so much as lean in.

Just nodded. Cool. Detached.

“Busy,” he muttered.

Your stomach twisted.

The smile slipped from your lips.

“…Are you okay?” you asked softly.

Homelander shrugged. “Why don’t you just take a seat? If I wanted to talk to you, I’d shoot you a fucking text. Jesus fucking Christ.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath caught in your throat, your skin went cold.

Oh.

Oh, God.

You had fucked up.

Telling him had been a mistake.

He thought you were disgusting.

That’s what this was.

You knew this would happen.

He had seen you bare.

He now knows every horrible, filthy, disgusting thing thats happened to you.

And now, he was disgusted too.

Tears burned the edges of your vision, but you swallowed them down, forcing yourself into a seat.

He carried on the meeting like nothing had happened. Flipping through potential new Seven members, now that Firecracker was gone, only pointing out the attractive girls as candidates.

He didn’t even glance your way.

And as Sage smirked approvingly, Homelander felt something gnawing at him.

It should have felt like a win.

But it didn’t.

Not at all.

—

The second the meeting ended, you bolted.

You didn’t even wait for the others to file out. Didn’t pause to look at him one last time. You just shot up from your seat and practically ran out the door.

And he felt it.

Like a vacuum, like a black hole sucking all the air from the room.

You were gone.

His body tensed, fingers curling against the table.

His instinct was to follow, to grab you, to fix it—but he didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

Because Sage was still there.

Everyone else had left, but she stayed.

Lingering by the doorway with her arms crossed, that same smug little smirk stretching across her face.

“Well,” she mused, tilting her head.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Homelander didn’t respond.

She took a step closer, walking behind him as he stayed seated, fists clenched against his thighs.

“You needed that,” she continued, her voice smooth, coaxing.

“You were getting too soft. That girl? She had you whipped.”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.

“And now? She knows where she stands. Just another toy. Nothing special.”

“Good job,” she said simply, patting his shoulder like he was some obedient dog.

“You needed to remind her who you are.”

And that was the moment something snapped.

So quick, so violent, he barely felt himself move.

One second, she was behind him.

Condescending, fucking gloating.

The next second?

He had her by the throat.

In a blink, slamming her against the wall.

Hard, the drywall cracking behind her.

She barely had time to gasp before his grip tightened.

The smugness vanished.

Her eyes went wide, lips parting as she struggled.

But Homelander wasn’t even looking at her.

He was breathing heavy, nostrils flaring, eyes distant—and suddenly, all he could see was you.

The way your face had fallen when he brushed you off.

The way your shoulders had curled in like you wanted to disappear.

The way your breath had hitched, the way your fucking eyes had welled up, the way you tried to hide it.

Tried to swallow it down.

His stomach churned, so his grip tightened.

A strangled choke rasped from Sage’s lips. Her hands clawed at his, struggling against his inhuman strength.

She tried to speak, but her throat was too crushed.

She was right.

And that made him fucking livid.

Not at you. Never at you.

At himself.

He had watched you shrink into yourself, and he did nothing.

He hurt you.

Him.

Not those men. Not the ones he was planning to gut for what they did to you.

Him.

Sage let out a small, desperate gasp.

Homelander blinked.

His grip loosened—just barely—before he let go, letting her crumple to the floor.

She coughed, gasping for breath, trembling hands bracing against the tile.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t say a fucking word.

Just turned on his heel, leaving the room in a blur, moving faster than human eyes could track.

Because he let the monster win today.

And he had to get rid of him.

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tags: @lilyalone @raginginkedslut

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betterlivingindustriesss · 3 months ago

Text

how not having a phone impacted my day-to-day, in case anyone's considered having a retro-style no-phone/flip phone summer:

social obligations:

less pressure to constantly respond to texts

unable to respond to texts sent on imessage

missing a lot of the cool apple features (gamepigeon, reacts, animations, stickers, etc)

need to keep several tabs open on the computer to monitor any urgent messages that might be sent over discord, Instagram, or email

can't use the Remind app or a lot of productivity apps because they're not available as a desktop version on locked Chromebooks

productivity:

I can't bring my phone to bed, I've started sleeping much earlier

my headaches have reduced since text on my laptop tends to be larger than text on my phone (and I can't read documents on my laptop in moving vehicles, which was also causing pretty bad headaches)

I don't think it's made TOO much of an impact on how I spend my time, but I have found myself scrolling on TikTok less because the swipe feature is so laggy on my Chromebook

quality of work:

as you might have noticed, the image quality on my blog tends to be very skewed. this is because I take half of my pictures through my desktop camera, and the other half through my DSLR.

a lot more intention behind everything I do (for example, when I post a picture on Tumblr, I need to pull out the DSLR, frame the picture nicely, transfer everything onto an old laptop with an SD reader, download to drive, then upload onto the app. I find myself planning my shots a lot more carefully and like to take several photos in one session)

overall state of mind

it definitely increased my personal satisfaction with my work and made me feel more accomplished

added workload for a lot of things I didn't even think about when I had a phone (again, taking pictures, transferring files, sharing things with people on the go)

I find myself unable to check the time or do tasks while walking across my school campus, which is frustrating when I need to write a note to myself

in a similar vein, I find myself thinking a lot more about how I will organize my time in the future or trying to recall concepts during short breaks where it doesn't make sense to pull out my laptop. this gets me into a productive mindset and I usually have a better time working on myself and having a positive outlook

people are constantly shocked that I don't have a phone. Many of my teachers have a "phone in the bin" policy for their classes, so they checked my bag pretty regularly in the early days because they were skeptical about the validity of my claim of not having a phone at all

i feel like I definitely had an addiction, and being able to get off of it was really helpful for my self-confidence and ability to overcome challenges

overall, I would really recommend at least trying to get off of your phone for like a week or two if you can! if it doesn't work for you, it doesn't work for you. If it works, it works. Giving it a shot probably wouldn't hurt imo. I'm honestly planning to just get myself a flip phone for emergencies because I really like the feeling of not having a guaranteed way to pass time and instead having to come up with things to do myself :D

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ramayantika · 2 months ago

Text

I. Glow up, Catch up, Fall again

CHAPTER-1

-- *** --

I stare at the school reunion get-together invitation photo on my phone.

Hello guys!

A few of us have planned to host a reunion get-together in Jaipur. It’s been ten years since we’ve all seen each other together.

So let’s hit pause, rewind, and reconnect.

Venue: Tree of Life Resort, Jaipur Date: 24th–25th December 2025

Note: It would be really nice if you all could drop in by the 23rd, so we can do a bit of sightseeing along with the main reunion party on the 25th. Checkout by 26th December afternoon.

Kindly send your confirmation at the earliest so we can book accordingly. Do try to make it to this reunion, but we’ll understand if you can’t. Life’s been busy for many of us.

See you soon!

Contact: Ayesha, Sameer, Rajesh, and Mihika

“Siya, the editor is calling you regarding the new edits report you submitted.”

I turn around and nod at Devesh. He leaves for his cubicle, and I glance one more time at the reunion message shining on my screen.

Counting to three, I smile when I spot Ritvika’s text beaming in my notifications tab.

Ritvika: School reunion finally, at last, babe! You’re coming, right?

I look toward the editor’s cabin and quickly reply back:

Me: I guess I can. Work gets less during Christmas for me, since we’ll be taking on new queries in January.

Three dots appear under Ritvika’s profile photo. Meanwhile, I grab my report file, ready to head to the cabin.

Me: Boss is calling rn. Talk to you after I come back about the reunion.

Right then, her reply flashes under mine. The words make my heart skip a beat.

Ritvika: What do you think? Rahul will come?

--**--

My hot ramen bowl lies idly beside me as my fingers swipe through the countless texts on our class WhatsApp group.

Some are sending memes to celebrate the upcoming party. A few girls have started discussing the dress code (there isn’t an official one though. We just have to show up).

A few people are asking about classmates who aren’t in the group chat. The reunion organizers have replied that emails have been sent to them along with invitations to join the group.

Rahul is one of those who aren’t in this group chat.

Looking at the gentle steam rising from my ramen bowl, I finally take a spoonful of the spicy broth and open my school album on Google Photos.

As the spice and cheese combo hits my tongue, I quickly scroll to that one photo of us — Rahul and me.

Rahul was dressed in a navy-blue tailored suit. He had loosened his collar and unbuttoned the first button — a semi-formal look that made him look effortlessly handsome and stylish.

He has a soft smile on his lips, his arm casually around me in the photo. I looked pretty too, in my shimmery white saree and open hair swept over one shoulder.

A small smile curls on my lips as I look at my Grade 10 version in the photograph. The camera hasn’t captured the blush on my cheeks, but I vividly remember that day — and the feelings that bloomed in my heart during the photo.

Even the moments that followed, before we saw each other for the last time.

[FLASHBACK 1]

“Ho gaya kya, Ritvika? Hum late honge,” Siya chided as Ritvika huffed and applied another coating of blush on her cheeks.

“We’re going to be fashionably late. Chup reh aur mujhe mera kaam karne de. The whole school should remember us after this.” Ritvika proceeded to apply some shimmery powder on the higher points of her face.

Waiting patiently for ten more minutes, Siya finally saw Ritvika step back and whistle.

