#HE LOVES HER AND IT WAS RUINED AND HE CLEANED IT AND FIXED IT AND GAVE IT BACK TO HER

[jeonette]

loving you is war — jjk 18+

A love too toxic to stay in, but too painful to walk away from. He ruins her, and she knows but she falls for it anyway.

genre : toxic love, dark romance.

rating : MINORS DNI! 18+

It started on a day that should’ve meant nothing.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not behind the grimy old convenience store where the school’s worst behaved kids hung around after the bell.

But you were looking for your brother’s bike — he’d left it out, again — and wandered into the alley on a shortcut, hoping no one would notice.

That’s when you saw him.

Leaning against the wall like sin incarnate, cigarette tucked between his lips, blood on his knuckles like it was nothing. Like it belonged there.

Jeon Jungkook.

Black hoodie. Torn jeans. Tattoo ink peeking beneath his sleeve.

He looked up the moment your shadow crossed the corner, smoke curling from his lips like a threat or a prayer.

You froze.

“Lost, princess?” he asked, voice low and rough. Not mocking. Just… curious.

Your eyes dropped to his hand. Split knuckles. Dried red. The metallic scent of it caught in your nose.

“You’re bleeding,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Are you okay?”

His brows lifted slightly. “Didn’t think you were the type to care.”

“I’m not,” you lied. “It just looks infected.”

He smirked. “You saying I’m dirty?”

You shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

For a second, something flickered across his face — interest, maybe. Amusement.

You stepped closer, pulling a tiny hand sanitizer bottle from your bag, the kind your mom always forced you to carry. You also had tissues. Bandaids. You were always prepared. You were the good girl.

Jungkook didn’t move when you reached out. Just watched you. Smoke still curling between you both like some kind of fragile veil.

“This might sting,” you said, gently wiping at the blood. You didn’t know what shocked you more — the gash or the fact that he let you touch him without flinching.

“You always carry first-aid in your bag?” he asked, gaze fixed on you now.

“Only when I plan to run into street thugs,” you replied without looking up.

He chuckled. “Thug, huh?”

“If the shoe fits.”

The cigarette burned down between his fingers. He dropped it, crushing it under his boot.

Then his voice lowered.

“So… what are you doing behind a place like this, princess?”

“None of your business.”

“You know your shoes are way too clean to be standing in alleyway muck?”

You looked down. Your white sneakers were already speckled with dirt.

“Damn it,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Told you.”

You sighed. “This was a mistake.”

“You saying I was a mistake?”

You hesitated — not because you didn’t want to answer, but because something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter.

You glanced up at him, close enough now to see the golden rim around his irises. Close enough to smell the faintest hint of mint gum beneath the smoke. He was beautiful in the kind of way your mom warned you about. Dangerous in the kind of way that didn’t show up until it was too late.

“I didn’t say that either,” you whispered.

He leaned in just a little. Just enough. The space between you humming with something hot and electric.

Then suddenly, he stepped back.

The moment shattered like glass — quiet, but sharp.

“You should go, Y/N,” he said, voice unreadable now. “Places like this — people like me — we ruin girls like you.”

You blinked, startled.

“How do you know my name?”

He smiled — soft, but nothing sweet about it.

“I’ve always known your name.”

And with that, he turned, hoodie pulled over his head, disappearing around the corner.

You stood there for a full minute, sneakers planted, heart doing that stupid, wild thing in your chest.

And when you finally walked away, you didn’t realize it then, but something had already started.

Something you wouldn’t be able to stop.

—

It started with a note.

Folded once, slipped through the slats of your locker door. No name. Just messy, slanted handwriting that said:

Tonight. 9PM. That abandoned parking lot behind the arcade. Come if you want.

— JJK

You stared at it too long.

You knew what this was. Knew what he was.

Everything about Jungkook was heat and warning signs.

But something about him also felt like gravity.

So you went.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. That you’d just walk past.

But at 8:56, you were lacing your sneakers with shaking fingers.

At 9:03, you were standing in that cracked lot, heart thudding loud enough to hear.

He was already there.

Perched on the hood of a beat-up black car, hoodie half-zipped, chain glinting in the streetlight. Music played low from the radio — an old song, something lazy and slow, all drums and longing.

When he saw you, he smiled — not cocky, not smug.

Just… real.

“You came,” he said softly, hopping off the hood.

You folded your arms, nerves tingling. “Barely.”

“Thought you might be scared of me.”

You met his gaze. “Maybe I am.”

He looked at you like he could see through your skin. Like he liked that you were scared.

“Then why’d you show up, Bun?”

Your breath caught.

“Did you just call me—”

“It fits, doesn’t it?” he interrupted, stepping closer. “Cute. Soft. Too good for this kind of night.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when he was standing this close.

“Relax,” he added, stepping past you, popping open the passenger door. “Wasn’t planning to kill you or anything.”

“How reassuring.”

“You hungry?”

You blinked. “What?”

“There’s a 24/7 diner down by the highway. Best fries in town.”

You stared at him.

“You brought me out here to buy me fries?”

He smirked. “Wanted to see if you’d come. Guess I needed to know if I’d already started ruining you.”

Your heart thudded too hard in your chest. He said it like a joke, but it didn’t feel like one.

Still — you climbed into the passenger seat.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Maybe it was the way you felt seen — not like the good girl everyone assumed you were, but like someone who might want more.

More danger. More risk. More him.

The car ride was quiet. Not awkward — just easy. The hum of the engine, your knees almost touching, his fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm to a song you didn’t recognize.

At the diner, he ordered for both of you without asking. And somehow — you liked it. The confidence. The casualness. Like he already knew what you’d want.

You ended up laughing more than you expected. Sharing fries. Teasing each other over milkshake flavors. He had stories — reckless ones. Dumb ones. Sad ones. But all real.

It wasn’t until the food was gone and the lights started to dim that the shift happened.

You were sitting in the back of the car now. Windows cracked, night air cool against your skin. The radio played a slower song this time — something breathy and low.

Jungkook was stretched beside you, arm thrown across the backrest, head tilted toward you.

“You always this good at pretending?” he asked suddenly.

You frowned. “Pretending what?”

“That you’re fine.��

Your throat tightened. “I am fine.”

He didn’t call you out on the lie. Just let it hang there.

“I see you at school,” he said after a beat. “You’re always surrounded, always smiling. But it never touches your eyes.”

You looked away.

“Why do you care?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t. But I do.”

You turned back to him.

He was so close. His face half-shadowed, lips parted just slightly. He wasn’t touching you — not yet — but you could feel the static buzzing between you like a live wire.

“You scare me,” you whispered.

He leaned in, voice dark and velvet-smooth. “Good.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was want and heat and fire, like he’d been holding it back for far too long. His hand curled behind your neck, his other slipping around your waist, and the second your mouth parted beneath his, he made a sound — low and desperate — that made your whole body shiver.

You kissed him back. You weren’t supposed to, but you did. Clutching the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

When you finally broke apart, your breath came in short gasps.

“What are we doing?” you asked, voice shaking.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed your bottom lip, his eyes dark and serious.

“Falling,” he said. “Hard.”

—

You woke up to the smell of waffles.

And Jungkook — in your kitchen.

You blinked hard, still tangled in sleep and memories of his mouth on yours in the backseat of his car the night before. For a moment, you weren’t sure it was real.

Until he appeared in your doorway.

“Morning, Bun.”

His voice was low, raspy, warm.

You sat up in bed, heart lurching. “You stayed?”

He lifted two plates with one hand and a mug in the other, grinning. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“You broke in?”

“You gave me your spare key, remember? For emergencies. And I decided waking up without waffles was an emergency.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.

He placed the plate in front of you, then crawled onto your bed, sitting cross-legged across from you like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

The moment was quiet, filled with the soft clinks of cutlery and the occasional amused snort when he made a face at the syrup.

“Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly.

Your eyes flicked up. “Regret what?”

“Last night.”

You swallowed. “No.”

He looked at you for a long moment — the kind of look that peeled back layers without needing to ask more.

“I meant it, you know,” he said quietly. “About you not pretending with me.”

You looked down at your plate.

“Sometimes it’s easier,” you murmured.

His fingers brushed over yours — gentle, warm.

“You don’t have to be easy with me, Bun. You just have to be real.”

And somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

The first few months with Jungkook were magic.

He picked you up from school, leaning against his car like a scene out of a 90s movie. He left notes in your locker that ranged from sweet to downright filthy — always signed with a little bunny doodle.

He bought your favorite snacks before you even asked. Learned your music taste like a religion. Let you wear his rings, his hoodie, his scent like armor.

You fought — but in a playful way. The kind of bickering that ended in kisses. The kind of teasing that made your stomach flip.

He made you feel wanted. Chosen. Like no one had ever looked at you the way he did — like you were something wild and holy.

For a while, it was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

At first, it was little things. Him going quiet when you mentioned someone else texting you. The way his jaw ticked when you talked to certain classmates. His fingers tightening just a little too hard when someone looked at you too long in the hallway.

He never said anything. But it was in his eyes.

Possession. Fear. Want.

You didn’t mind. Not really.

Because truth be told, you kind of liked it.

No one had ever wanted you that fiercely before. It felt intoxicating — like being his meant you mattered in a way that was louder than the world.

But slowly, things shifted.

The fights weren’t playful anymore.

And the way he kissed you after? It started to feel like apology and punishment all at once.

—

Jungkook had been quiet the whole drive.

Not the usual kind of quiet either — not the one laced with teasing or smirking glances from the driver’s seat. This one sat cold between you both, stretched like a taut string.

You watched him from the corner of your eye as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles pale.

“You’re mad,” you said finally.

He didn’t look at you.

“I’m not.”

“Jungkook,” you pressed, voice low. “You haven’t said a single thing since lunch.”

He parked abruptly in your usual spot near the school lot and leaned back in the seat, hands gripping his jaw. Still silent.

You shifted in your seat to face him.

“Is it because I talked to Minjae?”

There it was — the spark. His eyes snapped to yours, something sharp and dangerous glinting just beneath the surface.

“You didn’t just talk, Bun. You laughed. You touched his arm. You let him stand that close to you.”

You blinked. “He asked for my notes.”

“He asked for an excuse to stare at your mouth while you smiled.”

You stared at him. “That’s insane.”

“Is it?” he bit out. “Because I’ve seen that look. I know what it means.”

You scoffed. “I was being nice. God, Jungkook — you really think I’d flirt with someone else? While you were right there?”

He looked at you then — not angry, but wounded. Like it physically hurt him to even think about it.

And then, softly: “I think I’m scared you’ll realize someone else is easier to love than me.”

The air left your lungs.

Your heart squeezed — because underneath the fight, there he was. The boy who left waffles on your pillow and made playlists for every mood you had. The one who kissed you like you were air and he was drowning.

You hated how much you still loved him in that moment.

You reached for his hand. “Jungkook—”

But he pulled it back.

“Do you even want this anymore?” he asked, eyes wild now. “Or are you just staying out of guilt because I give you everything and you feel too bad to leave?”

That cracked something open.

“Are you serious right now?” Your voice rose. “You think I don’t want you? That I’m staying because I pity you?”

“I don’t know, Y/N. Do you?”

You stared at him like he’d just punched you in the chest.

And then you laughed — bitter and broken. “You know what, maybe I do need space. Because this version of you? The one who twists everything good into something ugly? That’s not the boy I fell for.”

His jaw clenched. “So go.”

“I will.”

You flung the door open, stepping out with tears already blurring your vision. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not like this.

But before you could walk away, his voice stopped you.

“Bun—wait.”

You froze.

Silence stretched again, but this one felt different. Heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just— I see you with other people and I get scared you’ll realize I’m too much. That someone else could give you something easier, something cleaner.”

You turned back slowly, your eyes glassy but fierce.

“I never wanted easy, Jungkook. I wanted you. But if you keep pushing me away every time you get scared, you’re gonna lose me.”

He stepped forward, then cupped your face gently, almost hesitantly.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “Even when I’m angry, even when I’m a mess… I still want to be yours. I just don’t know how to stop ruining it.”

You rested your forehead against his, eyes closed.

“Then learn. Because I’m not going to keep reminding you that I chose you.”

He nodded slowly, and kissed you — this time like he was afraid it’d be the last time.

It wasn’t.

But it would be the first of many fights.

Fights that burned too hot.

Fights that always ended in his hands on your skin and your voice saying, “Okay, we’re okay now.”

And so the pattern began.

Love. Bruise. Apology. Repeat.

—

The door slammed behind you.

“I can’t with you sometimes,” you said, your voice sharp, trembling with the rage you’d been biting back the entire ride home.

Jungkook turned, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “Then don’t, Bun. No one’s forcing you to stay.”

The nickname fell like an insult tonight.

You dropped your bag to the floor, stepping forward. “You really wanna say that? After everything?”

“You think I don’t know the way you look at me lately? Like you’re already gone?”

Your chest rose with each breath. “I look at you like I’m tired, Jungkook. Like I’m exhausted trying to love someone who doesn’t know how to stop starting fires.”

He laughed bitterly. “Yeah? Maybe I start them so you won’t leave. Maybe I’d rather burn the house down with us in it than watch you walk away.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. “That’s not love.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “Isn’t it?”

A beat. You swallowed hard, pain rising in your throat. “You always go too far.”

“And you always stay.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated even more how much you wanted to stay.

“You’re not healthy for me,” you whispered, half a sob.

“And yet,” he murmured, stepping into you, “you keep coming back.”

Your chest brushed his. Thunder cracked somewhere above the city.

“You make me insane,” you said, tears brimming now.

“I am insane,” he growled. “About you.”

You slapped your hands against his chest, but he caught your wrists gently, held them there between you.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whispered, face tilting up.

“I know.”

His mouth was on yours before you could breathe.

It wasn’t soft.

It was fire and salt, fury and apology — all the things neither of you knew how to say out loud. Teeth clashed, hands gripped too tight, mouths moved like it was the last time. You shoved his jacket off. He tugged your shirt up. Breathless, desperate — like this would fix it.

Like this was the apology.

He lifted you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The coldness of the surface behind you grounded you for a moment — but only just.

“Tell me you hate me,” he whispered into your skin, voice shaking.

You moaned as he bit down on your collarbone, marking you like he always did. “I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Then why do you sound like this when I touch you?”

He dragged his hand down your body, slow and deliberate. You gasped, fingers in his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours.

“I hate you,” you breathed against his lips.

He kissed you harder. “Say it again.”

“I hate you,” you repeated, legs trembling.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild and completely wrecked.

“No, you don’t,” he said again. “You love me. Just like I fucking love you.”

That broke something in you. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you alive.

The rest was messy.

The couch, the floor, his bed — you don’t remember where it ended or began. Just mouths and sweat and gasps and his voice in your ear saying, “Mine. Mine. Only mine.”

And yours, whispering back, “Yours. I’m yours.”

It wasn’t perfect.

It never was.

But in the way he touched you, the way your bodies moved together like magnets too powerful to pull apart — you understood something unspoken.

This was love, too.

The kind that left marks.

The kind that felt like drowning and air all at once.

The kind you weren’t sure was good for you.

But it was yours.

And in his arms that night, wrecked and ruined, you let yourself believe that maybe… just maybe, love could survive like this.

—

The sunlight spilled gently through the curtains, painting soft gold across the rumpled sheets. You woke first, tangled in the warmth of Jungkook’s arms, his steady breath against your neck a soothing rhythm. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist — just the two of you, wrapped up in this fragile peace.

He stirred beside you, eyes fluttering open, a slow smile curving on his lips when he saw you.

“Morning, Bun,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

You smiled back, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Morning.”

Neither of you mentioned last night’s storm — the words unsaid hanging between you like an unspoken agreement. Instead, you moved with quiet tenderness, a soft dance of familiarity and comfort.

“Coffee?” he asked after a while, voice low.

“Yes, please,” you replied, your fingers tracing small circles on his arm.

He slipped out of bed with a careful grace, and soon the aroma of fresh coffee filled the apartment. When he returned, he handed you a steaming mug, and you caught his gaze, a question lingering there.

He smiled gently, as if to say ‘we’ll get there.’ And maybe you believed him.

In this stillness, this fragile morning, the fierce chaos of last night felt distant. But deep down, you knew the fire was never far — just waiting for the right moment to flare again.

For now, though, you held onto the quiet — the rare moments when love felt simple, even if just for a while.

—

The days after that morning slipped by like a fragile glass, beautiful but dangerously close to shattering. You and Jungkook tried to hold onto the tenderness, but the edges were rougher now — sharp words hidden beneath smiles, silences heavier than before.