“Kitni kamal ki make-up artist hoon main!” Ritvika stepped aside, revealing the mirror—and Siya��s reflection.

Siya gasped. “Wow! I mean— that girl in the mirror is me?” She looked up at Ritvika and blinked, her eyelashes heavy from the generous mascara coating.

“Now wait and see how the whole school stares at us.”

Later, they found out that they weren’t late at all. Everyone had planned to arrive fashionably late at the farewell party.

Snigdha, the girls’ monitor, had done her eyebrows and waxed her arms. She was dressed in a classic red saree, red blouse, and red lipstick. She looked lovely.

Siya spotted other girls flaunting beautiful handloom sarees borrowed from their mothers and aunts. Some walked like pros, while others struggled with pleats and stilettos they had dared to put their feet in.

The two girls entered through the gate.

As usual, Siya noticed the boys turning to look at Ritvika, who looked the most stunning of all. She had worn a baby blue satin saree with delicate white stone work. Her sweetheart-neckline blouse showcased her model-like collarbones and neck beautifully. Like the all-rounder stylist she was, she’d donned her hair in soft waves—she looked effortless, chic, elegant, and classy.

Ritvika nudged Siya with her elbow, a smirk plastered on her lips. “Siya, dekh, sab tujhe ghoor rahe hain.”

Siya smiled and replied, “Nahi, sab tujhe dekh rahe hain. Itni pyaari apsara si jo lag rahi hai.”

Ritvika nonchalantly waved at a few girls and muttered, “Apne baal thode side kar. They’re awestruck by your look.”

Scooping her hair over her right shoulder, Siya looked around the ground.

Her best friend was right.

Many of the girls were gasping—lips parted, eyebrows raised in surprise. Some of the boys from their class too passed stunned looks to their friends, then back to Siya.

Khushi, a good friend of both girls, jogged over in her sneakers. She gave Siya a once-over before exclaiming, “Bhai bhai, class topper bani ekdum heroine? You look so damn pretty, Siya!”

Smiling, Siya tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “Thanks. Credits to Ritvika, though, for dressing me up.”

Aashna and Niya walked over, holding two Frootis each. Khushi looked at Siya from behind and gasped.

“Backless blouse!” she said amusedly, and then to Ritvika: “Behen, alag hi glow-up karvaya hai iska toh.”

The other two handed a Frooti each to Ritvika and Siya, smiling. “Girls, you look really great."

"Aaj nase kaatne wale hain.”

Siya blushed a little and sipped her Frooti, while Ritvika flipped her hair like a true heroine.

“Pratyasha is near the dais. Tum log aao, we three are going to her. Her pleats have come undone,” Khushi informed them before leaving with Niya and Aashna.

Siya’s eyes scanned the crowd. The guys looked good, but a tad similar—many in black suits, resembling young waiters at a restaurant. A few, however, stood out in colourful suits.

And there, near a pillar, she spotted Rahul—leaning lazily against it while his friends cracked jokes. Rahul was chuckling, while the other guys around him laughed like maniacs. Their laughter, and Rahul’s amused chuckle, drew Siya’s attention instantly.

He was dressed in a navy-blue suit. His blazer was open, revealing a crisp white shirt tucked in neatly. His collar was loose, and the first button undone, showing just a hint of his chest.

He looked breathtakingly handsome.

Siya’s heart tightened at the gorgeous sight. Ritvika heard her sigh and muttered, “Yeah, stare all you want. He’s not gonna be in Mumbai.”

Siya looked at her, face twisting into a grimace. “Tereko yaad dilana zaroori tha?”

“Aur tera jaana zaroori hai kya? We have two years of school left. Convince aunty to stay. Finish 12th and then go for college. Mumbai mein tab kar lena. Abhi tu gayi and—” Ritvika trailed off, her eyes drifting toward Rahul and his group.

Curious, Siya followed her gaze—and gasped.

Rahul was watching her.

His lips were wrapped around the straw of his Frooti, his eyes widened with genuine surprise. He looked at Siya from head to toe.

A flushed Siya quickly turned away. She rubbed her arms and pretended to look at her phone while Ritvika answered a call from her mom.

Rahul tilted his head, his eyes not once leaving Siya in that beautiful saree. Then he looked at his friends.

“Ritvika looking good was expected. But Siya?” He blinked. “Damn. Is she really the Siya we knew?”

Aditya shrugged and finished his second Frooti, smuggled from the caterers. “Well, these farewell parties do reveal hidden gems, don’t they?”

Rahul continued to observe Siya. The neatly pleated saree showed off her waistline, accentuated by a delicate silver waist chain, making him gulp. Siya had turned around, unknowingly gifting him a view of her backless blouse.

His eyes lingered on the two flimsy strings holding the blouse in place, adorned with pearl and stone latkans. The low-waist saree hugged her figure so well, he couldn’t help but wonder: “Where was this diva all these years?”

Meanwhile, Ritvika noticed Rahul’s stolen glances. She whispered something into Siya’s ear, making her discreetly turn around.

Right at that moment when her eyes met his, Rahul nodded at her, lips blooming into a charming grin.

Siya, visibly flustered, looked down shyly. Grabbing Ritvika’s hand, she quickly walked toward the girls, away from Rahul's lingering gaze.

“Strange,” Rahul mused. “The topper is shying away from me today? It’s not like we’re meeting for the first time. We’ve worked on so many projects and assignments together.”

--**--

[PRESENT: 24th Dec 2025]

My room is strewn with clothes, jewellery boxes, a suitcase, and a regular bag.

I tiptoe toward the empty but open suitcase. Sitting down on the floor, I glance at my roommate, who is now rummaging through her closet, throwing more tops onto the bed.

Sighing, I say, “Aisha, I’m only going to be there for one day. You’re planning outfits like I’m going on a week-long vacation.”

With her red wavy hair tied in a messy bun, secured with a Pinteresty flower hair clip, and a few strands framing her long oval face, Aisha turns to me. I raise my hands in surrender at her pointed look.

“It’s a school reunion. I want you to look like the most gorgeous woman there,” Aisha remarks, glaring at me while tossing another camisole crop top onto my face.

“Look,” I say, catching the top and placing it neatly on the bed, “even I want to look good, but you don’t have to empty the entire closet to find a good outfit.”

Another pointed glare shuts me up as she walks to the bed. Her hands dig through the pile of clothes, and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she picks out a long red velvet dress.

“Aha! There’s my treasure!” she squeals, handing it to me. “You are wearing this to the party. Dress up like a Christmas present.”

I look at the dress. “This is going to be too extra, Aisha. It’s just a school reunion party, not a gala or a date.”

Aisha places a finger on her lips. “Hush, and keep this dress inside. I’ll pick the accessories for it now, and you better keep them properly.”

“Aisha…”

“You’re getting a whole school reunion party. Everybody should see you glowing. The guys should regret not making a move on you, the girls should squeal when you walk in, and maybe a few can be jealous—” I raise my eyebrow, making her huff. “Okay fine, just please, please wear this. Trust me, you’re going to be the showstopper!”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine.”

Aisha passes me the velvet dress, folded like a soft ball. I smooth it out and open it to its full length.

The fabric is soft and stretchable, designed to hug one’s curves. It has a low neckline that highlights the chest area in a beautiful and elegant manner—though a bit hot for the eyes to handle. The fishtail silhouette cinches at the calves, making one appear taller and leaner.

Folding it neatly, I place it inside my suitcase.

Aisha hands me a pearl choker from her jewellery box, and a pair of pearl studs from mine.

“This whole look will give old Hollywood vibes: classy, elegant, and sexy!” she says, hopping off to fetch my heels from the shoe rack.

My phone rings. It’s Ritvika video-calling me. I smile as I swipe up, only to be greeted by her, Khushi, and Aashna screaming a loud hello.

“Whoa! The party’s tomorrow and you all are already wilding out today, huh?”

Ritvika squeals, “Pre-gaming it, Siya! Besides, why couldn’t you book your ticket earlier? We could’ve had two full days together!”

Hearing my school friends on the phone, Aisha passes me my heels, carefully packed in a paper bag. I see a pair of flats tucked in with them too.

“For when you’re tired of dancing,” she mouths, then quietly leaves the room to let me talk to my school girls.

Aashna is married now—an arranged marriage she’s quite happy with. Khushi got engaged a month ago to her college-time boyfriend. The wedding is in spring next year.

Ritvika has no time for dating with her eventful fashion designer life. And me? I’ve been having a dry love life… unless you count book character crushes.

Khushi turns the screen toward herself and asks, “What are you wearing tomorrow? Something dramatic and sexy for the reunion, like you did back at the farewell?”

“By God, Siya, I still think of you in that saree and backless blouse,” Aashna adds.

“Well,” I smile at the three of them, “I’m wearing something like that again—just not a saree. It’s a dress. The rest of the outfit details… you’ll see at the party.”

“And I get to do your makeup and hair!” Ritvika chimes in, leaning toward Khushi to show her face on the screen. “Just like old times.”

“Obviously. Now, girls—” I clap my hands, “let me pack quickly. My flight is very early in the morning. See you tomorrow. Enjoy tonight!”

Ritvika blows me a kiss. “Yes, we need to tell you everything about the people who’ve already arrived.”

Khushi nods. “True! We’ll call Niya too. I am sad she couldn’t make it. But she has a baby to take care of, so we can slide it off.”

“Arey, we’ll call her tomorrow after Siya arrives. She’ll feel included too,” Aashna suggests. Then she turns to me. “You go pack. We’ll leave. Bye!”

“Bye.” I wave and place my phone on the floor to avoid it getting buried under the giant cloth pile.

Aisha walks in again, munching on a biscuit. She places my comfy pink nightsuit on the bed for the resort stay. Kneeling, she scatters the pile again to find my favourite bootcut jeans.

I fold them and place them in my suitcase. She pairs them with her white camisole top and my denim jacket. Handing it to me, she says, “This one for the morning if you all go out. Ideally, wear it without the jacket, but if the sun’s too bright, then throw it on.”

“You know, you remind me of Ritvika so much. Every time we went out, she used to style me,” I say while placing the clothes in the suitcase.

Aisha works at the same book publishing company as me. I’m the Associate Editor, and she’s in the Marketing department, working as the Marketing and Publicity Executive.

She looks after our company’s social media, book events and campaigns. Her creativity is absorbed in curating posts, blogs, social media pages and handling events and campaigns.

We hit it off from the first day of work. We were from the same university, but different courses, and were interns who later got placed here. After a year, we decided to move into a rented apartment together.

Ritvika is my best friend. She’s seen me—mostly virtually—but she has known all of my life after school.

Yet Aisha holds a special place in my heart when it comes to friendship.

I watch her sit beside me, helping me pack the rest of the stuff. She sips her coffee with a dramatic slurp. “By the way, is that Rahul guy coming too?”

“I don’t know. Aana toh chahiye usko. But I’m sure he hasn’t arrived yet—Ritvika would’ve already messaged if he had. Let’s see,” I reply.

“And if he comes, tu kya karegi?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

“See, if it were a book, we’d lock eyes dramatically amidst the crowd, share some awkward small talk and a few flirty remarks, then reconnect and realize the sparks still exist. And then—enter a relationship because we’d both realize, this is it. This is what our hearts wanted.”

Seeing Aisha’s dreamy expression, I tap her nose. “But this isn’t a book or any Netflix rom-com. If he’s there, I might talk to him, dance, have fun—and then take a flight back here and return to work the next day.”

Aisha rolls her eyes. “For someone who loves reading romance and works in publishing, you’re awfully logical.”

“Well, what can I say? I was the school and college topper along with my bookworm tendencies.” I smile and zip my suitcase.

Clicking her tongue in mock disappointment, Aisha heads to the kitchen to make Maggi for the both of us.

I glance at the ticket PDF on my phone, heart fluttering.

Though I’d given a practical answer to Aisha, my heart whispers a different thought: What if he is there too... and we find each other again, just like that same day ten years ago?

Time will tell.

“Maggi is so good, bhai—yummy!” Aisha passes the saucepan to me. “Taste and tell.”

Twirling my fork to pick up a generous amount of noodles, I feed myself the masala noodles and moan at the taste. “Perfect, yaar! The spice and masala—so good! Love you and this.”

Aisha smiles and drops down beside me on the sofa. “You know, you should have told Rahul about your feelings.”

I wipe the soupy gravy of the noodles from the corner of my lips. “Perhaps, yes, I should have. But then, I didn’t want to risk any rumors spreading about me—nor deal with rejection.”

Tilting her head at me, her fork dangling from her fingers, she asks, “And what about after the farewell party? You were leaving the city and the school anyway.”

I simply shrug. “There are a lot of what-ifs, but all of it is in the past. He must have a girlfriend now—who knows? I haven’t had any contact with him, aur tab we were teenagers. Ab cheezein badal gayi hain, and some reunion won’t bring it all back. I’m not fifteen anymore, to fall flat in love or get a crush on him again.”

“Hmm… sure.”

When I look at her with a fixed stare, she smirks and dips her fork into the saucepan.

--**--

Here's the first chapter. I wanted to start the first of the series with a longer story so this will be divided in a few chapters now. Please please tell me what are your theories about this rn or any thoughts you have about the chapter now. Hehe love you all <3 Also the tag to find works about this: #dro sam

Taglist: @celestesinsight @ricevodka @houseofbreadpakoda @kaalischild @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @jessbeinme15 @heehoee @alhad-si-simran @chaandkideewani @prettykittytanjiro @the-show-romantics @aaj-fir-jeene-ki-tamanna-hai

#samridhi writes #dro sam #stories #desi stories

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lbxbx · 22 days ago

Text

Ten steps to you 4 | Jjk

Pair: reader x Jungkook

Summary: A cozy movie night brings you closer, filled with laughter, quiet moments, and a growing connection that feels impossible to ignore. Sometimes, the smallest gestures say the most. Your fourth date might take a turn into something unexpected.

Genre: strangers to lovers, modern romance, slow burn.

It was a slow Tuesday and the sun felt too bright for the kind of week you were having.

You sat on the little concrete bench just outside your apartment building, half-finished lunch in your lap and your phone resting screen-down beside you like it might behave better that way.

Work had been dragging. Endless emails, half-hearted replies, back-and-forths that led nowhere. The kind of day where nothing really happened, but you still felt drained.

Then your phone buzzed—once, then again.

[ Jungkook calling… ]

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Hey,” you answered, the corners of your mouth lifting instinctively.

“Hey,” he echoed back, voice smooth and relaxed. “You sound tired.”

“I’m at the midpoint-of-the-day, midpoint-of-the-week slump,” you sighed. “I’m emotionally eating a banana muffin and pretending it’s saving me.”

He laughed, soft and warm in your ear. “I respect that. I’ve eaten protein bars for dinner three nights in a row. We’re not so different.”

You leaned back against the bench, eyes fluttering shut just to soak in the sound of him. “How’s your day going?”

“Not bad. The library was quiet this morning. One of the regulars brought me a coffee, though I’m ninety percent sure it was a bribe to waive her late fees.”

“And did it work?”

“Absolutely. I’m morally weak when espresso’s involved.”

You laughed, that warm kind that started low in your chest. “Good to know. I’ll remember that next time I need to convince you of something.”

“Oh?” he said, teasing. “And what might you need to convince me of?”

You hesitated, smiling to yourself. “I haven’t decided yet.”

A soft silence passed, one of those moments where it felt like neither of you needed to speak right away.

Then he said, “Hey. I was thinking… we haven’t hung out in a week.”

“Mm,” you said, trying not to sound too eager. “I noticed.”

He chuckled under his breath. “And I was wondering if you’re free this weekend. Saturday night? I kind of want to do something classic.”

“Classic how?”

“Movie date classic. Popcorn, overly cold cinema, arguing over what genre we’re watching—even though I already know you’re going to win.”

You grinned. “You don’t even want to fight me on it?”

“I’ve seen how passionately you talk about film trailers. I’m not risking my dignity over that.”

You laughed. “Alright. You’ve got yourself a movie date.”

There was a pause, just a heartbeat longer than necessary, before he added, “I missed hearing your voice.”

You felt your stomach twist in that fluttery way it only did around him. “I missed yours too.”

“Do I get bonus points if I bring candy?”

“Depends on the candy,” you replied, your tone light. “If it’s red licorice, I’m filing for emotional damages.”

He gasped. “I love red licorice.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. See? I told you we’d argue.”

“If that was written on your profile i would’ve swiped left,” you teased.

“Not a chance.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering open again as you glanced at the time. “I should probably get back to pretending to work.”

He groaned. “Same. But hey—text me later?”

“Always.”

And just before you were about to hang up, he said, softer now, “Can’t wait to see you.”

You held onto that for a second.

Then: “Me too.”

Saturday felt like it took forever to arrive—and even when it did, the hours dragged. You were ready to start getting ready, only to check the time and realize it was still just 3 PM.

Yeah, you were this excited.

You’d already picked out your outfit—twice. One was a little too casual, the other maybe trying too hard. You’d eventually landed on something comfortably in-between: a soft knit top tucked into high-waisted jeans, the kind of outfit that said, I want to look good, but I didn’t lose sleep over this.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, screen lighting up with a familiar name.

[ Jungkook 🖤 ]

[ 3:07PM ]

Do you want me to pick you up later? Or are you driving over? :)

You stared at the message for a second longer than you needed to, smiling like an idiot. You didn’t know why that particular offer made your chest feel warmer than it should’ve. Maybe it was the simplicity of it—like he just wanted to take care of you in small, thoughtful ways.

You replied:

[ 3:09PM ]

You sure? I don’t want to make you go out of your way.

The response came quickly.

[ 3:10PM ]

It’s not out of my way if I want to. Besides, how else am I supposed to make sure you don’t sneak red licorice into the theatre?

You laughed under your breath, thumbs flying.

[ 3:11PM ]

You wish you could stop me. I’m chaotic and resourceful.

[ 3:12PM ]

So dramatic 😩 I’ll be there at 6.

Unless you want me earlier?

You paused.

Then typed, slowly:

[ 3:13PM ]

6 is perfect.