One afternoon, you sat side by side on the couch, the TV murmuring in the background, but neither of you really watching. Your fingers nervously fiddled with the hem of your shirt while he stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

“Bun,” Jungkook’s voice broke the quiet, soft but tense. “I don’t want to fight like that again. Not with you.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes — vulnerability swimming there. “Me neither. But sometimes… it just happens. We’re both too stubborn.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your hand, a silent apology and plea. “I hate the distance. The space when you pull away.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “I’m scared sometimes. That love like ours can burn us both down.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “Maybe we need to learn how to breathe without setting fire to everything.”

You smiled, a small fragile hope. “Maybe.”

The moment held, quiet and tentative — the beginning of something new, or the pause before the storm.

—

It wasn’t a loud fight. No slammed doors or shouted accusations. Instead, it was the quiet unraveling — the small cracks that grew with each unspoken word and every hesitant glance.

You caught him watching you one evening, eyes heavy with something you couldn’t name. When you finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper, the dam broke.

“Why do we keep doing this, Koo? Fighting, breaking each other down, then pretending it’s okay?”

He looked away, jaw tight. “Because I can’t lose you. But sometimes, it feels like we’re tearing ourselves apart.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, frustration and love tangled in the same breath. “Then what are we even doing?”

He reached for you, pulling you close. “Holding on, even if it’s messy. Because I love you — more than I can explain.”

You leaned into him, your tears mingling with his whispered apologies. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

—

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a muted TV. You sat curled up on the bed, knees hugged close, while Jungkook paced slowly, his voice cracking as he tried to find the words.

“Bun, I’ve been holding this in for too long… I don’t want to just survive this—our fights, our mess—I want to be better. For you. For us.”

You looked up, heart pounding, as he finally stopped and sat beside you, hands trembling slightly.

“I’m scared. Scared I’ll lose you, scared I’m not enough when I’m not perfect. But maybe perfection isn’t what we need. Maybe we just need… honesty.”

You reached out, taking his hands in yours. “I love you, Koo. Not the perfect version, not the calm— I love the real you, the angry, the soft, the stubborn. Even when it hurts.”

He smiled through tears, pulling you into a fierce hug. “Then let’s stop hiding behind walls. Let’s tear them down — together.”

—

The air between you crackled with a dangerous energy, thick and suffocating. You could taste the bitterness on your tongue before you even opened your mouth.

“You think I’m the one ruining this?” you snapped, voice trembling with the storm inside. “Do you even hear yourself, Koo? You’re the only one I ever wanted, the only one who made me feel like I mattered. And now—now it’s all falling apart.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark with a mix of anger, guilt, and something rawer — desperation. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, trembling as if fighting the urge to either pull you close or push you away.

“You don’t get to say that,” he shot back, voice low but intense. “You don’t get to blame me for every scar, every tear, every night you cried yourself to sleep.”

“Because it’s true,” you whispered, stepping forward despite the chaos in your chest. “We’re breaking each other, Koo. But I’m still here. I’m still standing because of you, not because of you.”

His breath hitched. He reached out slowly, trembling fingers brushing your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw like he was trying to memorize you all over again. “I never wanted this — to be the storm that tears you apart.”

Your eyes stung, but you refused to back away. “Neither did I.”

A silence fell, thick and heavy. Then without warning, his lips were on yours — fierce, urgent, desperate. The kiss was a collision of anger and need, of regret and possession. His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

You kissed him back with equal fire, fingers digging into his hair, mouth trembling as the raw emotion poured between you. The world around you dissolved until there was nothing but the heat of his body, the taste of him, and the ache of everything you both had lost — and maybe, in this moment, everything you could still have.

But just as quickly, the storm turned.

His hand cracked sharply against your cheek.

Shock exploded through you like lightning. You stumbled back, hand flying to your burning skin, eyes wide with hurt and disbelief.

“Jungkook…” you whispered, voice breaking.

His face twisted with immediate regret, but also something darker, more chaotic. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m so sorry, Bun. I never meant to—”

“You can’t hurt me like this,” you said fiercely, stepping forward again, trembling but unyielding. “Not like this. Not ever.”

His hands shook as he caught yours, holding them as if they might shatter. “I’m ruined, Y/N. I’m the one who’s broken, not you. You deserve so much better than me.”

You shook your head, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “No. We’re both ruined. Together.”

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling, hearts pounding a jagged rhythm. “I hate that I’m the cause of your pain.”

“You’re the cause of my hope, too,” you whispered. “Don’t forget that.”

He pulled you into a fragile, trembling embrace — holding you like you might vanish if he let go.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You were tangled in the wreckage of your love, raw and exposed, but unwilling to let go.

“I can’t leave,” you confessed softly.

“Neither can I,” he breathed.

And in that heavy silence, broken only by your shared breaths, you both understood something painful and true: love this fierce was never gentle, never easy.

His fingers tangled in your hair as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his voice barely more than a broken whisper.

“Maybe we’re fire and gasoline — meant to burn, not to save.”

You swallowed the ache in your chest and met his gaze, steady and aching.

“But even if we burn, Koo… I’d rather go up in flames with you than live without the heat of us.”

He smiled, a shadow of both pain and longing.

“Then let’s burn together. Let the world watch us fall — but never forget how brightly we shone.”

Your breath caught, heart pounding as the last embers of doubt flickered away.

“Because in this chaos, in this madness… we found something no one else ever will.”

His lips brushed yours one last time — a kiss that tasted like forever, fierce and fragile.

“And that,” he said softly, “is love.”

a/n DISCLAIMER : this was kind of rushed but nevertheless I do hope you guys loveeee this. I’m going through a similar situation right now and I just want to let you guys know, if this is what your relationship looks like, please leave my love. You deserve way better and you deserve to be loved without breaking and falling apart. THIS IS NOT LOVE. I repeat. THIS IS NOT LOVE. it’s obsession. It’s attraction. It’s dangerous. Please allow yourself to be free and actually learn what love feels like because everybody DOES deserve to be loved. You’re not alone. This is a topic that speaks heavily to me so I do hope you guys enjoyed reading this draft and learn from it. Mwah mwah xx

[leatherbookmark]

"I know why you want to return to our world, Meggie! You just miss your boyfriend! But we haven't seen everything of this beautiful world yet!" Mr Mortimer sir your wife was enslaved for working as a scribe disguised as a man. In this world women are punished for learning their fathers' craft and your thirteen years old daughter would be already married if she was born in this world. I know the books are very pretty but Mo your wife is pregnant. I don't think they have c-sections here :(

[ominouspositivity-or-else]

every time one of my coworkers opens her mouth about something nice her fiance did for her my standards for men go up

[jaylaxies]

LO$ER LOVER | PSH

pairing: loser!sunghoon x roommate fem!reader

wc: 1110 words.

warning: 18+ content, minors dni! loser hoon headcanons, gooner hoon, mentions of him being a pervert.

a/n: hihii! this is honestly js filth! requested by anonnie <3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated <3

loser!sunghoon who blushes furiously each time you walk into the kitchen in your skimpy tank top with no bra, averting his gaze before he gets hard at the mere glimpse of the outline of your body—perfectly sculpted just for him. 

loser!sunghoon who starts gooning by accident. it begins with your insta, then your videos/tiktoks, then a few of your pics he saves to a secret folder—the pictures he took without you noticing. then it spirals as he opens porn, saved videos consisting of the girls who resemble you in some way. he edges for hours while listening to your laugh through the wall, and doesn’t even realize it’s three in the morning already.

loser!sunghoon who recorded your moans through the wall one night, and now? he keeps them on loop while gooning. eyes glassy, tongue out like a puppy. he doesn’t even touch himself anymore—just rubs your used panties on his face while humping the bed, whispering “thank you, ugh, i love you so much, i love you, i—” like he’s praying for you to listen to him. 

loser!sunghoon who starts stuffing his underwear with your used panties when he goes to bed. can’t sleep without them anymore, the scent of your pussy on his cock, the soft lace clinging desperately to his skin—he wakes up rutting into them, making these helpless little gasps like a fucking dog in heat. he doesn’t stop, just buries his face in your used clothes, tears streaming as he goons through the shame. “fuck, i wanna live in her cunt,” he mumbled, “wanna be her toy, her cumrag, her fucking pet—please, god please.”

loser!sunghoon who loses the ability to cum without you. he tries, oh he really fucking tries to finish one night with just cheap porn, and nothing happens. he panics, gasping and opens your selfies. he plays that recording of your moans and starts drooling instantly, exploding the very next second with a choked whimper, body twitching, cum splattering across his keyboard. he doesn’t even clean it up. just lets it dry while he thanks you out loud for letting him be lewd each passing day. 

loser!sunghoon who needs your approval like he needs air. he tries on outfits, fixes his hair, practices his laugh in hopes you’ll look at him for more than three seconds. and when you do? when you say, “you look cute today, hoonie,” he goes stiff, hard instantly, and smiles through the ache in his cock like he’s not going to fall apart in the shower later.

loser!sunghoon who starts showing off how ruined he is, walking around shirtless when he knows he has hickeys he gave himself. leaves his door slightly open while moaning your name into your hoodie. he wants you to catch him, wants you to walk in and say, “fucking hell? you’re disgusting.” and wants to say “i know,” while making a mess on the floor.

loser!sunghoon who loves movie nights because you always let him cuddle you, he acts like it’s innocent, just a shy, affectionate roomie thing to do, gasping at the jump scares, squeezing your waist, but every time you shift, your tits press against his arm, and when you finally doze off, head on his chest, he slowly moves his hand down to your bare thigh, just resting it there, biting his lip, humping your blanket gently to not wake you up, sniffing your scent to practically cum untouched. 

loser!sunghoon who gets bold enough to “accidentally” walk in while you’re changing, and he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not looking, his glasses are slipping, his mouth is open as he gasps, and he stares at your tits like he’s seen god.“s—sorry! sorry i, oh fuck—” he stumbles out of the room, nearly tripping, and finishes in the hallway seconds later, cum soaking through his boxers while he pants, “i saw her—i fucking saw how pretty she is.”

loser!sunghoon who fakes being sick just to sleep beside you, eyes watery and cheeks flushed from running hot water over his face, practically torturing himself for pleasure—he sniffles and clutches his blanket like he’s the most fragile being ever, moaning softly when you touch his forehead, and nearly cums when you whisper, “you poor baby,” before tucking him into your bed again and staying with him. 

loser!sunghoon who has to set goon timers otherwise he’ll spend hours and hours edging to your photos—his phone blaring alarms while he’s red and flushed, half-naked, sobbing over his laptop with your sweet videos paused at the perfect frame, whimpering, “just one more hour, just one more, gosh please, i’ll be s—so good.”

loser!sunghoon who starts using your body like his fucking altar when you’re asleep, or so he thinks, but you know how much of a perverted loser he is—sucking gently on your nipple under the covers, whimpering against it with glassy eyes, humping the mattress in tiny movements while crying, “i love you—i love you, i’m sorry, i can’t stop—please don’t wake up.” he mumbles and you let him do it, because you’re just as depraved. 

loser!sunghoon who confesses when thinks you’re asleep. you’re curled up on his bed again, still wearing next your oversized shirt, and you accidentally shift in your sleep and grind your ass against his crotch, and he moans. he starts whispering as his voice cracks, “i’m sorry—i can’t stop thinking about you! i dream about your pussy every night, i touched your panties—i came in them—i came from your smell—” his hands are shaking, his cock is harder than ever, and he’s not even trying to grind on you anymore—he’s just so desperate he can’t hold it in, not knowing that you’re awake and listening, “hoonie?” you ask, and he starts crying like a baby. 

loser!sunghoon who sobs into your chest after getting caught, his hands clutching your waist like you’re going to vanish, stuttering out, “i didn’t mean to—i’m so fucked up, i just—i love you, i love your body, i would die for you,” and when you pull his head down to your tits and whisper, chuckling, “oh baby, i know,” he whimpers so hard his whole body shakes.

loser!sunghoon who cums untouched just from simple the act of licking you, too ruined to even last, spilling all over himself while you stroke his hair and tell him he’s such a good puppy for eating you out so fucking well—he keeps crying, shaking between your legs, but doesn’t stop licking, doesn’t even flinch, just shakes through the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had, and keeps on worshipping you. 

perm taglist:

@jaeminvore @macaroonff @ajayke-reads @en-myworld @lunalovesstories @jayzdaze @deobitifull @celeste-hoon @mari-oclock @kpoprhia @ikeuizm @woniebae @lalalalawon @blessedcursd @skzenhalove @heesuncore @seuomo @kyurizeu @haechan-nahceah @tobiosbbyghorl @jezzebear @jaehoonii @itsgivingitalian @bunhoons @hyacandoit @luvswonyoung @ma-riiii @addictedtohobi @heeliopheelia @haanigurl @dopedels @kaykay11sworld @glitterjay @skzooluvr @yongbokified @prkhaven @kristynaaah @tinycatharsis @filmnings @mwahvvis @hoonprksung @mintchocoddeonut @lezleeferguson-120 @s0shroe @onlyticket-home @meowieshibal

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[shy9-29]

ONE NIGHT STAND ⟡ psh

professer sunghoon x collage student ୨ৎ

⟡ synopsis: You let a stranger ruin you one night — then he turned out to be your professor. Now every class feels like foreplay. ✉️ wc. 10350 ⚠️ tw smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies), professor/student relationship, one night stand, fingering, oral (m. receiving), spanking, dirty talk, handjob, overstimulation, spit kink, possessiveness, jealousy, public teasing, rough sex, aftercare, slight angst, emotional manipulation, implied age gap, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use (basically just porn)

genre. smut, (mdni!) romance, drama, angst, forbidden love, slow burn, erotica, university au, power dynamics, emotional tension, secret relationship, student/professor romance

It’s your last night of summer. Tomorrow, you move into your dorm, trade your parents’ house for a tiny twin bed and a stack of syllabi. So tonight — just for tonight — you want to forget about responsibility. About expectations. About the version of yourself you’re supposed to become.

The club is loud and packed, the bass from the speakers deep enough to rattle in your chest. Lights flash red and purple overhead, casting shadows that move across the crowd like ghosts. Bella clutches your wrist, pulling you deeper into the sea of people with a giggle.

“You’re not allowed to be shy tonight,” she shouts over the music, leaning close so you can hear her. “It’s your last night of freedom. Go flirt with someone. Get drunk. Maybe get laid.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. She’s already halfway to drunk, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks proof of that. But she’s right. You didn’t dress like this to be a wallflower. You came out in a tight black dress that hugs your curves just right, your makeup smoky and bold, your legs aching slightly from the heels you swore you wouldn’t wear and did anyway.

You make your way to the bar to order something — anything — that’ll warm your throat and lower your inhibitions just a little. That’s when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the crowd, but you already know exactly where it’s coming from.

He’s sitting at the bar alone. A half-finished whiskey glass in front of him, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. His hair is dark and parted just enough to fall over one brow. Clean-cut, but not preppy. Dressed in all black — a simple shirt, watch glinting at his wrist, rings on two fingers. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze?

Intense.

You don’t know how long he’s been looking at you, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t wink. Just watches. Calm. Curious. Like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart skips a beat.

You look away first, pretending to fidget with your phone as you wait for the bartender. But your pulse is racing, and you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Vodka soda,” you say when the bartender finally notices you. Your voice is slightly unsteady, and it annoys you.

You don’t look back until the drink’s in your hand — and when you do, he’s still watching. But this time, he’s moving.

Straight toward you.

You freeze. Instinctively fix your hair. Sip your drink too fast. Then he’s there, standing beside you at the bar like he’s been invited.

“First drink of the night?” he asks, voice smooth as silk, low enough that you have to lean in to hear him.

You glance up at him — and now that he’s close, you can really see him. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes so dark you’re not sure where iris ends and pupil begins.

You try to play it cool. “Second.”

He nods once. “Good. First would’ve meant I was a little early. Second means I’m right on time.”

You raise a brow, trying not to let your smile show. “For what?”

He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest whiff of cologne — warm, musky, expensive. “For meeting you.”

The line should be cheesy. It should make you roll your eyes. But it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he actually means it. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes like he’s cataloging the way your mouth moves when you smile.

You take another sip of your drink. “Do you always hit on girls at bars?”

“Not always,” he says, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who can’t stop looking back.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. He saw that?

Before you can come up with a response, he extends his hand. “Sunghoon.”

You hesitate — just a second — before slipping your hand into his. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Warm. Steady.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you like he’s tasting it.

And then he leans in again. “Let me buy you your third drink.”

You’re not drunk — not really — but there’s a buzz in your blood, a warmth that runs deeper than alcohol. It’s in the way Sunghoon keeps watching you, the way his eyes drop to your lips every time you speak. His voice is steady, smooth, but there’s something beneath it — a restraint. Like he’s holding himself back.

You talk. About nothing, mostly. Music, favorite cities, late-night cravings. You learn he’s a little older, but he doesn’t say exactly how much. You don’t ask. You don’t want to ruin the spell by making it real.

At some point, you end up on the dance floor. You didn’t plan to — you never really dance — but he takes your hand without asking, and suddenly you’re there, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies and heat.

He doesn’t keep his distance. One hand finds your waist. The other drifts low, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress. He moves slow, but deliberate — his chest against your back, his lips ghosting near your ear.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You laugh — breathless. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t usually do this either.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

He leans in. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your cheek, then finally — your lips.

It starts soft. Testing. His hand slides around your hip, pulling you closer, and then he kisses you deeper — fuller — like he’s been waiting all night for it. You don’t even realize your fingers have curled into his shirt until he pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours.

“My place is five minutes from here,” he says. “Say the word.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want it — but because you want it too much.

“let’s go,” you whisper.

The ride to his place is a blur — fast, silent, electric. He doesn’t touch you in the car, but his knee brushes yours, and it feels more intimate than anything else so far.

His apartment is clean. Minimalist. Expensive-looking. You barely notice any of it.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face as he kisses you again, harder this time. Hungrier. He backs you against the door, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers slide into his hair. His hands drop to your hips, then lower — gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly.

You gasp against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, walking you through the apartment until you’re in his bedroom.

He drops you gently onto the bed, standing over you for a second. His chest rises and falls with every breath. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room — like he’s starving and you’re the meal.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Please.”

He smirks — just a little. “Take off your dress for me.”

Your breath catches. But you do it — slowly, fingers slipping beneath the straps and easing it down your body.

Sunghoon watches the whole time, not blinking.

You’re left in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties. You start to reach behind to unhook it, but he stops you.

“Let me.”

He steps forward, kneeling onto the bed between your legs. His fingers find the clasp, and the bra falls away. His eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss between your breasts. His hands trail up your sides, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, mouth dragging lower, tongue flicking across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your back arches, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

His hand moves between your thighs, fingers tracing over your panties. You’re soaked.

“You want my fingers?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You nod — desperate now.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He pushes your panties aside and runs two fingers along your slit, groaning at how wet you are. Then he slides one finger in — slow, deep — and your body trembles.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re tight.”

He adds another, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

Your hips start to move with his rhythm, grinding against his hand.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly. “I want to see you do it.”

You hesitate, flushed, but obey — hand slipping between your legs to rub slow, needy circles over your clit while he pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy.

The sounds — wet, messy, obscene — echo in the quiet room.

You’re close. So close.

“Come for me,” he says, lips against your ear. “Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

And you do.

You’re still catching your breath when Sunghoon pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt, glistening with your orgasm. He brings them to his mouth, lips curling around them without breaking eye contact.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmurs. “Could eat you for hours. But right now…”

His voice trails off as he sits back on his heels, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest is toned, lean muscle carved beneath smooth skin. His belt comes next, then his zipper—

And when he pushes his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

Holy. Shit.

He’s big. Thick. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and flushed, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You stare, stunned for a second, and he notices.

His mouth curves into a dark smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on his length. “No. Just…” Your voice trails off, and you bite your lip. “Big.”

He groans softly, palming the base of his cock. “Come here, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

You crawl toward him, sinking to your knees at the edge of the bed. He stays standing, hand stroking his cock slowly as you settle in front of him.

“Spit on it,” he says, voice rough. “Then use your tongue.”

You obey. Spitting into your palm first, you rub the wetness over the head of his cock, then down the shaft. He hisses under his breath, hips twitching.

Then you lean forward and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair. “Such a good slut.”

You wrap your lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head before sinking lower. He’s thick — you can barely fit him in your mouth — but you try, inch by inch, letting your saliva drip down to make it easier.

Sunghoon groans, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck, just like that. You look so fucking good on your knees.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. You bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can’t fit, drool running down your chin.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice like gravel. “Eyes on me while you suck my cock.”

You lift your gaze, lashes wet, cheeks hollowing around his length. He growls.

“God, that mouth. I could fuck your throat all night.”

He starts to guide your head, setting a rhythm — slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Your throat tightens around him, but you don’t pull away.

“You like this?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Like choking on my cock like a desperate little slut?”

You moan again, louder this time, and he groans — head falling back for a second before he looks down at you again.

“Bet your pussy’s still dripping,” he says. “Bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you until you forget your name.”

You whimper, sucking harder, desperate for his praise — for more of that filth spilling from his lips.

Then suddenly, he pulls back. His cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop, and you blink up at him, confused.

“On your hands and knees,” he says. “Now.”

You scramble onto the bed, body aching for more, cunt still pulsing from your earlier orgasm.

Sunghoon climbs behind you, running a hand down your back, then up again — slow, possessive.

Then—smack.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, the sting sharp and sudden.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he squeezes where he just spanked.

“No,” you whisper. “Do it again.”

He groans. “Fuck, you really are perfect.”

Smack. Again — harder this time. Then he soothes the spot with his palm, leaning down to murmur against your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathes. “Stretch this tight little pussy open with my cock, fuck you so good you’ll still be shaking in your dorm tomorrow.”

You moan — loud, desperate — pushing your hips back against him.

“Please, Sunghoon,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

His voice is a low growl. “Beg prettier than that.”

You shudder. “Please. Want you to fuck me. Want your cock, please—”

He growls again — deep, raw — and grabs your hips, lining himself up.

You feel the head of his cock slide through your folds — slow, teasing — dragging against your already-sensitive clit before he lines up at your entrance. He pauses, both hands gripping your hips.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m not small, remember?”

You barely have time to nod before he pushes in.

Your gasp is instant. He’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, and the burn is sharp in the best way — the kind that makes your back arch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. He goes slow at first, letting you feel every inch, and your body clenches tight around him, trying to adjust.

“Shit,” Sunghoon groans, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight—trying to suck me in.”

He bottoms out with one final thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, gripping the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

“N-no,” you stammer. “Just—so full.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right by your ear. “You can take it. And you will.”

Then he pulls back — just the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make you moan. He starts moving, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with smooth, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the filthy wet noises coming from between your legs and your own desperate moans.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is bruising. He fucks you like he owns you, like you’re his toy and no one else’s. He leans back just enough to admire the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Taking all of me like a good little slut. You were made for this cock.”

You whimper, trembling, already close again — the stretch, the pressure, the filthy words all pushing you toward the edge.

“You gonna come again?” he asks, breathless. “Already?”

You nod, too far gone to answer properly.

He slaps your ass again — smack. “Say it. I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, Sunghoon—fuck, please let me.”

He growls, pounding into you faster. “Come for me. Now.”

You break.

Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, clenching around him like a vice, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking you through it, unrelenting, merciless. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the mattress, trembling and whimpering.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Oh, we’re not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back. He grabs your legs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up again.

“Want to see your face this time,” he murmurs. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

Then he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, making you cry out. Your body is already too sensitive, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he likes how overstimulated you are.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How your pussy’s still squeezing me like it never wants to let go?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Too much—fuck—it’s so much.”

“But you’re taking it,” he says. “Taking it so well.”

He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. Every thrust hits deep, the angle perfect, and your legs start to shake.

“I can’t—” you choke out. “Gonna come again—”

He grabs your throat — not hard, just enough to hold you in place. His other hand finds your clit, fingers rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. You’re gonna soak my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shatter.

The third orgasm hits you like lightning — hot, electric, impossible. Your vision blurs, body writhing beneath him, voice cracking into a broken moan as your pussy clenches around him like a vice.

But he still doesn’t stop.

Sunghoon fucks you through it, hips slamming into yours, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Wanna come all over this tight fucking pussy. You want that, baby?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Where?” he grits out. “Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Please—come inside me.”

His eyes darken.

He slams into you one more time and groans deep in his chest as he spills inside you — hot, thick, and endless. You can feel it, the way he pulses inside your overstimulated cunt, and it makes you moan all over again.

He stays there for a moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling. Then he leans down and kisses you — slow and deep, like he’s trying to remind you that he can be gentle, too.

When he finally pulls out, your thighs are sticky, trembling. You’re completely wrecked — legs spread, sheets soaked, lips swollen, hair a mess. And Sunghoon just looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face.

You nod, exhausted. “That was… insane.”

You wake up sore.

Between your legs, mostly. Every shift of your thighs reminds you exactly what happened last night — the ache, the stretch, the way he didn’t stop even after your legs were shaking. You wince a little as you turn over.

The bed beside you is empty.

Sheets crumpled, slightly warm, but no Sunghoon.

You sit up slowly, the duvet slipping down your bare chest, blinking against the morning light that filters in through half-open blinds. The room’s unfamiliar. Sleek. A little too neat to feel lived in.

Strange. Isn’t this his place?

Your clothes are scattered across the floor, but none of his are. No signs of a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. No jackets hanging by the door. No photos. No clutter.

Airbnb, maybe. Just a place he rented for the weekend.

You frown as you rub a hand over your eyes. Your head is foggy, still wrapped in the lingering haze of alcohol and sex. You try to piece together last night — the way he looked at you at the party, the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and then… it’s all just heat and noise and black.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You sigh. Hard.

Your phone’s nearly dead, and the time glares back at you: 11:02 AM.

Classes start tomorrow. Perfect.

No note. No message. Not even a name.

You don’t even know his last name.

You pull your dress on — wrinkled and inside-out — and shove your heels into your bag. You call an Uber before you’ve even finished brushing your hair with your fingers.

The car is quiet. You don’t talk.

You lean your forehead against the window, eyes half-lidded, sore and still a little hungover, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

One night stand. That’s what it was. Nothing more.

Still… you can’t help thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he—

You shake your head.

It was one night. You’ll never see him again.

Tomorrow, university starts. Time to focus on new things.

You have no idea what’s coming.

You’re late.

Of course you’re late.

Your phone had died overnight, and you’d barely dragged yourself out of bed in time to throw on the cleanest outfit you could find and rush across campus with half-brushed hair and your coffee still in a to-go cup. Your legs are still sore, your thighs brushing uncomfortably with every step, and you haven’t stopped thinking about last night.

Or him.

The guy you let wreck you in a stranger’s bed. The guy who disappeared before morning. The guy you’ll never see again.

Right?

You shove open the door to the lecture hall, breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble as you slip inside, your voice echoing faintly. The place is massive — a hundred seats, maybe more — and every single one of them is already filled with someone more punctual and better-rested than you.

You find a seat near the middle, head ducked, ignoring the stares as you slide your bag off your shoulder and collapse into the chair. You’re still trying to catch your breath, sipping your lukewarm coffee, when a voice carries from the front of the room.

“Glad you could finally join us.”

Your stomach twists.

That voice—

No way.

You blink.

Then slowly — so slowly — you look up.

And your heart stops.

There he is.

At the front of the room, standing beside the projector screen with a laptop open on the podium, is him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

Sunghoon.

Your one-night stand.

Your mystery man.

Your professor.

You blink again, hoping you’re hallucinating. That you’re still in bed. That you’re still dreaming.

But he just stares back at you — a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so fast and so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d miss it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

He just says, cool and calm, “As I was saying — welcome to Modern Media Theory. I’m Professor Park. This semester, I expect you to show up on time, be prepared, and keep your personal lives out of my classroom.”

You go still.

The air in your lungs vanishes. Your cheeks burn.

He didn’t just fuck you.

He’s your professor.

And he’s pretending nothing happened.

You don’t hear a single word of the lecture.

Not a single one.

Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time — on Professor Park — trying to reconcile the man in front of the class with the man who had you bent over a bed less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s even more handsome when you’re sober. Clean lines. Sharp cheekbones. That same deep voice, now filled with authority instead of filth. It should be illegal to look that good in front of a classroom.

And the worst part? He acts like you’re no one.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of amusement or recognition. Nothing.

You spend the next ninety minutes trying not to squirm in your seat — from nerves, from heat, from the dull ache still between your thighs. His voice carries over the room in calm, measured tones, talking about frameworks and theory and authors you can’t even remember, because all you can think about is his hand gripping your throat, his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ear telling you to beg for it.

By the time class ends, you’re practically vibrating with frustration. The students file out one by one, chatting, oblivious, until finally the room is empty — except for you.

And him.

You wait until he’s closed his laptop before standing.

He doesn’t look up. “Class is dismissed.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “I got that.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting yours. The coolness in them is surgical. Detached.

You swallow. “So… you’re a professor.” He doesn’t react. “Looks that way.” Your heart pounds. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning last night?” Sunghoon tilts his head, finally closing the distance with his eyes, not his body. “You didn’t ask.”

You laugh — sharp, disbelieving. “Seriously?” He slides his laptop into his bag. Calm. Controlled. Like this is nothing to him. You take a step closer. “You just left. No note. No text. You didn’t even tell me your last name, and now I find out you’re standing at the front of my class like nothing happened?”

He sighs — not guilty, not even annoyed. Just tired.

“Look,” he says. “Last night was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

“A mistake,” you repeat, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then finally — finally — meets your gaze with something resembling emotion. But it’s not warmth. It’s not regret. It’s caution. “You didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. But now we do. And nothing else happens. Understood?” You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Sunghoon—”

“Professor Park,” he corrects, firm. “From now on, in this room, on this campus — you will refer to me as Professor Park. You will not speak of last night. And you will not treat me like anything other than your professor.”

Your throat tightens. “So that’s all I was to you?” His jaw flexes. Just once. “I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he says. “I’m here to teach.” He moves to leave, but you step in his path.

“One night,” you say quietly. “That’s all it meant to you?” He pauses. Doesn’t look at you. Then—

“Yes.”

And then he walks past you, out the door, gone before you can even breathe out the response stuck in your throat.

You’re alone. In your first lecture hall. On your first day. Still sore. Still remembering. Still burning. And now you can’t stop thinking about him. Not because he touched you. But because now, he won’t.

You practically collapse into your dorm room chair.

The walk back from class did nothing to calm you down — not with your thoughts spinning and your thighs still sore. You’re halfway through Googling Is it illegal to hook up with your professor if you didn’t know he was your professor when the door swings open and Lily walks in, dropping her tote bag with a sigh.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall asleep in the middle of class like I almost did,” she groans.

You shake your head. “No. I… had Modern Media Theory.”

Lily perks up instantly, eyes wide. “Wait—wait—don’t tell me you got Professor Park?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “You got Park? Are you serious?”

You just blink at her, unsure how to answer.

Lily throws herself onto your bed dramatically. “Oh my God. Half the campus is obsessed with that man. Like, seriously. Even the guys think he’s hot.”

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re still trying to figure out if this is hilarious or humiliating.

“And people say,” she lowers her voice like she’s sharing top-tier gossip, “he’s huge.”

You sip your water slowly, hiding the way your breath catches. Yeah. You wouldn’t need rumors to confirm that. You still feel it.

You try to play it cool. “Huge how?”

Lily looks scandalized. “Y/N. Please. You know how.”

You choke on your water, coughing as Lily bursts out laughing. “Seriously! That man has big dick energy like—actual BDE. Someone in second-year swore he stretched her friend so bad she couldn’t sit for two days.”

You look down at your lap. Yep. Sounds familiar.

“Didn’t know the media department had this kind of drama,” you mutter.

Before Lily can reply, Kitty walks in with a protein shake and zero chill.

“Wait, are we talking about Professor Park?”

Lily lights up. “Y/N has him!”

Kitty gasps. “No way. The hot one?”

Y/N stays silent. Kitty throws herself into the chair across from you.

“I heard he’s really good in bed,” Kitty says casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Like, life-changing. My cousin said her roommate slept with him at some faculty party or something—pre-semester—and she still can’t shut up about it.”

Your jaw clenches.

Yeah. He is.

Too good. Too cocky. Too unforgettable.

You cross your legs without thinking — a weak attempt to soothe the ghost of last night’s ache still pulsing between your thighs.

“Anyway,” Kitty says, oblivious, “you’re lucky. Most profs are ancient or weird. If I had Park as my first Monday lecture, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Lily grins. “I wouldn’t even miss a class. Ever.”

You force a tight smile. “Right.”

They move on to some other topic — campus events, party rumors, who hooked up with who — but you barely hear it.

Your mind’s still stuck on his voice. His hands. The way he called you a good little slutand then looked right through you the next day like none of it mattered.