You didn’t dare type what you were actually thinking, which was something closer to you could come right now and I’d still be happy to see you.

Instead, you tossed your phone gently onto the bed and stood up, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Still three hours to go. You could kill time. You were an adult. You were completely capable of acting normal.

You folded some laundry. Refilled your water bottle. Opened Spotify, played half a playlist, skipped five songs in a row.

Time was not on your side. It had slowed to a crawl and was now mocking you.

You gave up and showered early. Spent too long doing your hair. Changed earrings three times, stared at your reflection like it might offer you some kind of cosmic reassurance. It didn’t.

Eventually, you sat on the edge of your bed, dressed, lightly perfumed, and trying not to overthink the fact that this was technically your fourth date.

Fourth.

Somehow it felt like you’d known him longer. Like you were slipping into a rhythm you hadn’t expected to find with someone so soon.

At 5:42, your phone buzzed again.

[ Jungkook 🖤 ]

I’m downstairs. No rush. Take your time :)

You peeked through your window, just to confirm, and sure enough—his car was parked right outside, the passenger window down, his arm resting casually out the side. The sight made your stomach flip.

You grabbed your phone, keys, and your little black bag, checking it one last time: lip balm, gum, your wallet, absolutely no red licorice (yet). Then you headed out the door.

He spotted you immediately as you stepped onto the sidewalk, and even from a few feet away, you could see the way his face lit up. That soft, there you are kind of smile.

“Hey,” you said as you slid into the passenger seat, your voice already warmer than it had been all day.

“Hey yourself,” he said, leaning a little toward you without thinking, like he wanted to kiss your cheek but wasn’t sure if that line had been crossed yet. “You look…” His eyes swept over you. “Wow.”

You laughed lightly, trying not to fidget with your sleeves. “Thanks. You clean up nice yourself.”

He grinned, throwing the car into drive. “I even vacuumed the car for you.”

“Oh? Now that’s romance.”

“Right?” he said. “Next thing you know I’ll be offering you the aux cord.”

“Careful, I take music control seriously.”

“Good. So do I.”

You settled into the seat as he pulled into traffic, the late afternoon sun spilling across the dashboard. There was music playing faintly—something lowkey and upbeat—and the breeze from the open window carried the scent of his cologne, subtle but clean. You caught yourself stealing glances at him, the way one hand rested lightly on the wheel, the other drumming fingers against his thigh to the beat.

You liked this—being beside him, moving forward, even if it was just toward a movie theatre.

And now? You wish time would just hold and pause for you.

The city blurred past in warm, golden tones. Late afternoon made everything feel softer, like the day itself was rooting for you.

You glanced at the dashboard clock. “We’re kind of early.”

“Yeah,” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “That was on purpose.”

You turned your head. “Oh?”

He shot you a quick smile, one that tugged at the corner of his mouth like he was trying not to look too proud of himself. “Thought maybe we could grab something before the movie. A pre-snack snack.”

You raised a brow. “And what exactly is a pre-snack snack?”

“It’s a critical part of the evening,” he said, mock serious. “It sets the tone. Also, I just wanted an excuse to stop by this little boba place on 8th.”

“Oh my god, do you have a boba addiction?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You laughed. “You realize this makes you incredibly easy to bribe.”

He nodded solemnly. “I am a man of simple pleasures.”

A few minutes later, he was parking in front of a small corner shop, its windows fogged with condensation and a chalkboard sign out front that read: “Try our summer special: mango green tea + lychee jelly!”

“I’m treating,” he said as he unbuckled. “Don’t fight me on it.”

You held up your hands. “No complaints here. Especially if there’s lychee jelly involved.”

Inside, the shop was cool and smelled faintly of fruit syrup and steamed milk. You hovered near the counter while he ordered—one mango green tea with lychee jelly for you, and a brown sugar milk tea with extra pearls for himself.

When you went to reach for your wallet, he just shook his head and pointed a finger at you. “No. You agreed.”

“Technically, I said I wouldn’t fight you. I didn’t say I wouldn’t feel mildly guilty.”

“Live with it,” he said, handing you your drink. His hand brushed yours in the exchange, warm and brief, but enough to spark something under your skin.

You stepped outside together, leaning against the car while you sipped your drinks. The air was just starting to cool, and the sun was dipping lower behind the buildings.

“Okay,” you said after a sip. “This is actually really good.”

He gave you a smug look. “Told you.”

You took another sip, then looked at him sideways. “Is this your go-to pre-date move? Win them over with boba and charm?”

He pretended to think. “Honestly? You’re the first person I’ve shared this particular move with.”

You tried not to let your heart leap at that. “Oh? So I’m special.”

He met your eyes, suddenly quieter. “Yeah. You kind of are.”

The words hung there, not heavy, but full. Honest.

You looked down at your drink, lips curved despite yourself. “You’re kind of special too, you know.”

He bumped your shoulder lightly. “That a fact?”

You nudged him back. “It’s data-driven.”

He laughed, and for a second, the world felt impossibly light.

After a few more sips and a shared moment of debating which flavor combination was superior, you climbed back into the car. He drove a little slower now, like neither of you was in a rush to get to the next part.

As you neared the theater, he reached over and turned the music down just a notch. “Okay, I have to ask—what kind of movie are you in the mood for? Rom-com? Something that’ll wreck our emotional stability? Or like… cheesy 2000s action with bad CGI?”

You pretended to think deeply. “Well, emotionally wrecked and laughing sounds ideal, but I also have a soft spot for fake explosions and unnecessarily dramatic soundtracks.”

He grinned. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

You pulled into the movie theater parking lot just as the sky was beginning to shift into evening. Pink streaks stretched across the clouds, like the day was ending on purposefully cinematic terms.

He parked, then turned off the engine and looked at you. Not rushed. Not distracted. Just… present.

“You ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t move just yet.

Instead, he looked at you a second longer. Like he wanted to say something else. Then he reached across the console and gently, gently, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath caught.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he said, voice low.

You met his gaze. “Me too.”

And then—like he knew it wasn’t quite the moment for a kiss, but it could’ve been—he just smiled and opened his door.

The theater was buzzing as you stepped inside—low chatter, the scent of popcorn hanging thick in the air, and a distant hum of trailers already rolling behind closed doors. Jungkook held the door for you, then leaned in just enough to murmur near your ear, “I vote we do snacks first. Priorities.”

You grinned. “Naturally. I didn’t emotionally prepare for this movie just to sit in there snack-less.”

You both fell into step toward the concession stand, the lights above casting a soft orange glow on the patterned carpet beneath your feet.

“I know this is a big question,” he said, tone mock-serious, “but what’s your ideal snack combo?”

You gave him a skeptical look. “Are we talking morally ideal, or realistically chaotic?”

“Give me the chaos.”

“Alright,” you said, counting on your fingers. “Popcorn with extra butter, a sour candy that’ll ruin my tongue for three days, and one enormous soda I absolutely can’t finish but will cry over if I don’t have it.”

He paused dramatically. “I’ve never heard anything more compatible with my soul.”

You laughed. “Okay, now you.”

“My go-to is a large popcorn I pretend we’re sharing but actually hoard, one box of peanut M&Ms that I pour into the popcorn—don’t judge me—and a soda that I also can’t finish but sip like it’s a sacred ritual.”

You blinked. “Wait. You pour M&Ms into the popcorn?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes wide, scandalized. “Sweet and salty, the perfect crime.”

“I think I love you.”

You didn’t mean to say it—not seriously, not with weight. It just slipped out in that casual, joking tone people use when they mean maybe too much by it.

Jungkook didn’t freeze. He just smiled. “Hold that thought until you try it.”

You made it to the front of the line and quickly agreed on a shared popcorn and soda—the classic oversized combo, naturally. You picked out a pack of sour belts, while Jungkook grabbed the M&Ms with a proud little flourish.

“I’m trusting you,” you warned.

“Wise choice.”

As the cashier rang everything up, he handed over a single, absurdly long straw.

You raised an eyebrow. “One straw?”

“We’re in this together now,” he said, grinning.

You carried the popcorn while he held the soda. As you walked toward your theater, he offered the drink to you first, tilting the cup slightly your way.

“Go on,” he said. “First sip’s yours.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but took the straw. The soda was cold and fizzy and way too sweet, and you handed it back with a dramatic gasp. “This could actually revive me from the dead.”

“I aim to please.”

You stepped into the theater, and he led you up a few rows until you found two seats dead center—prime movie-watching real estate.

He held the cup between you both, propped on the armrest, and you took turns sipping from it while the previews started to play.

You leaned in a little. “This is dangerously cute. I feel like we’re going to get cast in a soda commercial.”

He smirked. “I was just thinking the same thing. Except I’d probably spill it on myself halfway through.”

“That’d make it even cuter. Relatable.”

As the lights dimmed further and the movie began, you sank back in your seat, Jungkook’s knee just barely brushing yours, the shared soda between you like some unofficial agreement—you were here together, sharing space, sharing sweetness, sharing little things that didn’t feel so little anymore.

The movie started, but for a few minutes, you barely paid attention.

Because the popcorn was warm between you, his fingers kept brushing yours in the tub, and you were both pretending it wasn’t intentional.

Because every time one of you reached for the soda, the other leaned in slightly, and you were both smiling a little more than necessary afterward.