Your friends think he’s a fantasy. You know he’s a mistake. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. Still sore. Still remembering. Still wanting more.

“Y/N… can we talk?”

His voice is low, almost gentle. You turn around and he’s standing there — in the doorway of your dorm, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You don’t say anything.

Sunghoon steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so cold. Yesterday.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You want to be mad — you should be mad — but all you can do is stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his voice dips when he talks to you, like you’re the only one in the world who can hear him.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.”

He’s inches away now. You can feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne — clean, warm, familiar. He reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your wrist, trailing up your arm like he’s checking if he’s allowed to touch you again.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “About that night.”

Your heart pounds. His touch burns.

“I wanted to forget,” he admits, voice rough. “But I can’t.” Your back hits the wall. He cages you in without touching you — one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just inches from your waist. His breath fans over your skin.

“I still remember how you sound,” he whispers. “How you taste. How your body felt under mine.” You shiver. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. “I should stay away,” he breathes. “But I don’t want to.” His lips are so close. His mouth hovers over yours, not touching, not yet — just letting the moment drag out, all heat and tension and want. You reach for him first.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him, slow and desperate, hands grabbing at each other like you’ve both been starved. His body presses against yours and you feel it immediately — hard, hot, eager. Just like before.

He lifts you easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, and you tug his shirt up, frantic.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.” Your hips grind against his, and he groans again, rutting forward like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna take my time with you this time,” he says against your skin. “Gonna fuck you slow… make you cry for it…” He lays you down, starts kissing down your body, eyes dark with hunger. You moan his name.

“Sunghoon…”

But then—You wake up.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs, your body damp with sweat, and your hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of your tank top like you were reaching for something. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. You stare at the ceiling.

He wasn’t here. He didn’t say anything. It was just a dream. And now you’re even worse off than before.

You don’t say anything the next time you walk into class.

But you don’t have to.

Your skirt is shorter than usual — just enough to ride up when you sit down — and your legs are crossed deliberately, slowly, as you ease into your seat near the front. No tights. No leggings. Just skin and confidence.

You feel his eyes on you the second you walk in.

He doesn’t look at you directly — of course not. He’s smarter than that. But you can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers hesitate on the mouse before clicking to the next slide. The way his throat bobs when you shift in your seat and uncross your legs, only to cross them again.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing worth watching.

Sunghoon keeps talking.

But now, there’s a pause between his sentences. A slight rasp in his voice. A subtle glance in your direction every few slides, never lingering too long — just enough for you to catch it.

You smile.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

You’re just a student in his class. Listening. Participating. Sitting there in a skirt that barely brushes your thighs, biting your lip every time he says something remotely commanding.

“Pay attention,” he says at one point, when a group in the back is whispering.

You straighten in your seat, lifting your eyes slowly.

“I am, Professor,” you say, soft and sweet.

His eyes flicker.

You don’t miss the way his grip on the podium tightens.

By the end of class, you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His sentences get shorter. His lecture speeds up. His eyes don’t meet yours again.

When the students begin to pack up, you move slower than the rest. You lean forward, elbows on the desk, letting your skirt ride up even higher as you adjust your bag. You can feel his stare this time — heavy, hot, lingering.

You don’t look at him. Not until the last of the students file out and the door swings shut behind them.

Then — and only then — you turn your head, lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I liked today’s lecture,” you say, casual.

He exhales slowly, not moving from behind the desk.

“Did you.”

You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder, stepping just close enough that the air between you feels like a challenge.

“I liked the way you said my name during attendance,” you murmur. “You sounded… tense.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You think this is a game?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t move, but the heat in his stare makes your skin prickle. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take a step back toward the door, still smiling.

“Then burn me.”

And just like that — you’re gone.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way down the hallway.

You don’t expect him to follow you.

You think he’ll stay behind like always — composed, in control, untouched by the things you do just to watch him flinch.

But the second you turn the corner into the empty hallway, you hear it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Determined.

Before you can fully register it, a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back — hard. You gasp as your back hits the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Sunghoon towers over you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You blink up at him, playing dumb. “Walking.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play games with me.”

You tilt your head, letting your skirt shift just slightly higher as you shift your weight against the wall. “You’re the one who said it was nothing, remember? One night. A mistake.”

His jaw tightens. His hands are still gripping your wrists — not hard, but firm enough to make your pulse stutter. His body is so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, caging you in.

“You wore that on purpose,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your legs.

“Wore what?” you ask sweetly.

He scoffs, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed? The skirts, the looks, the way you sit front row with your legs wide open like you want me to do something about it.”

You stay silent — because he’s not wrong.

Sunghoon leans in closer, voice like a growl in your ear. “You want to get fucked over a desk, is that it?”

Your breath catches.

“You want your professor to lose control,” he continues, his mouth just shy of touching your neck, “to bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly how good it felt to be ruined by me.”

You’re shaking now — but not from fear.

From how badly you want him to do it.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then do it.”

He freezes.

You swear you see the moment something in him breaks.

Sunghoon grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no pretending this is still something he can control. It’s heat and teeth and frustration, his tongue sliding over yours with a groan like he’s been holding this in for too long.

You gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your mouth.

“But you are,” you whisper, tugging his hair, grinding down on him.

And fuck, he’s already hard — painfully hard, pressing against you like he’s seconds from snapping all over again.

“I tried to forget you,” he breathes, dragging your skirt up.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Neither did I.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more desperate now — hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your panties to the side like he can’t even wait to undress you.

“You think teasing me was a good idea?” he growls. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you act like a little slut in my class?”

You moan. “Then teach me a lesson, Professor.”

His eyes burn.

“Oh, I will.”

Sunghoon doesn’t take you to his office.

He doesn’t even bother finding a classroom.

He kicks open the door to the nearest supply closet — small, dark, barely wide enough for the both of you — and presses you against the wall before it even shuts behind you. His mouth is back on yours, rough and hungry, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips.

You obey, chest heaving as your hands brace against a metal shelf full of paper and printer ink. He pushes your skirt up roughly, revealing the soaked fabric clinging between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his fingers up your inner thigh. “You were dripping through this during class?”

You moan when his fingers brush your slit, teasing the soaked fabric. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You wanted me to see, didn’t you?” he says darkly, yanking your panties to the side. “Wanted me to lose it in front of everyone and fuck you over the desk.”

You whimper, pushing back against him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he mutters, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, gripping the shelf tighter as he curls them deep inside you.

“So tight… shit, you’re perfect,” he groans, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers. “Still so wet for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—God, yes.”

He spanks you once — hard — and you gasp, the sting sharp and delicious.

“Say it properly.”

“I missed your cock, Professor.”

He groans low in his throat. You hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, the shuffle of fabric. Then his hand returns to your waist, and the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance.

You barely get a breath in before he thrusts inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—!”

“God, you take me so well,” he hisses, slamming into you again, and again, until you’re gasping with every thrust. “This is what you wanted, huh? To be bent over like a bad student and filled up with my cock?”

You can’t even answer. He’s too deep. Too thick. Stretching you open so perfectly your knees almost buckle.

He grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“Not gonna stop this time. You’re gonna take it all.”

And you do.

Every thrust slams into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny closet, filthy and raw. Your walls flutter around him with every stroke, clenching tight like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

You don’t even care that you’re in a damn supply closet — not when he’s fucking you like this, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.

“Can feel you squeezing me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, crying out when his hand slips between your legs and rubs circles against your clit, fast and unforgiving.

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”

You break with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like fire — legs shaking, walls spasming around him, soaking his cock as he pounds you through it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Too much—!” you whimper.

“You can take it,” he growls. “One more. Be a good girl.”

You’re already too sensitive, your body twitching with every thrust, but the way he fucks you — like he owns you — has you falling apart again.

“Please—Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, thrusting even deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. Letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in…”

You cum again — hard, sudden, your moans cut off by the hand he slaps over your mouth as you scream into his palm.

His hips stutter.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—”

You feel him twitch inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, his cock throbbing as he presses deep and stays there, panting against your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a moment.

Breathless. Sweaty. Soaked.

Then he pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the mess — his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties ruined, the air thick with sex.

He zips up without a word. You adjust your skirt with shaking hands.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

You smirk over your shoulder. “And you’re weak.”

He glares.cYou wink. And you leave him there — still flushed, still catching his breath, already addicted again.

The next morning, you walk into class like nothing happened.

Your skirt’s a little longer today. You’re not wearing lip gloss. You even show up on time, quiet and composed.

But nothing feels the same. Sunghoon doesn’t look at you once during the lecture.

Not when you raise your hand. Not when you bite your pen. Not even when you catch his eye on purpose and hold the stare. He acts like you don’t exist. But you know better.

You can feel the tension in the way he paces the front of the room. The way he rushes through the slides. The way he won’t call on you even though your hand’s been raised for five minutes. He’s avoiding you. And it’s almost funny, how obvious it is.

When class ends, you take your time packing up, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t say a word.

Coward.

You don’t chase him. You don’t have to. Because two seconds after you step into the hallway, your friend Lily grabs your arm with a smirk.

“You look like you got wrecked,” she whispers, dragging you to the side. “Don’t even lie. You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit,” she grins. “Is this about Professor Park?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird since the semester started,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice how he was looking at you the other day. I was two seats behind you. The man looked like he was about to explode.”

You say nothing. Your silence is enough. Lily’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You fucked him?!”

“Lily.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was it hot?” You hesitate. She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She ignores you. “Okay but like… is what they say true?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” she whispers. “Is he…��huge. Like huge. Like, wreck-your-life huge.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. Her eyes go wider.

“Wait. He is, isn’t he?!”

You just shrug, lips twitching.

“And really good in bed?” she adds. “Like, dangerously good. Like… ruin-you-for-everyone-else good.”

You don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “No wonder you’ve been walking funny.” You slap her arm. She laughs louder. “You lucky bitch.” You groan, covering your face. “It was just a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You want to believe it.

But then you get to your next class and open your laptop, and the first thing that flashes through your mind isn’t the lecture — it’s the way Sunghoon’s hand had clamped over your mouth while you came around his cock.

And when you pass him in the hallway later — by accident, this time — he barely glances your way.

But his jaw clenches. His hand balls into a fist. And you know he remembers. You bite your lip as you keep walking, not looking back. You don’t need to. You already know he’s watching.

Class is halfway through when Sunghoon finally breaks.

You can feel it before it happens — the way he keeps glancing your way, how his words are sharper than usual, how his hand keeps flexing on the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You’re sitting near the front again. Of course you are.

Legs crossed. Skirt riding just a little too high. Innocent face like you’re not begging to be noticed.

And he does.

“Y/N,” he says, voice casual. “Can you help me with something for a second?”

Heads turn. You blink up at him, playing your part perfectly.

“Sure, Professor.”

You rise slowly, adjusting your skirt with deliberate care, and walk to the front like you’re not already soaking through your panties. You can feel the stares on your back, but all you care about is his.

His jaw is tight. His eyes flick down your body once — fast, hungry, dangerous — and then he steps back, motioning toward his desk.

“Over here,” he murmurs.

You round the desk, heart pounding as he opens a drawer, pretending to rifle through it.

“I need you to grab—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper, stepping closer. “You just wanted me near.”

His breath hitches. “You’re insane.”

“You asked for help,” you say sweetly. “I’m just being a good student.”

Your hand brushes over the front of his pants — and sure enough, he’s already hard.

He grabs your wrist. “We’re in the middle of class.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “So stop me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he groans — low and harsh — as you sink to your knees behind the desk. The rest of the class is quiet, heads buried in their notes or staring at the projection screen. No one even notices you’re gone.

No one can see.

Your fingers undo his belt with practiced ease, and when you free his cock, you have to stifle a gasp.

You forgot how thick he is.

How heavy he feels in your hand.

How your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters again, voice strained now.

You pump him slowly, dragging your hand up the length of him, thumb teasing the slit at the top. He’s hot and pulsing in your grip, already leaking, and it takes everything in you not to take him in your mouth.

But you want him squirming first.

You tighten your grip slightly, stroking him slow — too slow — watching his stomach tense, his breath catch.

“You like when I touch you here, Professor?” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the desk. “Keep your voice down.”

“You like when your student gets on her knees for you in the middle of class?” you tease, twisting your wrist at the top just how he likes.

His hips twitch.

You speed up, stroking him faster now, loving how he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He looks down at you once — just once — and you see it in his eyes.

He’s right there.

You lean in, spit on your hand, and stroke him harder — faster — and he curses under his breath, head falling forward.

“Shit—Y/N—stop—gonna—”

You don’t stop.

You squeeze, twist, stroke him right through it, and he cums hard in your hand, biting his lip so hard you think he might bleed. His cock twitches as you milk every last drop, your hand warm and wet with him.

You look up at him, breathless.

“Still need help with anything?”

He glares down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You needy girl,” he whispers.

“And you’re obsessed,” you whisper back, standing and licking your palm clean with a slow swipe of your tongue — just because you can.

His eyes darken like he wants to drag you under the desk and fuck you right there.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows, adjusts his pants, and turns back to the class like nothing happened.

You walk back to your seat with your legs trembling — and the biggest fucking smile on your face.

He calls you to his office after class. Not right away — no, he waits a full ten minutes after the room clears, like that’ll somehow make this less obvious. You knock once, and when you step inside, he’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Close the door.”

You do.

“Lock it.”

You hesitate, then click it shut behind you. He exhales sharply. Doesn’t look at you.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low. You blink. “Can’t do what?” He glares. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” you shrug. “You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean the part where I made you cum in the middle of a lecture? Or the part where you let me?”

His jaw clenches. “Y/N.”

You take a step closer. “Or do you mean the one-night stand? The closet? The fact that you begged me not to stop?”

“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. You smile sweetly. “You dragged me into this. Not the other way around.”

“I’m your professor.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate. “This has to end before we get caught. Before I lose my job. Before—” You cut him off by sliding between his legs, standing so close your thighs brush his. His hands are still clenched at his sides, like he’s holding on to the last bit of control.

“Then why did you ask me to come here?” He says nothing.

“You could’ve ignored me. Failed me. Told me to stop. But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning with something darker than anger.

“Because you can’t,” you whisper. “You don’t want to.” His breathing is ragged. “That’s not the point.” You lean in, voice softer now. “So make a rule. Try.” You watch him fold, just a little. He grabs your waist and spins you — suddenly, roughly — pinning you between him and the desk.

“No more games,” he says, voice low, lips inches from yours. “No more teasing. You come to class. You do your work. You don’t speak to me unless it’s about the course. Understood?” You raise your chin, defiant. “And if I break the rules?” His grip tightens. “Then you won’t like the consequences.” You smile, slow and wicked. “I think I will.” He growls under his breath, turning away like he needs the space, like he can’t breathe when you’re that close.

You take one step toward the door. Pause. Glance over your shoulder. “Oh,” you add innocently, “I won’t be wearing panties next lecture.” He doesn’t move. But his fingers twitch. And when you finally leave the office, you know you’ve already won.

You knew he wouldn’t last.

Sunghoon made it exactly three days before he cracked.

You showed up to every lecture like the perfect little student.

Took notes, nodded along, answered questions.

Sat right in the front, of course — legs crossed, skirt a little too high, no panties underneath.

You saw the way his eyes lingered.

The way his voice faltered every time he called on you.

You didn’t even have to touch him. Just existed. And watched him unravel.

So really, you weren’t surprised when class ended and he barked your name in front of everyone.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

You fought your smile. Nodded. Waited.

The second the last student left, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his office — not saying a word, walking fast, grip tight like he was scared he might change his mind.

The door slammed shut behind you. Locked. And then he shoved you against it.

“I told you to stop,” he growled. You smirked. “But you didn’t want me to.” He kissed you before you could finish the sentence — all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he hated you for what you did to him. His hands were already under your skirt, shoving it up, confirming exactly what he’d been suspecting all week.

“No fucking panties,” he muttered against your lips. “You really are a little slut, huh?”

“Only for you,” you whispered. That’s what did it. He spun you around, bent you over the desk without warning, and shoved your legs apart with his knee. You gasped at the cold wood against your cheek, his hand pushing down between your shoulder blades to keep you there.

“No teasing this time,” he hissed. “You want to play games? Fine. But you’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined you.” You whined when you felt his fingers glide between your folds — soaking wet, dripping for him already.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled. “You like being used, don’t you?” You nodded desperately. He spanked you, hard. “Use your words.”

“Yes, hoon, yes—!”

He groaned and unzipped his pants so fast it was like he’d been holding back for days. Probably had. You felt the thick head of his cock press against you, tease your entrance, and then— He rammed into you.

No hesitation. No warning.

Just one rough, brutal thrust that had you screaming his name against the desk.

“God—Sunghoon—”

“That’s Professor to you,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming into you again.

You were soaked, your body clenching around him like it couldn’t get enough — and you couldn’t. His cock stretched you so deep, so perfectly, it was like your body was made for him. He fucked you hard, fast, filthy — the desk creaking under the weight of it, your nails clawing at the wood, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Thought you could tease me?” he hissed in your ear. “Sit in my class like a good girl and pretend you’re not dripping for me?” You moaned — helpless, breathless, aching for more.

“You don’t get to tease me,” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking win.” He fucked you harder, his cock slamming into your soaked cunt with punishing thrusts, the sound of your bodies echoing off the walls like it was the only thing that mattered. You could feel him everywhere — hands, hips, voice — all of him taking and taking and taking. And then his hand snaked around your front. Two fingers on your clit. Fast, rough, no mercy. You sobbed.

“Too much—!”

“Take it,” he snapped. “You wanted this.”

Your body was already on edge — too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated — and you shattered around him with a scream, legs trembling, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, not slowing down, not letting up, chasing his own release with the desperation of a man possessed.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “So deep you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, overstimulated and aching and still somehow needing it.

“Beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—fill me up—need it, please—” That was all he needed. He cursed, shoved deep one last time, and came with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you so hard you could feel it flood your insides — hot, thick, endless.

You stayed there — bent over, legs shaking, completely ruined — as he caught his breath behind you. And then, when he pulled out, his cum dripped down your thighs and onto the floor, and you knew this was it. There was no going back now. He was yours. And you were so far from finished. 

It had only been three days. But you missed him like it’d been weeks.

He was sick — a bad fever, rough cough, too weak to teach, let alone sneak off to fuck you breathless behind his desk.

Still, you called. Every night.

At first, it was innocent. How are you feeling? Are you redtng enough? Do you need anything?

But tonight, something was different.

His voice was lower. Rough from congestion, but still laced with that dark, velvety tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I miss you,” he rasped into the phone. Your breath hitched. “I miss you too.” You were curled under your blankets, phone to your ear, nothing but a t-shirt and your own restless thoughts keeping you company.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, voice a little more awake now. Teasing. Familiar.

You bit your lip. “Just your shirt.” He groaned quietly. “Fuck.” There was silence for a beat — hot, heavy.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Your heart thudded.

“Sunghoon—”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you.”

Your hand slipped beneath the covers before you could think twice, fingers grazing your thighs, your core already warm and aching. You let out a soft sigh, just for him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Are you…?” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Got my hand around my cock right now. Thinking about how wet you probably are.”

You whimpered. He knew what to say. Even sick. Even over the phone. He had you melting with nothing but his voice.

“Are you teasing yourself?” he asked. “Or are you already fucking those fingers in deep like I would?”

“Just rubbing,” you gasped. “It’s so sensitive.”

“Wish it was my mouth,” he growled. “I’d suck your clit nice and slow. Keep you spread open and messy for me.” You moaned louder now, fingers working faster, thighs shaking.

“I miss your tongue,” you whimpered. “And your cock. I miss everything.” He groaned again, breath stuttering. “I’m close. Just thinking about you falling apart for me.”

“I’m gonna come,” you panted. “Sunghoon, I—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

And you did — hard, trembling, breath catching as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You heard him gasp, a deep, raw sound on the other end. Then silence. Just heavy breathing. You clutched the phone tighter, flushed and buzzing.

“I can’t wait to fuck you when I’m better,” he said finally, voice thick and low. “Gonna make up for every night I couldn’t touch you.” You smiled, cheeks warm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Now go to sleep, baby. I’ll dream about you.”

And you did — still aching, but content. Because even when he wasn’t here, he still was.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was pissed. The way he always made sure you got home safe, even if it was just a quiet Text me when you’re in bed.

The way he kissed you when no one was watching — not hurried, not hungry. Just… like he wanted to remember it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You knew what this was. A mistake. A fling. A secret that could ruin both your lives. But somehow, between the stolen glances and the late-night fucks in his office, you started to feel it. That pull. That ache. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not for you. So when he texted you at 11:42 PM — come over. need to blow off steam — your heart stupidly fluttered.

And when you showed up at his apartment, when he pulled you in without a word and kissed you like he missed you, you let yourself believe, for just a second, that maybe… maybe he felt it too. You made love that night. Not rough. Not fast. Not like every other time. His hands were gentle. His kisses slow. His body moved with yours like you were something precious — not just a girl he wasn’t supposed to touch.

And afterward, when you curled into him, bare skin against bare skin, you whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Sunghoon.”

He hummed, half-asleep, arm draped over your waist.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Silence. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just… nothing. You turned your head to look at him. He was wide awake now.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. Too carefully. Your chest tightened. “Say something.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “You weren’t supposed to—” You pulled the sheet up around your chest like it could protect you from the sharpness of his words.

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” you asked quietly. “Catch feelings? Think this meant more than just… late-night texts and quick fucks between lectures?”

His jaw tightened. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” You blinked at him, heart splintering. “Because it didn’t feel like just sex.”

He didn’t look at you. And that told you everything. You swallowed hard, throat burning.

“You don’t feel anything for me?”

He paused. And then he shook his head once. Quick. Cold.

“I can’t.”

It hit like a slap. You nodded slowly, forcing down the sting. “Right. Of course.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I get it,” you said, getting up and grabbing your clothes. “You’re just my professor. And I’m just the dumb girl who thought maybe this was something.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t look back. Because if you did — if you saw even an ounce of regret in his eyes — you’d break. And you were already breaking. 

You didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next.

You stopped answering his texts. Left them on read. Blocked the number, even — not because you didn’t want to see them, but because you knew you would.

And you were done giving in.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you, not really. To him, you were just a distraction. A body. A pretty little secret to keep him entertained. You weren’t going to be that anymore.

So you went quiet. Silent.

You didn’t show up to his lectures, didn’t sit in the front row in those too-short skirts, didn’t flirt with your eyes across the room. You handed your assignments in online. You stayed invisible. And for a while, it worked.

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t dream about his mouth on your skin. You didn’t ache at night thinking about the way he used to look at you like he needed you.

You even let Lily drag you to a party.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Why would a professor hang out with freshmen? But someone else was. He was tall. Soft brown eyes. Big hands. Good Looking

Nice.

You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall. Let him fuck you in some stranger’s bedroom with your skirt bunched around your waist.

It wasn’t like Sunghoon. Not even close. But it was something. And for a few minutes, it helped you forget. Until the next morning — when you checked your phone, and saw his name lit up the screen.

Park Sunghoon [3 messages]

Where are you?

You missed another lecture.

Y/N, please.

You stared at the screen for a long time. And then you deleted them. Sunghoon was losing his goddamn mind.

The first day you skipped, he told himself it was nothing.

Maybe you were sick. Hungover. Avoiding him. Whatever.

By the third, he was pacing in his office, checking the attendance sheet, rereading your last assignment just to see if there was a hint — anything — in your tone.

By the fifth, he was showing up to dorm buildings and walking past study halls just to maybe catch a glimpse of you. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. You’d said you were falling for him.

And he’d brushed it off. Because he was scared. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, what was he thinking? Fucking his student relentlessly thinking she wouldn’t fall for him? But now? Now he realized he’d been lying to himself the entire time. He missed you.

More than just your body. More than the games. He missed your laugh. Your attitude. Your soft little sighs when you fell asleep against his chest.

He missed you. And when he saw you again — two weeks later, walking across campus in a low-cut top and short skirt, laughing with some guy he didn’t recognize — it hit him like a fucking truck.

You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the night you left. He waited until the guy walked off. Then followed you.

“Y/N.”

You stopped. Turned. Your expression shifted from surprised to cold in half a second.

“I’m busy.”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“You made it clear how you felt,” you said, voice sharp. “Don’t backpedal now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—” You crossed your arms. “You meant it enough to let me walk out.” He hesitated. “You blocked my number.”

“You said it was just sex,” you snapped. “So why would I stay?” He looked at you — really looked at you — and something in his face cracked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what to do. I’m your professor. I could lose everything.”

You stared at him, trying not to let your heart soften.

“And now?”

He stepped closer. Slower this time. Careful, like you might run.

“Now I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’d risk everything if you’d just look at me the way you used to.”

You looked away.

Because you still wanted to.

But he’d already broken you once.

And you weren’t sure you could let him close enough to do it again.

You lay there in the dark, chest heaving, body limp from everything he’d just taken from you — and everything you’d given him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absently over your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like if he kept touching you, maybe you wouldn’t disappear again. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said this doesn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And when you finally found your voice, it was quiet. Fragile.

“You can’t keep doing that.”His thumb stilled. “Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s nothing one second, then showing up the next like you’d burn the world down for me.” He turned toward you, arm curling around your waist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Burn it all down.”

Your chest tightened. “Then why did you let me go?”

He exhaled, forehead pressing gently to yours. “Because I thought I had to.”

“But you don’t now?”

“I can’t let you go again,” he whispered. “Not after that. Not after this.”

You searched his eyes.

And this time, you didn’t find silence. Didn’t find cold. You found regret. Longing.

Something that looked too close to love to ignore.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say it wasn’t just sex.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“It never was.”

The breath you’d been holding spilled out all at once, shaky and full of every broken piece you’d been holding in since the start. You closed your eyes, voice cracking.

“Me either.” He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips — slow and reverent, like he finally understood what he’d almost lost. And when he pulled you against him, wrapping himself around you like a shield, you knew something had shifted for good.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t a secret. This wasn’t a one-night stand stretched into months of denial. This was real. And this time, neither of you was running.

was so horny writing this (send req)

perm taglist 🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @zerere @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize @flwwon @ziiao @heelovver @sxie-txt

💌 perm taglist request

[kxsagi]

pro football player!bllk with girlfailure gf 🙏

“𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝”

a/n: reader is me i fear because i had apple maps on and turned left when siri said turn right (i ain’t ever living that down)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, aiku oliver

isagi yoichi

"i’m not saying you're a disaster, love, but i just saw the smoke coming from the toaster and knew you tried to make soup again." 

yoichi is genuinely concerned for your wellbeing on a daily basis. he’s in the peak of his athletic prime – eating clean, training consistently, and optimizing performance… and then there’s you, googling “can i eat expired pudding if i microwave it?” 

he keeps track of your life with the dedication of a world cup coach. daily alarms set for you. calendar events for you. a literal google doc titled "how to not die this week – for my girlfriend." 

“yoichi, i accidentally took a sleeping pill instead of my vitamin again. at 2pm.” “... okay, stay on the phone while i cancel your dentist appointment and put you in bed.” 

when you showed up to one of his games wearing a shirt with his face on it, backwards, he didn’t even blink. he just fixed it for you mid-tunnel entrance like he was adjusting his jersey. 

he tells reporters, “she keeps me grounded.” what he means is you walked into a glass wall yesterday trying to wave at a squirrel. 

itoshi rin

"you’ve burned water. explain to me how that’s even physically possible." 

rin is the definition of organized. you? you just poured orange juice into your cereal because you were “half-awake and the cartons looked the same.” 

he constantly looks like he’s asking god why he’s being tested. but despite the judgmental sighs and eternal frown, he never lets anyone else talk down to you. 

“i couldn’t figure out how to put gas in the car so i called triple A and cried.” “... i’m going to show you how to do it. we’re going right now. bring your notebook.” 

he sets emergency funds aside just for your monthly “life mistake.” like the time you bought a fake designer purse that turned out to be a lunchbox. 

but he remembers everything. your favorite candy. how you like your grilled cheese (burnt, apparently). which socks help when you’re overwhelmed. 

once you got lost in IKEA and called rin in a panic. he tracked you down like joe goldberg.  

itoshi sae

"i make millions a year and my girlfriend just got stuck in a revolving door." 

sae is rich, classy, and elegant. you once mistook a bidet for a drinking fountain. opposites, baby. 

he acts all nonchalant and "ugh," but he's always silently picking up the pieces after you’ve caused another minor catastrophe. 

“i thought the microwave was the oven and now the plastic is part of my dinner.” “okay. i’m ordering sushi. don’t eat it. i mean it.” 

he’s weirdly patient with you. will roast you endlessly, but also brush your hair out of your face while saying “idiot” in the gentlest voice ever. 

once, you tripped walking up the stadium stairs and spilled a nacho tray onto a stranger. he didn’t even blink. just pulled out his black card and paid for all the ruined food. 

“do i like her because she’s cute? no. it’s the comedy. i never know what she’ll break next.” 

nagi seishiro

"wait… you were supposed to go to work today? oh no." 

you both forgot what day it was and slept through a meeting. your lives are one long nap and an accidental door dash order. 

nagi genuinely doesn’t care about your failures. he just kind of blinks and goes “eh, sounds annoying. let’s lie down.” 

“sei, i think i broke the vacuum.” “cool. guess we don’t clean now.” 

you once forgot to bring your passport to the airport. he forgot his shoes. you were that couple. the airline staff pitied you. 

he lets you stack your chaos on top of his. gets a little spark in his eyes when you mess something up. “you’re funny,” he says as you spill water on your laptop. 

surprisingly supportive. doesn’t fix things, but he’ll cuddle you while you cry about them. 

“i ruined the job interview.” “eh. next one. let’s get ice cream.” 

mikage reo

"my baby can’t do taxes or read maps, but she’s hot so it’s fine." 

he’s so ridiculously rich and competent, and you’re just trying to remember your email password from middle school. 

constantly watching you with an amused expression like “wow. she’s really out here giving it her best. adorable.” like you said “i think i wanna become an astronaut” and he started looking up NASA internships. 

“reo, i tried to meal prep and now there’s rice in the ceiling fan.” “that’s talent. you want a private chef?” 

he buys you a new phone every time you drop one in the toilet. it’s happened four times. 

he sends you voice notes like “baby, remember to eat today” and you reply “does chocolate count?” and he’s like “only if you eat six.” 

will absolutely drop $30k on something to make your life easier and then call it a “just because you’re a princess” gift. 

kaiser michael

"schatz, why are you crying?" "i tried to braid my hair and now there’s a comb stuck in the wall." 

kaiser is such a showoff. pro athlete, media darling, good with money, sharp as hell. you? you tried to fix the wi-fi by blowing on it like a nintendo cartridge. 

he lives for your mess. he thinks it’s hilarious. he’ll walk into a room you destroyed and be like “wow. modern art. you’ve outdone yourself.” 

“kaiser, i accidentally sent my manager a meme instead of my availability.” “did they laugh? no? then resend with context.” 

he’ll bully you for your mistakes but then drop everything to help you anyway. “you’re lucky i like you. and that you look hot when confused.” 

secretly addicted to you needing him. will pout if you fix something yourself. 

“you didn’t call me when your sink broke?” “i googled it.” “what the hell. i was emotionally prepared to be your hero.” 

shidou ryusei

"guess what i just did!" "lit something on fire?" "how did you know!?" 

you two are absolute chaos. you keep failing at life and he cheers you on like it’s a sport. 

“i just sent an angry email to the wrong person.” “HELL YEAH BABY. make it worse! want me to reply with a meme?” 

he loves how you panic over small things while he eggs you on. “i lost my shoe!” “go barefoot! embrace the primal life!” 

he brings out your most unhinged side and encourages your impulsive decisions. “should i dye my hair pink?” “only if you let me do it with kitchen bleach.” 

somehow, when you’re both together, things work?? the disasters cancel out??? or at least no one’s bored. 

“she’s dumb, and she’s mine. and if anyone says anything else i’ll headbutt them into next week.” 

aiku oliver

"you’re not a failure. you just have a very… creative approach to life. and gravity." 

he’s the charming, cocky pretty boy captain and you once fell down an escalator because you were texting. 

he calls you “baby” in that teasing voice every time you mess something up. “baby… you really locked yourself out again?” “yes…” “adorable. hold on, let me come save your helpless little ass.” 

literally spoils you rotten to compensate for your chaos. you messed up your entire skincare routine and he booked you a five-star spa appointment. 

jokes that you’re his "clumsy little gremlin" and kisses your forehead after you bump into a pole. 

also weirdly proud of your fails. tells his teammates about them like fun facts. “my girl once put dish soap in the laundry machine. we had bubbles for hours." 

he likes that you need him. not in a weird possessive way, just in the fun way. 