Because none of it felt forced.

It just felt good.

Natural.

Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The movie had been rolling for a while now—enough time for the characters on screen to start falling for each other in all the usual ways: stolen glances, soft music cues, a near-kiss that cut off too soon.

You were watching, but not really watching.

Not when Jungkook was sitting this close.

Not when the shared popcorn tub sat between you like a stand-in for the tension neither of you had addressed head-on.

Your fingers had brushed his four times so far. Maybe five. You weren’t sure. You’d started counting, then stopped, because the number didn’t matter. What mattered was that every time it happened, neither of you moved away.

The soda sat in the cupholder between you, straw curved slightly in your direction now. He hadn’t said anything when you took another sip, and you hadn’t said anything when he did either—but the way he looked at you after made your pulse skip.

You leaned back into your seat, eyes on the screen, pretending to care deeply about a scene you didn’t even register. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook do the same—adjusting slightly, his hand resting on his thigh now, just inches from yours.

Say something, you told yourself. Do something.

But what? You were in a dark theater, elbows almost touching, hearts hammering for no good reason.

He was quiet beside you. Too quiet.

You chanced a glance his way, catching the faint outline of his profile—lips slightly parted, jaw relaxed, eyes fixed on the movie like he wasn’t thinking about holding your hand, except… you knew he was.

Because you were too.

You shifted slightly, brushing your knee against his again, testing the waters. He didn’t pull back. He didn’t flinch.

If anything, he leaned closer.

He reached for the popcorn—at the exact same moment you did—and your hands collided, knuckles bumping, fingers overlapping.

You both froze.

Slowly, your eyes met.

You didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The flickering light from the screen danced across his face, and in that brief pause, everything else faded. It was just him. You. And the question hanging between you, louder than any movie soundtrack could be.

Then—finally—he shifted.

His hand turned gently beneath yours, until his palm was facing up. Waiting.

And you didn’t hesitate.

You slid your fingers into his, and he laced them together like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all night.

Your heart thudded in your chest, so loud you were sure he could hear it. But when you looked at him again, he was already looking at you—with that soft, slightly shy smile that made your stomach twist in the best possible way.

He gave your hand a small squeeze.

You squeezed back.

Neither of you said a word.

The movie played on, but the real story was unfolding right there, in the quiet space between your joined hands.

His hand was warm.

Not in the way hands usually are, but in the way that made you feel like you’d just been let into something quiet and important. Like the world had dimmed around the edges and left only this: the hush of the theater, the buzz in your chest, and Jungkook’s hand wrapped gently around yours.

You couldn’t believe how right it felt.

You weren’t even watching the movie anymore. The characters on the screen blurred into background noise, their lines no longer registering as anything but static, because all your focus had tunneled down to where your palm pressed against his. The skin-on-skin contact. The steady, calming weight of it.

You could feel every detail.

The roughness at the tips of his fingers, probably from guitar strings or lifting too many books. The way he didn’t hold too tight, but didn’t let go either. Like he was making space for you to be as nervous as you needed to be.

And still, he stayed there.

Solid. Gentle. Sure.

Your thumb twitched slightly, brushing against the side of his. You weren’t even sure if it was on purpose, but when you did it, his thumb shifted too—rubbing back, just once.

It did something to your heart. Made it flutter and ache and soften all at once.

Then slowly—like it was the most natural thing in the world—Jungkook lifted your joined hands from the armrest and placed them gently in your lap. His hand never leaving yours. Just… moving it closer. Closer to you.

You looked down at them together—your smaller hand tucked into his, resting now on your thigh—and you could’ve sworn the whole theater tilted a little.

You didn’t think your heart could beat any harder.

It was almost funny. For all the teasing, the flirty texting, the mutual stolen glances… this was the thing that undid you. Not a kiss. Not a confession.

Just a hand.

His hand in yours, steady and warm and here.

You took a breath—quiet, controlled, though your chest was rising a little too fast—and leaned back slowly in your seat. You let your shoulder brush his this time, not pulling away, not pretending it didn’t happen.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stiffen.

He just… shifted slightly. Like he was making more space for you. Like he’d been waiting.

Your eyes flicked up toward him—just a glance, just to be sure—and in the low light of the screen, you could see it: his profile still, relaxed, the corner of his mouth just barely curved. He wasn’t watching the movie either. Not really.

And that was all the invitation you needed.

You moved slowly—cautiously, like you were afraid to shatter the moment—but you let your head tilt until it touched his shoulder.

Just barely at first. A brush of hair, the soft contact of fabric on fabric. Then, when he didn’t move away, you let yourself rest there. Fully.

His shoulder was solid. Warm. Comforting.

And then there was him—the smell of his cologne curling softly around you like a secret. Something woodsy, a little sweet, like cedar and clean laundry and maybe even something citrusy underneath.

You breathed it in, slow and deep, just once.

Just to remember it.

Just because you could.

He didn’t say anything, but you felt his arm relax slightly, shifting just enough to settle in against your side. You could almost feel his heartbeat through his shoulder.

It made you smile. Not big. Not dramatic.

Just a tiny curl of your lips against the fabric of his hoodie, quiet and hidden and real.

This wasn’t what you expected when you woke up this morning—sleepy and grumpy and chewing on a banana muffin like it owed you rent. You hadn’t known this Saturday would end in something so simple and grounding. But maybe that’s what made it feel so big.

Not because of a grand gesture.

But because this meant something.

This was him letting you lean into him without asking. You letting him hold your hand like it belonged there. No words, no pressure, just presence.

You were so aware of him—of everything. His breathing. The way his chest rose and fell. The faintest tap of his fingers against your knuckles like a rhythm only the two of you could hear.

And even more than that, the warmth radiating off him—an invisible current you could feel against your cheek, in your blood.

You thought maybe you could sit there forever.

Then you felt him shift slightly, just a tilt of his head, and suddenly his mouth was closer to your ear.

You didn’t move.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice barely there, soft and low.

A shiver ran through you—light but undeniable. The sound of his breath against your skin made your chest flutter like a caught bird.

You turned your face slightly toward him, your voice just as quiet. “Hey.”

He smiled—more in the way his cheek lifted beneath you than anything you could see—and whispered, “This is really nice.”

It was such a simple sentence. But it hit you like something important.

Because it was nice.

It was slow and gentle and safe. No performance. No overthinking. Just this easy closeness, so real you could feel it humming in your bones.

You nodded, barely. “Yeah. It really is.”

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he admitted. His breath brushed against the edge of your hairline, and your skin broke out in goosebumps like it was answering him before you could.

You smiled, your heart tightening in that familiar, pleasant way. “Same. I kept checking the time every ten minutes like a loser.”

He chuckled quietly. “Me too. I thought about canceling just to reschedule for earlier.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes were already on you, dark and soft and shining in the faint light from the screen.

He looked… calm. But there was something under the surface. A nervous energy, a quiet buzz, the same thing that was dancing through your chest right now.

“You’re warm,” he whispered, eyes flicking down to where your hand still rested in his. “And you fit really well right here.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Yeah?” you said, a whisper of a smile on your lips.

He leaned in just the tiniest bit, his forehead brushing yours now. “Yeah.”

It was dizzying, this closeness. His scent filled your nose again—sweet and woodsy and something sharper underneath, like crushed pine—and you were suddenly very aware of how little space there was between you.

How easily you could tilt your face up and kiss him.

How badly you wanted to.

You didn’t, though.

Not yet.

Instead, you whispered, “Your voice is dangerous.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Dangerous?”

You nodded, the smallest motion. “You keep talking that close and I might forget I’m in public.”

He laughed, soft and warm, and your heart nearly exploded with how pretty it sounded.

“You can talk, by the way,” he murmured. “That sigh earlier? When I leaned in? Nearly did me in.”

“I didn’t sigh.”

“You did. It was tiny. And it was criminally cute.”

You pressed your lips together, half-embarrassed, half-glowing. “Maybe you’re dangerous.”

He grinned. “We’re a threat to each other.”

Another breath passed between you. Shared. Close. Intimate.

You let yourself lean in again, this time just a little more, your forehead now against the side of his.

Your heart was racing, but in the best way—like something tender was unfolding, slow and certain, and you didn’t need to rush it.

“I like this,” you said softly.

Jungkook’s voice was low and sincere. “I like you.”

Your breath caught. For a moment, you forgot where you were.

Then the characters on screen kissed—finally—and the entire theater seemed to exhale in collective satisfaction.

You smiled into the darkness, still pressed against his shoulder, and whispered, “Took them long enough.”

Jungkook squeezed your hand once. “Yeah,” he said, voice just near your ear. “We’re doing better than them.”

The credits finished rolling, and the lights came up slowly. You stayed still for a moment, caught in the warmth of the closeness you’d just shared, but as the theater filled with people gathering their things, a small pang of disappointment tugged at you.

You two had to let go of each other’s hands so you could walk out the theater. It only felt appropriate to do so.

You both stood up, the buzz of the crowd around you suddenly feeling distant compared to the quiet space between you two.

Together, you walked out into the night air, side by side but not quite touching. Your fingers itched to reach for his, but something held you back—maybe shyness, maybe waiting for him.