“she keeps life spicy. also, she accidentally started a fire once by microwaving foil.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[dykebehaviour]

TRUST FUND

H E A R T B R E A K

ellie williams x fem!reader

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶˚.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶˚.

summary: after two years apart, you’re sent to an elite boarding school to escape your party-fueled lifestyle, only to discover your dorm roommate is ellie williams, your childhood best friend and first love. once inseparable, you two are now strangers carrying the weight of past heartbreak, family expectations, and simmering tension.

content: enemies to lovers, boarding school au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, oral r!receiving, fingering e!receiving, rich/posh lifestyle, emotional flashbacks, daddy issues, bratty/spoilt!reader, mean/stoic!ellie, hurt/comfort.

wk: 12.9k

a/n: okay this is a long one but oh how i loveeeee it. i hope you do too :)

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶˚.

the car that pulls up to saint anselm’s academy is sleek, black, and absurdly out of place among the autumn-stained gravel and wrought-iron gates. you sit inside like a trophy behind tinted glass, prada boots crossed at the ankle, one perfectly manicured hand twirling your cartier bracelet. the driver - your father’s assistant, because of course he didn’t come himself - pops the trunk and unloads your matching luggage with sterile efficiency.

“boarding school,” you murmur, glossed lips twisting. “grounded for having too much fucking fun.”

it should have been rehab. it almost was. but daddy couldn’t risk a photo of his daughter checking in at promises malibu, so instead you’re being hidden away, cleaned up, rebranded, like a messy investment portfolio.

you don’t even look up when the headmistress greets you.

you do, however, look up when the keycard slips into your palm and the words room 3c –ellie williams are spoken.

your stomach drops, glossy and full of sick nostalgia.

“wait,” you say, voice faltering for the first time in days. “she’s my roommate?”

the headmistress smiles like she’s got no idea what she’s just done.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

the room is luxurious. exposed brick walls, dark wood furniture, shelves lined with expensive books you know ellie has never read. one side is meticulously neat: black sketchpads stacked, boots lined up like soldiers, a jacket, that jacket, hung on a copper hook. the other side is empty, waiting for you to clutter it with designer chaos.

you haven’t seen ellie in two years.

not since you ghosted her that summer, the summer she told you she loved you and you said nothing back. the summer your father sat you down and told you to grow up, clean up, fix up. the summer you broke her heart and locked your own away in a velvet box with a gold clasp.

you recognise her before she says anything. she’s standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of that same worn bomber jacket, hair a little longer, jaw a little sharper.

“you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

your heart jumps.

“hi, els,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds. like it remembers her before you do.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK - age 12

ellie’s strung up fairy lights. they’re glowing soft above your heads as you sit with your knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed in your fists, eyes blotchy and red.

“i told my mom,” you whisper. “that i like girls.”

ellie doesn’t say anything. just nudges closer, blanket pulled up to her chin. there’s the faint smell of coconut from her shampoo. you bury your face in her pillow.

“she told me not to tell my dad,” you say. “said he’d ruin it. ruin me.”

ellie’s fingers brush your wrist. “he won’t.”

“you don’t know him.”

silence again, then: “i think i like girls too.”

your heart flutters. you look over at her. “really?”

she nods. “maybe just one.”

you don’t say anything, but you fall asleep smiling.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

back in the present, she doesn’t offer you help with your luggage. just moves around you like smoke.

“i’m not switching rooms,” she says flatly, dropping onto her bed.

you snort, tossing your cashmere coat onto your unmade side. “please. you think i want to be here? sharing a room with you? what is this, poetic punishment?”

she looks up at that, eyes narrowing like a blade’s edge. “you think everything’s about you.”

“it usually is,” you snap, then instantly regret it.

ellie turns away, jaw clenched. you see the flicker of something there; hurt, maybe. recognition.

you hate that she still gets to you.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

you meet the others the next day. ellie’s circle. a misfit trio of intimidating cool.

cat - razor-sharp, composed, somehow elegant even in a hoodie.

sarah - cat-eyed, sarcastic, always holding a lollipop and probably a secret.

and dina - kind, warm, always rambling on about her boyfriend jesse, who you gather is in one of the other exclusive private schools.

they don’t warm to you right away.

“didn’t peg ellie for a girl who’d room with gossip girl,” cat says.

“i’m not,” ellie mutters.

but then you start showing up to things. dinner. lit class. a party in the old astronomy tower with strobe lights and expensive vodka smuggled in through a trust fund’s worth of connections.

dina softens first. then sarah. cat just watches you, like she’s trying to find the seams.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 14

ellie’s mom dies.

you find out via text. you’re in monaco with your family, your father signing some oil deal, your mother shopping herself into oblivion.

you buy a flight back on your own credit card.

ellie's front porch is dark when you arrive at her house.

ellie opens the door to her childhood bedroom with dead eyes. her hair’s a mess. her hoodie’s swallowed her whole.

you crawl into bed beside her and wrap your arms around her waist.

“i’m here,” you say. “i’m not going anywhere.”

and for a while, you aren’t.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

two weeks into your exile, you go to a party that could’ve been a gala. champagne towers. violins and bass drops. everyone in designer, everyone pretending to be broken.

you’re drunk before ellie shows up, dragging dina behind her. her eyes scan the room like she’s already tired of it.

you’re on the balcony with a girl from eton who’s feeding you lines like they’re caviar.

when ellie walks past, you shout, “hey, roomie.”

she stops.

she smirks. “that your girlfriend?”

“ex–best friend,” you say, too loud. “first heartbreak.”

ellie’s eyes flash with something murderous. she walks away without a word.

you chase her down three songs later.

“what’s your problem?” you demand.

“my problem is you acting like none of it meant anything,” she snaps.

you’re nose to nose in the back stairwell. she smells like smoke and frustration.

“you think i wanted to leave?” you say. “you think i liked pretending we didn’t happen?”

“you ghosted me,” ellie says. “like i didn’t even exist.”

and then, without thinking, you grab her by the jacket and kiss her.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 16

it’s summer. a beach house your families share. you’re sunburned and exhausted, tangled in ellie’s sheets after a day in the waves.

the kiss starts slow. nervous. ellie’s hand shaking on your hip.

“you sure?” she whispers.

you nod. “you?”

she doesn’t answer with words.

it’s soft. scared. honest.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

back in the stairwell, the kiss is the opposite. All teeth and tongue and years of swallowed rage.

you’re breathless by the time you shove open the dorm room door, ellie’s fingers gripping your wrist like she can’t let go now, not after everything. your back hits the wall before the door even clicks shut behind you.

it’s not sweet. not yet.

it’s desperate.

ellie crashes into you, mouths slanting together in a kiss that tastes like vodka, spit, and anger. her hands dig into your waist; yours claw at the collar of her shirt like you’re trying to rip two years of distance off her skin.

you drag her down by the front of her sweater, panting, whispering, “take it off.”

she pulls away just enough to yank it over her head, tossing it to the floor. her tank top underneath clings to her like a second skin, the lines of her arms sharp in the low light. you’re already unbuttoning your blouse, your fingers shaking as she watches you with blown pupils and a clenched jaw.

when you get it off, ellie steps in, hands skimming your ribs, thumbs slipping under your lacy black bra.

“you always wore this to parties?” she mutters, voice low, rough. “knew what you were doing?”

your lips curl into a smirk. “wanted to drive you crazy.”

she answers by kissing you again, deeper, teeth dragging your bottom lip as her hands move down - unzipping your skirt, pushing it past your hips.

it slips to the floor, and you’re standing there in nothing but your bra and a soaked pair of panties.

“god,” ellie whispers. “still such a fucking brat.”

you shove her lightly toward the bed. “then put me in my place.”

that flips a switch in her.

she backs you into the mattress, hands on your waist, and throws you down. the moment your back hits the sheets, she’s on top of you, mouthing at your jaw, your neck, biting down just enough to leave something behind.

you gasp when her hand slips between your thighs, rubbing over your panties. you’re soaked, and she groans when she feels it.

“you’ve been wet since the stairwell,” she mutters, voice gravel-thick.

“you’re so fucking cocky now,” you pant, arching into her touch.

“learned it from you.”

her fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down, slow, teasing. her eyes stay locked on yours while she peels them off and tosses them aside.

then she’s between your thighs, pushing them open with her hands, kissing the inside of your knee, the curve of your thigh, your hipbone.

“you still smell the same,” she murmurs. “missed this. missed you.”

you barely manage to whisper her name before her mouth is on you.

your head falls back, a moan ripping from your throat. she licks a slow, wet stripe up your center, then flicks her tongue against your clit in small, focused circles. you grip the sheets in one hand and her hair in the other, hips jerking at the sudden intensity.

“ellie-fuck-“

she groans into you like she’s starving for it, arms wrapped under your thighs to pin you down.

she sucks your clit into her mouth, and you see white.

���i-i’m gonna-”

“do it,” she breathes. “come for me.”

you fall apart, legs shaking, moaning her name like a prayer.

she keeps licking through it, slower now, gentler, until your hips twitch and you gasp from the overstimulation.

she pulls back, mouth glistening, lips red and slick. her eyes are so dark now they’re nearly black.

“you always come that fast?” she asks smugly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

you pull her down by her shirt and kiss her hard, tasting yourself on her lips. “only for you.”

you grab the hem of her tank top and yank it up - she lifts her arms, letting you strip it off, then her sports bra.

you trail your fingers over her chest, biting your lip. “still think i’m a brat?”

ellie smirks. “you’re about to be a wreck.”

you flip her over, straddling her hips, letting your still-sensitive pussy grind down against the toned skin of her thigh. she exhales harshly, hands on your hips.

you reach down between you both, sliding your hand over her stomach, into her boxers.

she’s wet. soaked.

“jesus,” you whisper. “you were dying for it.”

“you have no idea,” she groans, eyes fluttering shut as you slide two fingers inside her.

she arches up into you, legs spreading wider, hips rocking. her moans are guttural, breathy; desperate in a way that feels almost sacred.

you kiss her collarbone, her throat, her mouth, while you fuck her slow and deep, curling your fingers the way you remember drives her crazy.

her head tips back. “fuck-keep going, i’m close-“

“look at me,” you whisper, kissing the corner of her mouth.

she opens her eyes just as she comes, her whole body seizing under you, mouth falling open in a broken gasp. you slow your fingers, easing her through it, pressing kisses to her jaw and cheek.

she’s still trembling when you pull your hand out and collapse beside her, both of you slick with sweat and flushed to the collarbones.

she turns her head, looking at you like she’s still trying to catch her breath.

you smile, brushing a lock of damp hair from her forehead. “hi.”

ellie lets out a breathless laugh. “hey.”

you lie there, still half tangled in each other, her leg between yours, your hand resting on her stomach. the only sound is your breathing and the faint hum of rain hitting the window.

you fall asleep in her arms, skin warm, heart steady for the first time in years.

you wake up alone.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

you don’t talk for two days.

then you break first.

find her sketching under the library archways and throw your phone at her.

“block me again and i’ll key your audi.”

she looks up slowly. her sketchbook’s open; pages of you, sleeping. lips parted. hair spilled over her pillow.

“i didn’t block you,” she says.

“right.”

“i panicked.”

“so did i.”

she looks at you, eyes softer now. “why’d you really leave?”

you swallow. “because i didn’t want you to be the reason my father stopped loving me.”

silence. then ellie stands.

“i would’ve loved you either way.”

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

things change after that.

not all at once. but slowly, like a fever breaking.

you move through school with a new rhythm. ellie starts letting you in again - hands brushing yours in hallways, whispered jokes over dinner. her friends become your friends. sarah teaches you how to braid your own hair. dina makes you playlists. cat tells you secrets in exchange for yours.

you’re not just rich anymore.

you’re loved.

and this time, you won’t run from it.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 16

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, still in your swimsuit under a towel, legs curled up. ellie’s pacing; slow, like she’s walking a tightrope.

“i need to say something,” she says, voice cracking a little.

you glance at her, confused. “okay…”

ellie stops, looks right at you, and for a second, she’s the girl you’ve known since you were eight. the one who made you mix cds in middle school, who held your hair when you threw up after sneaking your dad’s scotch, who kissed you for the first time in your bedroom under fairy lights when you were fourteen like she was terrified and certain all at once.

“i love you,” she says.

the words fall like a thunderclap. like someone pulled the sun out of the sky.

you blink.

“what?”

ellie’s already regretting it. “i know. i know it’s early - whatever. but i do. i’ve loved you since we were like fucking kids…probably. i mean, i didn’t know, then. but i do now.”

you don’t answer right away. you feel the blood drain from your face. something in your chest pulls tight - panic? fear? shame?

you stand abruptly, wrapping your towel tighter. “ellie…”

she stiffens. “don’t do that. don’t say my name like that.”

you take a breath. “you can’t just say that.”

“why not?” ellie’s voice rises, brittle. “we slept together. i know what that meant.”

“i don’t know what it meant.”

ellie flinches. “are you serious?”

you start pacing now, agitated, defensive. “we just-god, it was a moment, ellie. you’re making it into-“

“you cried,” ellie snaps. “you held my fucking face and told me no one ever made you feel safe before.”

you shut your eyes. “that doesn’t mean i’m ready to be in love with you.”

ellie crosses her arms tightly. “or maybe it means you’re scared of what people will think.”

you go quiet.

ellie’s voice hardens. “that’s it, isn’t it? you can fuck me behind closed doors, but god forbid anyone knows.”

you feel yourself flush, not with guilt - but rage. “do you have any idea the kind of pressure i’m under? my dad’s already suspicious. my friends-“

“your dad’s a fucking asshole,” ellie says coldly. “he’s spent your whole life trying to make you ashamed of who you are.”

“yeah, well, i can’t afford to burn everything down the way you do, ellie!”

the room goes dead silent.

ellie stares at you. her jaw clenches. “so that’s what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“no. you did.” she laughs bitterly, hurt blooming across her face. “it’s fine. i’m used to it.”

“ellie-“

she grabs her keys from the dresser. “it’s always me, huh? i’m the one who’s too much, too intense. i’m the one who loves harder.”

you want to stop her. you don’t.

she’s halfway out the door when she turns back. “you’re gonna miss me when i’m gone.”

you stare at her. frozen. scared. seething.

you say nothing.

ellie waits. one last chance.

you stay silent.

she leaves.

and two days later, when she texts you, you ignore it.

and the next week.

and the week after that.

eventually, she stops trying.

and you both go quiet for two years.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

one night, you sit in ellie’s bed together, legs tangled, her sketchbook resting on your knees.

“you ever gonna forgive me?” you ask.

she leans in, presses her mouth to your collarbone. “already did.”

you smile, fingers curling in her shirt. “good.”

because this time, you’re not going anywhere.

and neither is she.

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

MASTERLIST ..⋆. 𐙚 ̊

જ⁀➴ welcome to Red's masterlist ୧⍤⃝💐 !!

PULL ME IN

summary: due to Bruce distancing himself from reading and seeing other women - batfam has to watch their mom willow away.

CH 1

CH 2

DIE YOUNG

summary : batfam enjoy each other's presence while Alfred and Bruce silently mourns your death.

CH 1

CH 2

alternative universe- reader is older and actually gets to meet her siblings yet still meets her own demise .

Lone Warrior

summary : reader is put into emergency foster care after a tragedy , despite living with the Wayne family for a bit , reader takes it upon herself to move away and start anew since she clearly wasn't welcomed , after many years have passed Damian finally joins the family and after a particular spat w his father he finds himself in reader's room and an interest in them has sparked.

CH 1

CH 2

CH 3

HELP YOURSELF

summary : in a family filled with intriguing members of their own right , duke has a particular interest in a certain vigilante in the family that everyone seems to overlook . this interest leads to the family to spiral into obsession .

CH 1 - 3

Neglected Reader x Yandere Platonic Batfam

CH 1

CH 2

CH 3

CH 4

Damian Wayne x Tokyo Ghoul Reader

summary :Damien Wayne is a complex character on his own , he has his own complex emotions and feelings that not many people can understand, que in a ghoul like sibling whom can comfort Damien in his hard times by reminiscing their own experience with them.

CH 1

CH 2

CH 3

❝DAY IN THE LIFE OF TODDLER DAMI.ᐟ ❞

summary ━ au in which older, sibling reader !! takes care of toddler damian .

CH.1

CH.2

DRABBLES

I 'hate' Cats - jason fic

New Beginings - jason fic

hc for reader being the favorite in batfam - hc 1 , hc 2

saiki reader x batfam shenigans

SALVATORE - tim drake blurb

I HATE SPIDER LILLES - a lonesome child dies while a neglectful father loses himself to guilt and grief. ( batfam x neglected reader )

Fallen Star - jason mourns his dead wife .

Am I Enough ? - Alfred unexplainably dislikes a certain Wayne member and is hellbent on making her life as miserable as it can get .

TO LOVE YOU IS KILLING ME - the only person bucky has ever felt seen , loved and cared by is slowing dying and he can only helplessly stand there and watch them go .

TIMELESS - spinoff on (neglected reader x batfam ) where us the reader loves neglected character while batfam seethes in jealousy

A VILE THING YOU ARE - au in which neglected reader understands why her family dislikes her ( tw. Dark themes such as body security is mentioned)

THE HELL YOU MEAN YOU GOT A GIRL - drabble abt the bat boys not believing Tim for having a girlfriend

PUT DOWN THAT FORK BABE - drabble in which tim drake with a partner who cannot for the life of themselves , cook .

BURNING DESIRE FOR YOU - concept for yandere jason

COLOR ME BLUE - imagine being so neglected that you would rather be welcomed by death than be saved by your neglectful father.

REQUESTS

strangers - reader comes from a post - apolyptic world where mankind was wiped out due to nuclear warfare and deadly disease . suddenly she is awaken in a world where humanity is thriving yet this weird family behaves so strangely toward her??

Bimbo reader x yan jason - yan Jason is obsessed with bimbo reader

Girl dad Joker and mom Harley- despite being mentally ill and fucked up they'd make good parents .

OH FATHER DEAREST SAVE ME - au in which Joker & Harleys daughter became Robin for unforseen reasons, and due to a mishap, they end up killing her.

Neglected reader - au in which reader owns an orphanage and is highly neglected by batfam. a scandal insues in which a news caught her with a child and reader is berated by her family under the peception of "having a child out of wedlock" aka sleeping around , ruining 'their squeaky clean image' .

ty to everyone who supports my work , i really appreciate everyone and i can't thank you all enough !!

if a link is not working pls comment which one and i'll fix it and i apologize for the future trouble !!

[noredemptionhere]

𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢𓍼ོ

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛: 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 [𝚘𝚌], 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 [𝚘𝚌 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍], 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚐 𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚙.𝚜. “𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢” 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚙𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍/𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐. 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍.

you weren’t okay.

neither of you were.

you were dying.. slowly, cruelly. your body had turned against you in a way no one could undo. it was a quiet kind of betrayal, coded deep in your own cells, unfolding piece by piece as you faded. and sevika was dying too. just slower. just loud enough to scream every day and still be alive the next morning.

she had proposed to you three years ago, with trembling fingers and a heart too full to beat steady. those years that followed were the only ones she would ever call good. the world had collapsed to the size of your body in her arms. you were her home, her anchor, her peace. you were the only thing she had ever loved without fear, without restraint, without wondering if she was meant to.

she didn’t propose the way she’d first planned. the original idea had been… obscene. filthy, even. she had thought about slipping the ring into your mouth mid-rimming, letting you taste the weight of forever on her tongue before you ever saw it. she’d thought it was funny, honest. but she knew you. knew you would have killed her for ruining something sacred with something so vulgar. so instead, she swallowed the laugh, bent the knee, and offered you everything in the most clichéd way possible. it wasn’t what she wanted..

..but it made you say yes.

it was supposed to be your happy ending.

but six months ago, your body wrote its own ending instead.

your immune system began attacking you. your cells, the very things meant to protect you, no longer recognized you. they saw you as a threat. a stranger. an enemy. and so, they tore you apart. your liver was the first to go, eaten alive by the thing designed to save it. sevika—who’d once laughed in the face of fire, who’d spit blood and come out swinging—had no weapon for this. no fists could fix it.

because it was the cruelest thing she’d ever witnessed. and for the first time in her life, sevika knew that whatever was happening.. was bigger than her.

but if the sickness is bigger than her, then it isn’t for others who knew it. for doctors.

she poured every coin of brass she had into treatments, into comfort, into time. precious, dwindling time. but there was no cure. no relief. just the slow, suffocating reality of watching you slip through her fingers no matter how tightly she held on.

when science failed, she turned to violence. screamed at doctors until her throat bled. held every surgeon in zaun—and piltover—at gunpoint. demanded miracles, begged for anything that would buy her another day with you.

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

the hospital smelled like bleach and blood and plastic. too clean. too fake. like they were trying to cover up the rot of truth with chemicals and clipped voices. it was the most luxurious and groundbreaking medical institution in all of topside.

so if this failed.. something would break even more in her.

sevika stormed through the hall like a storm on two legs.

nurses moved out of her way before she even raised her voice. one look at her—the trembling jaw, the too wild eyes, the blood on her knuckles—and they didn’t ask questions. they just vanished behind swinging doors and flimsy curtains.

she found the head surgeon near the nurse’s station. some older man with tired eyes and a clipboard. he turned, startled, when she grabbed him by the front of his white coat.

“you’re not doing enough.”

his mouth opened, but she didn’t give him time.

“you told me she had weeks. it’s been days. she’s in pain. she’s getting worse, not better. and you’re sitting here filling fucking paperwork?!”

“miss—sevika, please—you have to understand, this disease isn’t cu-“

“that doesn’t matter.” her voice cracked. she wasn’t yelling anymore. she was begging through her teeth. “fix her. i don’t care what it takes. tell me what you need. a new fucking liver? organs? just say it.”

he hesitated.

and she saw it.

the pause. the flicker of defeat in his eyes.

and something inside her snapped.

she shoved him hard against the wall, her forearm pressing into his throat, the other hand already reaching under her coat for the cold weight of the pistol she hadn’t carried in years. not since she’d left the undercity behind.

“you don’t get to give up,” she hissed. “not when she’s still breathing. not when she still opens her eyes and looks for me.”

“call the security-” he shouted at the nurses.

“let them come,” she growled. “i’ll kill everyone in this building if i have to. just to buy her another fucking hour.”

the silence was sharp. ugly. one of the nurses had started crying.

the surgeon didn’t move. didn’t fight back.

because what could he say? what could he offer?

there were no miracles here.

only machines. beeping. slowing.

sevika’s hand trembled. she slammed the gun to the wall beside his head, metal clattering to the floor. her breath hitched. once. twice. then broke apart completely.

“please,” she whispered, chest heaving. “i’ll bring you anything..”

“please.. she doesn’t deserve to die like this.”

the surgeon swallowed, gently easing her back. “i’m sorry,” he said softly. “we’re doing everything we can.”

but it wasn’t enough

and she was getting scared.

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

the door slammed open.

sevika stumbled through, reeking of smoke and stale liquor, her steps uneven but somehow still deliberate. blood, dark and flaking, crusted her knuckles. her cloak hung crooked off one shoulder, dragging behind her like it had barely survived the night.

she kicked the door shut, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. her eyes swept the space. the couch, the kitchen, that corner where you sometimes curled beneath a blanket like a ghost too tired to move on.

“baby?” her voice cracked low, rough around the edges. shaky, like she wasn’t sure it still worked.

silence answered.

she stepped deeper inside. something cold and heavy coiled in her chest.

then, from the bedroom.. barely above a whisper

“sev..?”

she was already moving. “yeah. i’m here.”

you were sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, your hands trembling in your lap. but it was your eyes that stopped her in her tracks. wide. distant. not fixed on her.. but through her, like she wasn’t even there.

you blinked. once. twice. slow and uncertain, like you were trying to clear a fog that wouldn’t lift.

“i think.. i think something’s wrong,” you said, voice thin and distant, like it had wandered far from your body.

“everything’s dark.”

“what?”

you swallowed hard. “i can’t.. see.”

she crossed the room in two strides, dropping to her knees in front of you. her metal hand curled gently around your thigh while her other reached up to tilt your face toward her.

“baby,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “you’re lookin’ at me, right?”

a pause. “..no?”

her chest tightened. her hand shook as it traced your cheek, your jaw, then cradled the back of your head like you might shatter in her hands. “it’s okay,” she lied. her voice split open on the second word. “it’s just the meds. or your sugar. we’ll fix it. i swear.”

you didn’t even realize you were crying until your lips trembled and warm tears rolled soundlessly down your cheeks. “i don’t want to go blind, sev.”

she pulled you into her chest like she could hold your body together with pressure alone.

“you’re not,” she murmured into your hair. “you’re not. i won’t let it happen.”

“what if i-”

“don’t,” she cut in sharply. her voice fractured at the edges. “don’t you fuckin’ say it.”

she gripped you harder. her embrace was soft, too soft, meant for comfort— but her flesh hand was growing colder. colder than the metal one.

then she pulled back, just enough to take your hand and guide it to her face.

“memorize me.”

your heart clenched. your throat closed. you couldn’t even find the breath to speak.

“right now,” she whispered.

your fingertips brushed over her brow, slow and careful. down the slope of her cheek. across the scar that tugged her mouth into that permanent scowl. you touched her lips. she kissed your fingers as they passed, barely holding herself together.

“i got you,” she whispered. “i got you. i got you.”

over and over. like if she repeated it enough, the universe would have no choice but to obey.

and you believed her.

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

a few days later, it was gone.

..no flicker behind your eyelids. no shape. no shadow. just… nothing. a still, heavy black. like sinking into an ocean without a bottom.

you heard sevika sitting beside you.

she hadn’t left the house since. no drinks. no visits to the knuckleheads. she hadn’t been out to the harbor. hadn’t seen silco in almost six days.

you didn’t speak for a long while. just breathed. counted her exhales when your own turned shaky. listened to the soft scrape of her thumb dragging across your wrist.

“still with me?” she asked quietly.

you gave a slow nod.

“good.” a pause followed. “let’s talk.”

you furrowed your brow. “talk?”

“yeah,” she said, gently. “i’m gonna tell you everything in the room. everything you can’t see. and tomorrow, i’ll tell you about tomorrow. and the day after that. and every day after that too.”

“okay,” you whispered.

she adjusted on the mattress. you felt the shift in weight, the warmth of her body beside you.

“there’s a mug on the windowsill. the one with the chip on the handle. you made me keep it after i said i’d throw it out.”

you smiled, barely.

“there’s sunlight on the floor. it’s yellow. looks like a ribbon.”

a long silence stretched out between you.

“the sheets are blue,” she added, her voice quieter now. “they smell like you.”

your hand twitched under the blanket. she reached for it and held it in hers.

“i feel like you’re tired,” you murmured. “you sound tired.”

“yeah,” she breathed. “i’ll live.”

her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and steady.

“you know what else?” she asked, leaning closer, her voice husky and low beside your ear. “you’re still the prettiest thing in this whole fucking room.”

you let out a broken laugh. then cried a little.

not because you were afraid. but because she made it okay to be.

sevika held you through it. she kissed your temple and rubbed slow circles into your back while your shoulders trembled.

“my angel,” she whispered, “..sent down just to save me.”

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

January Third.

the night was cold and quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the windows and filled the corners of the room. shadows stretched long across the walls. outside, wind drifted slow over rooftops, soft and aimless.

you whispered her name.

“hold me.” your voice was faint, frayed at the edges, barely more than breath.

sevika stopped breathing. and not for just a second.

she knew then. in the weight of your whisper. in the silence that followed. it settled in her chest like a stone, that aching shift in gravity. like the world had tipped, like something irreversible had just happened and was still happening all at once.

she didn’t cry. didn’t scream. her body moved before her mind could catch up.

she gathered you into her lap with both arms, held you like a prayer, like something sacred. her forehead pressed against yours. she was trying to share breath, to push life back into your skin through closeness alone.

“you can rest.” she said.

the words tasted like blood. tar. poison.

it broke her, saying it. the hardest thing she ever let herself speak. a mercy, and a blade. but you needed it. needed to know it was safe to let go. that she would not hold it against you. that her love wouldn’t die with you, but stretch on, root deep, grow wild through every breath she took without you.

she didn’t know if you heard her.

but you smiled. Just barely.

you wanted to say thank you.

you wanted to tell her you loved her.

you wanted to promise that you’d find her again, in a gentler place. a softer world. one where you wouldn’t have to be sick. one where her hands could hold you without shaking.

but your body wouldn’t let you.

so instead, with the last ounce of strength left in you, you moved her hand from your cheek and brought it to your lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. It was soft. barely there. like something remembered more than felt.

you’d kissed her hand a thousand times. sometimes messy and loud, sometimes slow and reverent, but never like this. never like it was the last thing you had left to give. you always had more love in you. you always did.

but then you went still.

your chest stopped rising. your mouth didn’t move. your lashes didn’t flutter.

sevika didn’t understand, not at first. she sat there, still holding your body, still waiting for you to lift your head and say something sweet. some tired joke. some soft little, “i’m still here.”

but you didn’t.

the silence stretched. heavy. hollow.

“no.”

it came out low, rough.

he pressed her fingers to your wrist.

her other hand shook as she touched your throat.

“no.”

louder now. almost a snarl.

her hands moved—shaking, frantic, useless—as she cradled your face.

“don’t fuckin’ do this.”

she was supposed to be prepared for this. but something cracked. something she’d been holding in the whole time you were sick.

she pressed her forehead to yours. her voice cracked. her whole chest heaved like it was too full of something she couldn’t swallow down.

“don’t fuckin’ do this to me, baby.”

she rocked you. once. twice. like movement could restart you.

your mouth hung open a little. your eyes, still closed, like you were just asleep.

but you weren’t.

you weren’t.

“no. no, no—no!”

the sound that tore out of her didn’t sound human. it was broken glass, and gravel, and something wounded beyond repair.

she held you tighter. clawed you against her chest like she could keep you in her arms forever if she just didn’t let go. her lips smashed against your temple—again and again—as if kissing you hard enough would make you come back.

“i told you,” she whispered. her voice was soaked in grief, barely a breath. “i told you i’d take it. whatever it was. give it to me instead. why didn’t you—why the fuck didn’t you-”

her breath hitched. her hands slipped from your back.

she couldn’t finish the sentence. couldn’t find a version of this that didn’t end in her alone.

sevika held you until her arms went numb.

held you until the light outside changed.

held you until she felt the weight of you shift—not because you moved, but because something final had passed between you.

held you like she was trying to mold you into her. so that whatever took you from her.. would see her a part of you and take her with you as well.

she stayed like that for hours, cheek pressed to yours, whispering all the things she hadn’t said

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

sevika stopped living.

she didn’t call it grief. it was something worse. something black and permanent. the people around her noticed. they moved out of her way, avoided her eyes, said her name like a warning.

she was colder now. less human. more monster. and she liked it that way.

she broke what didn’t need breaking. killed instead of capturing. drank until her throat was raw. slept on floors. woke up in alleyways.

and still, each morning, her chest split open all over again.

because you’d made her promise to keep living.

and she hated you for it.

really fucking hated you for it.

she wanted to take those words out of your mouth with her hands. crush them before they landed. pretend she’d never heard them. never nodded. never kissed your temple and said, “i will, baby. i promise.”

but here she was.

and sevika knew.. it was a matter of time before she breaks that promise.

April First.

she stumbled through the front door, half a bottle down and the other half clutched in her fist. her fingers were numb. her throat burned. her body ached with the kind of pain nothing could touch.

she didn’t plan to wake up again.

but she didn’t even make it to the couch.

she slid down the side of the kitchen counter. sat there, back against the cabinets. the cooler beside her was empty. always was.

and then the air changed.

warm. thick. familiar.

a smell.

soup.

yours.

her favorite.

the scent wound through the room like your arms used to. soft and quiet and filled with things she couldn’t name.

she didn’t breathe. didn’t blink.

not until she saw you.

at the stove.

stirring. humming.

healthy. not blind. and still the prettiest woman she has ever seen.

barefoot. in that stupid sweater she always said was too big. your hair pulled back. smiling to yourself like nothing in the world had ever hurt you.

and sevika didn’t hesitate.

she got up like it hurt.

walked straight to you like you were gravity.

her arms wrapped around your waist.

her face pressed into your neck.

and she breathed. for the first time in weeks, she breathed.

“hey,” you said softly.

your voice landed on her like mercy.

“don’t you think you drink too much-”

“no.” her voice cracked. “you shut up.”

her grip tightened.

“you shut your mouth and let me have this.”

you went quiet.

her hands slid under the hem of your sweater, palms flat against your stomach. just to feel. just to know.

and then her mouth was on your neck.

slow. starving.

a kiss, then another. then another.

down the column of your throat. up beneath your jaw.

she kissed you like she was trying to memorize you. like her mouth could map you back into existence.

“i love you,” she whispered against your skin.

one more kiss.

“i didn’t say it enough.”

another.

“i love you so much.”

you turned in her arms, soft hands cupping her face.