As you reached the parking lot, Jungkook stopped in front of his car. The glow from a nearby streetlamp cast soft shadows over his face, making his eyes look even warmer than usual.

He looked at you, hesitant but steady, and then reached out his hand.

“Can I?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, your heart fluttering as you slipped your hand into his.

His fingers curled around yours like they’d been made to fit perfectly.

“I can’t get enough of this,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

The words hit you like a wave—simple, honest, and full of something that made your breath catch.

You squeezed his hand back, a shy smile spreading across your face.

“I’m glad,” you whispered.

He leaned just a little closer, and you could feel the warmth of him radiating through the cool night.

For a moment, the world shrank to just you two—your hands joined, the quiet hum of the city, and the unspoken promise hanging between you.

Then, with a playful grin, he opened the car door for you.

“Let me get you home,” he said.

You slid inside, still holding his hand until he gently pulled away to close the door.

As he started the engine, your fingers twined together again, like neither of you wanted to let go just yet.

The car hummed softly as Jungkook pulled out of the parking lot. The streetlights flickered past in a lazy rhythm, casting gentle shadows inside the vehicle.

Your fingers still laced with his, the warmth of his hand grounding you in a way nothing else could. You glanced sideways, catching his profile bathed in the glow of the dashboard. His jaw was relaxed, eyes focused on the road, but every now and then, his hand gave yours a slow, reassuring squeeze.

“It’s been a long week,” you said quietly, almost to yourself.

He nodded. “I could tell. You seemed… tired earlier.”

You shifted in your seat, the vulnerability you’d tried to hide slipping out in the softness of your voice. “Yeah. Days like that make you question everything. Like, am I even making any progress? Or just spinning in place?”

Jungkook stole a quick glance at you, then reached over, resting his hand lightly on your thigh—a gentle touch that made your breath hitch.

“Hey,” he murmured, “you’re not alone in that. I have days where I feel stuck too. Like the whole library is just waiting for someone to notice it.”

You smiled, eyes meeting his briefly. “I’m glad you get it.”

He squeezed your hand again, then let his fingers trail up your arm slowly.

“I don’t want to pretend with you,” he whispered. “No masks. No pressure.”

You swallowed hard, the honesty catching you off guard but feeling like the safest place you’ve been all week.

“I don’t either,” you said. “I want this to be real. Whatever ‘this’ turns into.”

The car slowed as you neared your apartment. Jungkook reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your heart race.

He parked and turned off the engine, the sudden quiet filling the space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he shifted, opening the door for you again.

As you stepped out, you felt him reach for your hand once more, holding it with a quiet desperation that mirrored your own.

“I don’t want to say goodnight yet,” he admitted softly.

You looked up at him, searching his eyes, finding the same reluctance reflected there.

“Me neither,” you whispered back.

He hesitated, then gently pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“Until next time,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

You smiled, feeling the promise in those words, and with your heart still pounding, you whispered back, “Until next time.”

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echoes-of-elsewhere · 5 months ago

Text

I am you - Part 1 of 2 (Doppelganger story)

They always assume they would notice, that if something like this happened to them, it would be immediate and undeniable. People believe in dramatic revelations, in a single moment where the world tilts and the truth is exposed. They think of flickering shadows, distorted reflections, the impossibility of seeing their own face in places they do not remember being. But it never happens that way.

The process is slow, deliberate, and inevitable. A shift so gradual that, by the time they recognize it, it is already too late. It begins with something small—an exchanged greeting they cannot recall, a casual reference to an event they have no memory of attending. They assume it is stress, distraction, miscommunication, all reasonable things that allow them to dismiss the wrongness before it settles in. They do not understand that every moment of doubt is another step in the process.

I have been here for weeks. I know the way he moves, the cadence of his voice, the weight of his name. I have studied him long enough that I could be him better than he is. And soon, I will be.

______________________________________________________________

The first time he notices, it is so minor that he almost forgets it entirely. The barista in the café hands him his coffee and smiles as she says, “Back again?” He hesitates, shakes his head slightly, and tells her this is his first coffee of the day. She frowns for a fraction of a second before laughing it off, blaming her mistake on the early morning rush.

The second time, it is more difficult to ignore. A colleague stops him outside his office, asking how his meeting went. There is a note of expectation in their voice, something that tells him this is not a casual inquiry but a follow-up to an earlier discussion—one that, as far as he is concerned, never happened.

“I didn’t have a meeting this morning,” he says, forcing an easy tone into his voice.

His colleague raises an eyebrow, pulling out their phone. “You said you were heading to one just before lunch. Look—" They turn the screen toward him, showing a text message from his number. The words are familiar, structured exactly the way he would phrase them. He reads them over and over, but the memory of sending them does not come.

That should have been the moment he acknowledged that something was wrong.

But it wasn’t.

______________________________________________________________

Denial is powerful. Even now, as the weight of inconsistencies begins to settle, he fights it. He checks his emails, his call logs, his purchase history, looking for proof that something is missing, something altered. The problem is, there is nothing missing. There are no blank spaces, no files erased or conversations removed. Instead, there are things he has no recollection of doing—transactions at places he has not visited, messages that sound exactly like him, plans he would have made.

He tells himself it is stress, that he must have been distracted, that memory is unreliable. He does not realize that he is not looking for an answer. He is looking for permission to believe nothing is wrong.

That is why he watches the security footage. That is why he asks the night guard to rewind the tape, just to check. That is why, even before he sees it, he knows what will be there.

The screen flickers, and there he is, walking into the office building at 11:42 PM. He watches himself take the elevator to the fourth floor, swipe his access card, and step inside. There is no hesitation in his movements, no moment of doubt or pause. His posture is relaxed, his gait smooth and familiar.

The guard chuckles beside him. “Looks like you’ve been sleepwalking.”

He stares at the footage, waiting for some sign that it isn’t real, that there has been a mistake. But there is no mistake. He was home at 11:42 PM. He knows this with absolute certainty. And yet, here he is, caught in a moment that should not exist.

Sleepwalking.

It is easier to agree than to argue.

______________________________________________________________

The moment of realization, the true breaking point, is not in what he sees but in what he does not.

His phone registers calls he cannot remember, but they are to the same people he speaks to every day. His emails contain correspondence that follows his usual habits, his tone, his way of phrasing things. Even his bank records show nothing unusual—just a life continuing as it always has, perfectly ordinary, except for the quiet, insidious knowledge that it is no longer his.

The key doesn’t turn.

He frowns, tries again, pressing harder, but the lock doesn’t move. He checks the key, turning it over in his palm, but nothing is wrong.

Behind him, footsteps. A voice follows.

“Something wrong?”

He turns. The landlord is walking up, a small ring of spares already in hand. He barely glances at the door.

“My key isn’t working,” he says.

The landlord exhales, already sorting through the keys. “Yeah, had the locks changed this morning. Request came in from you a couple of days ago.” He slides a key free, presses it into his palm without hesitation. “Here. Just don’t lose this one.”

He stares at it.

“Why were they changed?”

The landlord shifts his weight slightly, giving him an odd look before shaking his head. “You tell me. You put in the request.” His tone is flat, uninterested, already moving past the conversation.

His fingers tighten around the key.

"Am I being charged for this?"

A shrug. “Yeah. Standard fee.” The landlord is already moving away.

The key will fit. It will turn.

I already have mine.

Something inside him lurches at the exchange. The way the landlord handed over the key without hesitation. The way there was no moment of doubt, no pause, no verification—just a decision that had already been made.

And then he sees me.

Standing at the end of the street.

#doppelganger #short story #horror #supernatural

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rylem33 · 11 months ago

Text

A Dark Friday

It's a dark rainy Friday where I am. So I wrote this. I hope you enjoy! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The buzzing of Friday’s alarm jolted her awake. She reached over, silencing the noise with a clumsy swipe. 6:00 AM. Another early morning. She lay there for a moment, letting herself sink back into the quiet. It was one of those rare moments when everything seemed still, calm.

Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought, swinging her legs out of bed. Her body ached a little, but that was nothing new. She hadn’t slept much the night before—superhero work never did care about sleep schedules.

It had started with a petty crime—some guy trying to rob a corner store with a knife. Nothing too serious, but serious enough. She’d stepped in just in time, using her telekinesis to send the knife skidding across the floor before the guy even knew what hit him. The store owner had been grateful, offering her a free soda, which she’d declined with a polite smile. It was her duty, after all. Friday didn’t do it for rewards or recognition. She did it because it was right.

She was known. Well, the superhero version of her was known. Friday herself? She was just another face in the crowd. Just an average office worker, keeping her head down like everyone else. But when she put on the mask, that’s when things changed. People in her corner of the city called her the quiet hero. The one who did the right thing, even when no one was looking. No flashy powers, no big costume, nothing like the big names in the hero world. Just quiet telekinesis and a determination to keep people safe. And people respected her for it. They didn’t know who she was under the mask—didn’t know about the woman who filed paperwork and made small talk at the office—but they knew her work. That was enough.

Friday pulled on her work clothes, glancing in the mirror to make sure she looked… ordinary. That was key. No one at the insurance agency could ever guess she spent her nights stopping crimes. They’d just see the same woman they always saw—responsible, quiet, always on time.

A faint shiver ran down her spine as she finished getting ready. Something felt off this morning, but she brushed it away. It was probably nothing. It’s just one of those days.

She reached for her keys on the table but paused. She didn’t need to grab them manually—a little telekinesis would save the trouble. With a small flick of her fingers, she focused on pulling the keys toward her.

Instead of gently lifting off the table, the keys shot across the room like a bullet, smacking into the wall with a metallic clatter and dropping behind a cabinet.

“Ugh!” Friday muttered, hurrying over to fish them out. That definitely wasn’t supposed to happen. She crouched down, retrieving the keys from behind the furniture, her brows furrowed in confusion.

Weird.

She stared at the dent in the wall for a moment, then she grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday sat at her desk, the soft hum of office chatter filling the background. Papers were stacked neatly in front of her, just the way she liked it. The morning was routine—email check, document review, small talk with co-workers about the weather.

She glanced at the clock. 10:15 AM. She was running behind on a report, and the stack of papers in front of her wasn’t going to organize itself.

Or… maybe it could.

Friday quickly looked around the office. No one was paying attention—everyone was glued to their computers or deep in conversation. She let out a slow breath, then flicked her fingers under her desk, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she focused on the top stack of papers.

Just a little nudge. It’s harmless.

The papers shifted, lifting gently off the desk. Friday smiled to herself—easy. She guided the stack toward the edge of her desk, ready to settle it into a neat pile on the other side.

But instead of a smooth landing, the papers exploded. They scattered in every direction, flying wildly around the room like leaves in a windstorm. Several pages shot into the ceiling, a few fluttered to the floor, and one—please no—landed directly in her boss’s coffee cup across the room.

“Wha—what the—?” Her boss, Mr. Daniels, looked down at his soaked document in confusion, lifting it out of the cup with two fingers.

Panic flared in Friday’s chest. Oh no, no, no! She stood up abruptly, knocking her chair over with a loud clatter. Every head in the office turned to look.

“Whoops!” Friday blurted out, her voice too bright, too forced. “Sorry! I tripped!”

She bent down to pick up the chair, her face burning as she tried to collect the scattered papers. No one seemed to question it—most of them shrugged and went back to work, assuming she’d just been clumsy. But her heart was racing, and her hands trembled as she grabbed the papers.

Mr. Daniels glanced at her, eyebrow raised, but said nothing. He pulled the soggy paper out of his cup and shook his head before sitting back down.

Friday dropped into her chair, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips as she started gathering the rest of the papers from the floor. What is going on with my powers? They had never been this unpredictable. First the keys, and now this? She couldn’t afford to keep messing up like this, especially not at work. If anyone ever suspected she had powers… she didn’t even want to think about that.

She smoothed the papers back into a pile, forcing herself to breathe. Just get through the day. It’ll pass.

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Friday sat at the table with her co-workers, forcing a smile as they chatted and laughed about some office gossip. It was a typical lunch break—nothing out of the ordinary, and for a moment, she felt like she could relax. She waited for her salad, half-listening as Karen, from accounting, went on about her new puppy.

It was nice to unwind. After the chaos with the papers earlier, she needed a break. Everything felt normal again.

Until the server approached with their food.

Friday’s eyes drifted to the tray, and her stomach gave a small grumble. Karen’s burger. Juicy, perfectly cooked, oozing with cheese and crispy bacon. It looked so much better than her bland salad. Without thinking, she leaned forward a bit, her attention locked on the burger.

Suddenly, it slid an inch across the tray.

Her breath caught in her throat. Before she could react, the burger jerked again, this time more forcefully—right off the tray. The server stumbled, trying to catch the plate, but it was too late. Everything hit the floor with a crash, the tray clattering as fries, plates, and silverware scattered everywhere.

“Oh my God!” Karen gasped, jumping back as ketchup splattered across her shoes.

The entire restaurant seemed to pause for a second, the clatter of dropped plates echoing as people turned to see the commotion.

“I am so sorry!” the server stammered, kneeling down to clean up the mess, her face red with embarrassment.

Friday sat frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t moved a muscle. She hadn’t done anything. But that burger… she knew she’d pulled it toward her with her telekinesis. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut.

Her powers had acted on their own. She hadn’t even tried.

“Wow, bad luck,” one of her co-workers said, shaking her head at the mess. “You okay, Friday?”

“Y-yeah,” Friday managed to say, her voice sounding far away. She forced herself to smile, but inside she felt the panic rising. What just happened? This was different from earlier. This wasn’t just a small glitch. She hadn’t been thinking about using her powers at all, yet they’d taken over, as if drawn out by some stray desire.

Her heart was racing. She stared down at her salad, suddenly feeling sick. Something was very, very wrong.

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Friday sat back at her desk, trying to push the lunch disaster out of her mind. She just needed to focus. If she could stay focused, everything would be fine. The rest of the day would pass without incident, and whatever weirdness was happening with her powers would stop.

It has to stop, she thought, staring at the spreadsheet on her screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the numbers blurred in front of her eyes. She was too on edge, too anxious.

The office was filled with the usual afternoon energy. People were moving around, talking, making plans for the weekend. Her eyes drifted toward the break area, where Fred, the smarmy salesman, was leaning against the wall, his signature grin plastered across his face. He was talking to Janie from marketing, who looked more than a little uncomfortable as Fred made some joke she clearly didn’t find funny.

Friday scowled. Fred was always like this—overly flirty, never taking the hint. He’d been warned about his behavior before, but it didn’t seem to stick. She could feel the irritation building, her focus narrowing on Fred and his obnoxious smirk.

Suddenly, there was a loud tear. Fred froze mid-sentence, his face suddenly turning bright red as his pants ripped open at the seam, revealing his checkered boxers. Janie’s eyes widened, and a few nearby co-workers stifled laughter as Fred scrambled to cover himself with his hands.

“Uh… I think I’ll catch up with you later,” Janie said, quickly backing away.

Fred mumbled something unintelligible, his face still burning as he darted toward the restroom to fix the wardrobe malfunction. The laughter that followed him seemed to echo throughout the office.

Friday’s heart skipped a beat. Did I… just do that?

She glanced around, but no one seemed to notice her. Everyone was too busy laughing at Fred to even consider that it might have been anything more than a random accident. But she knew. Her powers had acted on that stray thought—without her even trying.

Her stomach knotted. Keep it together. Don’t let it get worse.

She turned back to her screen, trying to type, but her mind kept racing. As the minutes ticked by, small things kept happening.

Her phone buzzed with a notification, but the volume didn’t seem loud enough. She glanced at it, thinking about how annoying it was that she couldn’t hear it clearly, when the sound suddenly blasted to full volume, ringing out through the office. She jumped, slapping her hand over the phone to silence it, drawing startled glances from a few nearby co-workers.

“Sorry!” she squeaked, her face flushing.

A few minutes later, she overheard Megan from HR loudly complaining about some mistake in payroll. Megan had a habit of getting under Friday’s skin, her voice grating with every drawn-out word. Without even realizing it, Friday glared in her direction, wishing Megan would just… shut up.

And then she did.

Megan’s voice cut off mid-sentence, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Her face twisted in confusion as she cleared her throat and tried to speak again, but only a tiny squeak came out.

“Oh no,” Friday whispered, her stomach flipping. She stared at her hands, feeling the panic start to rise again.

Everything she wanted was just… happening. And it wasn’t stopping.

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Friday gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual as she drove downtown. Her mind raced, replaying the bizarre events of the day—Fred’s pants ripping, Megan losing her voice, the server at lunch dropping those plates. It was all too much to ignore now. Her powers were acting without her consent. Every stray thought, every fleeting desire was manifesting itself, and it was getting harder to control.

She took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. I just need to get home. I’ll figure this out later. Just keep it together until then.

As she switched lanes, the driver behind her honked aggressively, speeding up and cutting her off. Before she could stop herself, she felt a surge of anger. Her teeth clenched, and her grip on the wheel tightened even more.

Jerk, she thought bitterly, her eyes narrowing on the car that had just swerved in front of her.

The thought barely had time to register when, in the distance, she saw the car veer sharply to the right, the tires screeching as it suddenly swerved off the road and straight into a nearby pole. The sound of metal crunching filled the air, and Friday’s breath caught in her throat.

The car’s driver stumbled out, dazed but unharmed, waving off a few concerned bystanders. Friday’s pulse quickened, her heart pounding as she slowed down, passing by the wreck.

For a moment, she felt relief. The driver was okay—just shaken up—but a small part of her couldn’t help but think… They deserved it. They’d cut her off, after all. Maybe it was a little payback.

She felt a shiver of guilt crawl up her spine, but the satisfaction was still there, lingering like a whisper. That wasn’t me… was it? But deep down, Friday knew the truth.

It was her.

The car had crashed because she had wanted it to. Her powers, fueled by her irritation, had once again taken over. And this time, it wasn’t just a harmless prank or an embarrassing accident. It was real.

Friday’s hands shook slightly on the wheel as she drove the rest of the way toward downtown, the city’s towering buildings coming into view. She tried to push the unsettling thoughts away, to focus on her nightly patrol. I have to stay in control.

But the more she tried to bury them, the more they grew.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday walked the streets of downtown, her thoughts still stuck on what had happened earlier. She was patrolling out of habit, trying to keep her mind off everything that had gone wrong during the day. But it wasn’t working.

Her powers were slipping out of control, and that scared her. She needed to focus. Patrols usually helped with that. Tonight, though, the streets were quiet leaving her with her thoughts.

She glanced around as she passed under the dim glow of streetlights. A few people walked by, heading home after a long day, but nothing unusual. Nothing to distract her. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, trying to stay calm.

Then, she heard it.

A woman’s voice, sharp and panicked, cut through the stillness.

“Stop! Somebody help!”

Friday’s head snapped up. She followed the sound, breaking into a run. As she turned the corner, she saw it—a man sprinting down an alley, clutching a woman’s purse. The woman stood a few feet away, shouting after him, trying to give chase.

Finally, Friday thought, rushing toward the scene. Her powers kicked in almost instinctively. She focused on the purse, pulling it away from the thief with her telekinesis. It worked—too well.

The purse shot out of the man’s hands, but so did he. He slammed into the alley wall with a thud, collapsing to the ground, groaning in pain.

Friday froze for a moment, staring at the man slumped against the brick, his leg jutting out at an awkward angle. She hadn’t meant to hit him that hard.

The woman ran over, panting, eyes wide as she looked between Friday and the thief. “Oh my God, thank you! I don’t know what would’ve happened if—” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the man, barely moving on the ground. “Is he…?”

“He’s fine,” Friday said quickly, her voice flat. She tossed the purse back to the woman. “You should get out of here.”

The woman hesitated for a second, looking at the thief again, then nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered before hurrying off into the night.

Friday stood over the thief, her heart pounding. He was still conscious, groaning, reaching for his leg. He wasn’t seriously hurt, maybe a broken leg. He definitely wasn’t walking away anytime soon.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She knew she should call for help, but something kept her rooted in place. The anger she’d felt when she saw him snatch that purse… she’d let it slip out, and her powers had acted on it.

But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it felt good.

He deserved it. He was a thief. He would’ve hurt that woman if she hadn’t stepped in.

Friday clenched her fists, taking a step back. Her powers had flared up, sure, but wasn’t that what they were for? Stopping people like him? She’d done the right thing. Maybe a little more forceful than necessary, but still.

She looked up, noticing a couple of people watching from across the street. Some seemed impressed, but others whispered to each other, uneasy.

It didn’t matter. She had handled the situation. The thief had been stopped. That’s all that mattered.

Without another word, Friday walked away, leaving the man on the ground. She didn’t feel guilty. If anything, she felt stronger. In control.

And for the first time all day, she didn’t care that her powers had gone too far. She liked it.

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Friday walked aimlessly, her thoughts clouded with the chaos from earlier. She wasn’t sure why her feet had brought her so close to the police precinct, but there she was, hanging back in the shadows as a group of officers stood outside, chatting. She wasn’t patrolling out of duty anymore. It was more like she needed a distraction, something to drown out the noise in her head.

She heard one of the officers mention an accident. Her heart skipped. She moved closer, just enough to catch the conversation.

“Yeah, that guy from earlier? The one who crashed on Maple?” The officer’s voice was tense. “Turns out he’s one of ours. A cop. Good guy. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Friday froze. They were talking about the man she had pushed into that pole. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach.

“Yeah, and it was weird as hell,” another officer chimed in. “The guy says he doesn’t remember how it happened—just lost control out of nowhere. Some witnesses said his car swerved all by itself.”

The knot tightened.

“We’re gonna do a full investigation,” the first officer continued. “We think a supe might’ve been involved.”

Friday’s pulse quickened. A full investigation? They didn’t know it was her. They couldn’t know. But the fact that they were digging into it—it was only a matter of time before they started looking in the right places.

She turned to leave, ready to disappear into the night before things got worse, but one of the officers caught sight of her. “Hey! You there!”

Her heart sank. She was still in her mask, still in her patrol gear. They had no idea she was responsible for the crash, but they recognized her type—a superhero.

The officer walked toward her, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing hanging around here?”

“I was just…” Friday started, her voice trailing off as she tried to think of an excuse, her mind racing.

The officer snorted. “Typical. Another wannabe hero sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She shifted her weight, fighting the urge to walk away. Her powers simmered beneath the surface, her anxiety spiking with each second.

Another officer stepped forward, glaring at her. “We don’t need any help from a bunch of masked ‘supes.’ This city’s better off with real cops. People who actually know how to handle things.”

Friday’s jaw tightened. The tension in her chest built with every word they spat at her.

“Your kind thinks you’re above the law,” the first officer added, his tone sharp. “But guess what? We’re not gonna let a bunch of freaks run this city. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

Freaks. Trouble. The words rang in her ears, fueling the anger that had been building inside her all day.

She could feel it now—the worry about the investigation, the aggressive tone of the officers, the day’s frustrations—all pushing her closer to the edge. Her powers flickered, and for a moment, she thought about walking away. But she couldn’t.

“You think we need people like you?” the officer continued, stepping closer, his voice dripping with contempt. “You just get in the way. We handle the real problems. The real crimes. Stay out of it.”

That was it. The dam broke.

Before Friday could even register what she was doing, her telekinesis flared. The officer closest to her was suddenly thrown backward, slamming into the precinct wall with a heavy thud. His body crumpled to the ground, dazed.

The other officers reacted instantly, but Friday didn’t stop. The second officer lunged toward her, but she flung him back, sending him skidding across the pavement.

Panic surged through the crowd as other officers scrambled for cover, shouting into their radios. Backup was being called. The precinct buzzed with chaos.

But Friday wasn’t scared anymore. She felt angry.

“Stay out of it?” she muttered under her breath, her voice low. She glanced around, her powers crackling in the air. With a flick of her mind, she sent nearby objects flying—trash cans, parked bikes, even a police car shifted slightly on its wheels.

“You don’t need my help?” she said louder this time, her heart racing. “Fine. Let’s see how well you handle this without it.”

Another officer stepped forward, trying to talk her down, his hands raised in surrender. “Listen, we don’t want any trouble—”

But she didn’t listen. A surge of power erupted from her, shoving him backward like the others. Glass shattered as he hit the windows of the precinct. She could hear shouts inside, radios buzzing, but it only fueled the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

For the first time all day, she wasn’t trying to control it. She was letting go.

The police couldn’t stop her. No one could. And for the first time, that felt good.

As the chaos swirled around her, Friday turned and walked away, her footsteps steady and her mind clear. She didn’t care about the investigation anymore. She didn’t care about what came next. The worry that had gnawed at her all day was gone, replaced by something stronger.

This was power.

And she wasn’t holding it back anymore.

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Friday sat at a table in the back of the dimly lit restaurant. She was alone in a secluded area, enjoying the meal in front of her. Gone were the days of restraint, of second-guessing every action. Now, she did what she wanted, when she wanted, without the endless loop of moral questioning. Consequences didn’t matter. They were for the weak, for the people who hadn’t yet realized the thrill of truly letting go.

She twirled her fork slowly, savoring the bite she’d just taken. Her powers had blossomed in the weeks since she’d stopped holding back, growing stronger, sharper. She could feel it humming beneath her skin at all times now, always there, always ready. It wasn’t something to control anymore—it was simply a part of her.

A faint smile crossed her lips as she leaned back in her chair, the warm taste of her meal still lingering on her tongue.

But just as she was about to enjoy another bite, a voice broke through the quiet.

“Boss… sorry to interrupt.”

Her hand froze mid-motion. The fork hovered near her lips as she turned her head slightly. A henchman, one of the low-level lackeys she’d picked up since embracing her new life, stood nervously by the table.

She didn’t look at him.

“I told you,” she said softly, her voice smooth but laced with threat, “I don’t like to be interrupted.”

“I know, but—”

Before he could finish, she flicked her fingers.

With a thought, his body crumpled to the ground. It was almost too easy now, barely an effort at all. He gasped, his breath leaving him as he curled into a heap at her feet, limbs twisted awkwardly. His face contorted in pain, but he didn’t dare scream.

Friday didn’t move. She didn’t even glance at him as she slowly set her fork back down on the table. Her focus returned to her plate, the food that had lost its warmth thanks to the intrusion. The audacity.

“I was enjoying that bite,” she murmured, as if speaking more to herself than to him. Her tone was calm, unbothered by the sight of him writhing in agony on the floor. She let him suffer for a moment longer, savoring the power that came so easily to her now.

After a beat, she finally spared him a glance. “Now, tell me. Was it worth ruining my meal?”

He gasped, struggling to form words. “No… no, I—”

Another flick of her hand, and his body eased just enough to breathe again. She wasn’t finished with him yet.

“Good.” She leaned back, her eyes cold. “You’ll heal. Next time, think before you come running to me.”

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink, watching quietly writhe on the floor. Another henchman watched from across the room but dared not interfere.

The interruption over, Friday picked up her fork again, lifting the next bite to her lips. She smiled, savoring the taste, the power, the complete control over everything around her.

This was her world now. And nothing—no one—could stop her.

#f2f transformation #personality change #f2f corruption #f2f

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