“i know,” you whispered, brushing your nose against hers. “i love you too.”

then you kissed her. gentle. warm. real.

and she whimpered. actually whimpered into your mouth.

because she missed this. missed you.

and she knew it couldn’t last.

you rested your forehead against hers.

“we need rosemary,” you said.

she smiled.

“yeah?”

“i wanted to make you rosemary bread,” you murmured, smiling. “it goes well with peach tea.”

and that’s when everything broke.

her dreams never remembered details like that.

not the bread, not the tea. not they your eyes shined with all the love in the world.

she opened her eyes.

you were gone.

the stove was still on.

the soup was still there.

the smell still clung to the air like your hands had clung to her face.

she moved. lifted the lid.

steam hit her cheeks.

it was hot.

it was real.

she dropped to her knees and ate straight from the pot, greedy and desperate. it burned her tongue. she didn’t care.

and when it was gone, when there was nothing left,

she reached for the bottle again.

because if drinking could make you come back,

she’d keep going.

until she could feel you again.

until she could smell rosemary again.

[slightly-knot-insane]

Safe and Sound

[ m!wolf hybrid x fem!rabbit hybrid ]

a/n: had to make this a separate post, thank you again @corvid-brain content: light biting, piv, knotting, creampie, pregnancy

The wolf hybrid and his pack had built a lovely community in the mountains, and their village was starting to blossom. Families grew rapidly, and they prospered in peace. But some hybrids were jealous of their happiness...

Today, the wolf hybrid and a few of his friends went to help their new neighbor fix the roof. The owl hybrid had broken his wing a few days ago, and his wife was heavily pregnant, almost ready to lay her eggs. It was a difficult job, but fun nonetheless. Even though it took them all afternoon to finish it, they were rewarded with a hearty dinner and delicious wine. The wolf hybrid and his friends stayed a little bit longer to help the owl hybrid family clean everything up, too.

Finally, the wolf hybrid started his walk home. His village was scattered on the side of a mountain, and his home was a bit farther from the rest of the houses, which provided him with peace and space for his growing family. It was perfect! Well, almost always.

An ominous scent crawled inside his nostrils as soon as he got close. Metal. Blood.

His hair stood up, he dropped to all fours and ran toward his house, barely holding in a terrified howl. Nononono! Not his family! Not them! The sun hadn't set yet and, clear as a day, he saw footsteps. Paws. From another pack. Going toward his home. Fast fast fast! The smell was growing thicker and more bitter. Tears welled in his eyes. Maybe he's not too late!

He almost screamed when he saw fresh blood on the window. Many footsteps marked the dirt around his house, different smells mixed in the air, and a splatter of blood ruined his wife's flowers. And the front door was slightly ajar. NonononoNONONONO!

He barged in, ready for the worst, but his wife shut his mouth with her tiny hand. "Shhhh, they are sleeping." Her beautiful soft face was covered in blood, and her left ear was cut.

"Wh-Wh-Wh—" He just couldn't form any words, his legs shaking and throat shut down.

"We are all fine. They ran away, the cowards! We are all safe now. The girls sensed trouble in time, and I could get ready. Thank the gods I insisted you teach me how to handle a knife."

"But..." The wolf hybrid gently touched her long rabbit ear. "But you are hurt... The blood..."

His beautiful mate touched her wound and flashed him a bright smile. "Oh! Don't worry! It's a scratch! The blood is theirs. You know how fast and tough I am!" She flexed her arm, and a small bump showed just above her elbow.

The wolf hybrid gazed at his wife, speechless. Her face was stained with the disgusting blood of their enemies, and her dress was ripped and soiled, and yet she was victoriously grinning. She was so weak, her strength but a fraction of her husband's, but she was so brave to fight alone and defend their babies. Their pups. So small. So incredible.

Wolf hybrid got lost in thought, barely listening to her describing the foul deed. He will ask her to tell him again. And again. And many more times. But now - he grabbed her around her waist and lifted her up - now he wanted nothing more than to love her and show her love.

He kissed her and muffled her voice inside his mouth. She was surprised by his sudden affections. His tongue quickly invaded her, and he pressed her firmly against his chest, hating that no hug could be big or strong enough for her right now.

She somehow pushed herself away. "My love!" she gasped. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" He stared into her eyes, hunger overtaking his features. "I've never been better, never been more prouder, never loved you more than right now."

The rabbit hybrid's eyes widened in shock. Not that her husband wasn't always a caring lover and a doting partner, but she truly wasn't expecting a hard-on against her blood-soiled clothes. But they had done stranger things before, and right now, all their pups were blissfully and safely asleep in the next room. She smiled and kissed her husband back.

Her husband growled impatiently, grabbing her clothes. "It's ruined, anyway," she said while pulling his shirt over his head. He happily used his claws to shred them to pieces, revealing her beautiful soft body. He immediately pulled her nipple with his teeth, carrying her toward their bedroom and their cozy little bed. They fell down, his large body pinning her against the mattress. He could barely contain himself from pushing his cock and entire knot immediately inside her. He had to be gentle; she had been through a lot.

"Fuck me now!" she moaned spreading her legs and pulling his hips toward herself. He looked at her soaking wet pussy and drool dripped from his fangs. "Fuck me hard. Now."

He grabbed her long rabbit ears and pulled them back to expose her neck. He bit her below the jaw, making her whimper. With his other arm he positioned his pulsating cock and immediately plunged into her cunt.

"Yes," she moans quietly, hoarsely. "Yes, harder, harder."

Their pups were asleep, but unless they were outside somewhere, far away from them, they never got fully vocal. The rabbit hybrid loved to say obscene things and scream in pleasure, so her husband immediately put his paw over her mouth. Only then he started fucking her little pussy will all he got.

Her eyes quickly rolled backwards, and her legs pulled him closer. Her body worked with his thrusts as she was chasing her release. The wolf hybrid bit her neck again and felt her cunt contract around his cock, reaching her peak already. He didn't slow down and barely contained a howl inside his throat from the rushing desire in his blood.

He lifted her hips upward, and smothered her moans with his tongue, pounding her cunt. It was so warm, so moist, so familiar. It was home. The smell of blood was overtaken by the smell of their mixed sweat and juices. It's making him feral.

"I'll... knot you..." he said. "I'm so close..."

"Yes, yes, yes..." She put her own hand into her mouth to silence herself, almost breathless.

Just as the wolf hybrid felt the pulsating climax heating up, he pushed his knot inside his wife pussy, and the sensation of her soaked walls around his entire sex made him cum almost immediately. He bit his wife again, grunting into her skin, holding in a fearsome howl as the rabbit hybrid reached another climax, pulling his knot deeper.

"My love..." he said. "You are safe." A wave of late worry and relief washed over him as he layed on top of his gorgeous wife, enjoying his knot resting inside her.

"Safe." She held him tight, blissfully enjoying his hot cum dripping down her ass, but mostly poolling inside her womb. "Another litter, perhaps?"

Her husband smiled. "Would you like that?"

"Conceiving them on this day to compensate the stress would really make us more than lucky, wouldn't it?

The wolf hybrid nuzzled his soft wife's fur. "That it would."

[calsbbyapple]

Sylus Mini Drabble: Keeping up with the Crow Family Shenanigans

He came home to his entire family in chaos

Pairing: Sylus x fem!reader

As promised by the poll results, just a silly tiny drabble <3 (sorry I'm busy with exams) The family in question are Luke, Kieran, you and Mephisto (no babies yet 🤭)

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The door was open, Sylus realized instantly as he reached out for the doorknob.

He had specifically mentioned Luke and Kieran to keep the house locked after him. Not a chance, Boss, Kieran had said. You can count on us, Boss, Luke had added.

Yeah right.

Flexing his fist which was already starting to smoke up with dark tendrils of his Evol, Sylus cautiously moved into the house, ready to knock out some baddie or the other. After all, he didn't play when it came to his family. However, nothing could've prepared him for the sight that awaited him.

The entire living room, one that had been once decorated with lavish black leather and red velvet, was destroyed. There was- oh, Sylus shuddered to even think of the word- pink paint splattered on the coffee table and the couch. A vase laid broken, and was that glitter? Just what the hell happened here?

"Luke! Kieran!" Sylus called out, his foot tapping impatiently on the floorboard as slow, guilty footsteps soon grazed his ears. The first one to arrive in the room was Luke, with purple glitter clumped on his face and a guilty smile on his face. Next was Kieran, who was covered from top to toe in pastel colors, colors that hurt the Onychinus leader's eyes. He, too, had a guilty smile on his face.

Last, but certainly not the least, was you.

Now, Sylus has seen things. Things that left a lasting impression. But, none of it came close to what you were looking like in that moment. You were wearing his favorite jacket, miraculously the only item on you that not only dwarfed you but also remained spotless. Other than that, you were a mess.

Your hair was thrown up in a messy bun with pink, gold, and purple glitter clumped in the strands. Your face was splotched with yellows, reds, and blues. Your blouse and shorts? Also covered in glue, glitter and paint. But, of course, there was that mischievous smile on your face.

"Kitten, please tell me something. Did you actually get in a cat fight? Specifically one in a children's show?" Sylus didn't know whether to laugh or cry, seeing as his pristine home was ruined. But, you looked so adorable right now.

And that's when he saw the reason why you, Luke, and Kieran all looked like you went to war in a Nickelodeon show.

Mephisto in your hands.

Painted like the world's most absurdly colored bird.

And if that wasn't enough, his beak and legs were covered with glue and glitter, and Sylus had never seen such a desolate look on a bird before.

"And what, may I dare to ask, did Mephisto do to deserve this injustice?"

"Payback. For snitching on me last time." You replied with the triumphant air of a champion, and that made Sylus finally crack a smile.

"So you abused my bird just because he told me that you were the one who crashed the bike?"

"Uh huh, exactly."

Sylus sighed, holding back the urge to laugh as he looked around the house once more.

"Naughty kitten."

Turning to Luke and Kieran, he raised a brow. "Neither of you stopped her?" He asked and both shook their heads simultaneously. "Sorry boss, but Mephie was getting on all our nerves. And then he cheated in cards. We had to do something."

"Unbelievable. I am surrounded by children."

"But, you love these children."

"Unfortunately."

And that was how you, Luke, and Kieran spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the place as punishment while Sylus coddled and fixed his poor, traumatized pet.

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A/N: hope you enjoyed!

Tagged: @fallthelong

[allyeilishh]

ᥫ᭡ PUNISHMENT ── .✦ B.E.

pairing: Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

genre: angst with comfort

Synopsis: the night was calm, tranquil, and you were melting with Billie soothing touches. Until everything shattered, and you were reminded of your past.

cw: abuse (slapping, shoving) please don’t read if you are uncomfortable.

w/c: 1.3k

Soft, gentle music was playing in the background of the gentle atmosphere. The room was filled with love and warmth, the joy between you and Billie binding. The pendant lights above the kitchen island illuminated the room warmly, and the gentle bubbling of food cooking could be heard.

You and Billie were cooking together, having a bonding moment that you hadn’t been able to have in a while with her busy schedule due to the tour. You were glad that you could finally have her to yourself, even if it was just for a night. No social media, no paparazzi bombarding you two, just the calmness of your home, the two of you mingled together.

You were stirring the food in the pan gently, making sure none of the liquid had split out. Billie was hugging you from behind, her hands gently caressing your sides. Her chin was on your shoulder, whispering softly to you as your hips rocked from side to side together. You both were giggling over a small joke you had made about some of Billie’s fans, and her hands just squeezed into you softly.

This was all so perfect to you. You and Billie, so close, so intimate, and nothing could ruin the moment. Until something did.

You were getting the bowls of food ready as Billie set up the table, putting the utensils down where you two would be sitting. But as you began to bring a steaming bowl of food over to the table, your hip had hit the corner of the island table, making you accidentally drop the glass bowl. It shattered all over the ground, and you were left with your eyes watering, and the flashbacks of your ex relationship.

You and your boyfriend had been getting ready to eat dinner, you had cooked—what you thought—would be a good meal. Your boyfriend had always said your cooking was the best, and he loved it. So you opted to cook dinner every night instead of going out.

But then, by complete accident, you had dropped the plate, and it shattered all over the tile floor. You immediately began to apologize to your boyfriend, trying to fix the situation. But he was already fuming the second the glass shattered.

"You can’t do anything right, can you?! Fucking stupid whore!” He stood up angrily from his chair, the wood scraping against the floor. He stomped over to you, and that was the first time he slapped you across the face.

You never expected it, thinking he was a gentle man. But your thoughts had been completely wrong. You tried to stutter out a response, tears filling your eyes. But he wouldn’t let you.

"You’re a good-for-nothing housewife, you know that?! Can’t even get dinner to the table! Fucking useless slut!” He yelled before slapping you again. The tears ran down your face quickly, like they were a water stream that couldn’t be stopped. You began to tremble, trying to hide your face with your hands.

You didn’t understand what was happening. It was a simple mistake, right? You could always clean it up, and buy a new plate if it was really a big deal. But your boyfriend seemed to think otherwise. He thought you were useless, a little doll that was broken.

"You better keep your mouth shut, you hear me? Unless you want another beating, stupid woman.” He spat out at you, before shoving you to the ground. Then, he left. Like nothing had happened. Leaving you with a reddened cheek that stung, curled up in the corner of the kitchen. Your back pressed against the wooden cabinets.

And you didn’t have the heart to leave him. Ever since that day, you were too scared of him to ever disobey him. Ever since he left you curled up on the kitchen floor, like you were some broken toy.

Your mind suddenly placed you back into the present, where you were sobbing on your knees, desperately trying to pick up the hot pieces of glass, your hands trembling as your voice was a desperate plea.

"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—it was an accident, it will never happen again—“ your sobs cut you off as you shakily picked up more pieces of glass, the hot steam still rising from the white bits.

Billie had a panicked look in her eyes as she saw you try to pick up the glass with your bare hands, almost squeezing the glass. "Baby, baby—hey, hey, sh, calm down, it’s okay. Breathe.”

Her hand went to your back, gently trying to calm you down. She wasn’t even close to mad—she was more worried that you were going to cut yourself on the sharp pieces of glass. Billie gently took the pieces of glass from your hand, before quickly throwing them in the trash can.

You couldn’t stop sobbing, the mere thought of having Billie yell and hit at you like your ex did sent a wave of dread and panic right through your body. You wanted to curl up into the corner of the kitchen—just like you did that night, and hide away from the world. You were stuck in your own head, trying to grab some napkins to clean up the mess you had made, but before you could, you were in Billie’s arms.

"It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe, I’m not gonna hurt you, baby. He can’t hurt you anymore. I’m here.” Billie whispered, cradling you in her lap and gently shushing you like you were a baby. She didn’t care about the mess or the broken bowl, she just wanted you to be okay. She wanted you to know she was there for you, and she wasn’t like your douche of an ex.

You immediately sunk into her arms, listening to her sweet, comforting words that filled your head. She always knew how to calm you down, knowing exactly how you worked. You melted into her embrace as your sobs turned into soft hiccups, and your body left with little spasms. You tucked your head under Billie’s chin, taking a deep breath.

Her scent was a mixture of vanilla and something purely her, and it made you feel a sense of tranquility. The tears stained your cheeks, no longer falling from your eyes.

"You don’t have to be scared anymore, okay, baby? I’m not going to hurt you like he did. I’m not him. We can always fix it.” Billie said reassuringly, running her fingers through your hair. She held you close, letting you listen to the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat.

You nodded against her chest, not trusting your voice at the moment. Your throat felt raw and scratchy, your body still trying to calm down from the panic and sobbing you had just gone through. Billie only held you, letting you get ready at your own pace.

"Let’s clean this up, yeah? Then we can get a new bowl and start over, okay? This never happened.” Billie said softly, before standing up with you in her arms. She gently put you down onto the ground, letting you stand on your feet. You nodded, wiping the tears away from your face.

"Go sit, we’ll eat and then we can go dance in the living room.” Billie said softly, running her fingers through your hair like you were a wounded animal in need of comfort. And you guys did exactly that. Billie had brought out the two bowls of food, and you both ate together like nothing ever happened. Like your ex never existed.

You were eternally grateful that Billie understood you so well. That she knew exactly how to calm you down.

You two slow danced in the living room to soft, classical music, the warmth of the room never once leaving.

And neither did Billie. ⋆. 𐙚 ̊

a/n: guys can you believe that I posted TWO fics in one day? ESPECIALLY angst ones? I’m so proud of myself

[rainrot4me]

Is it weird to say I wanna treat Brian/Hoodie all gently even though I've read your fics of him and how rough and mean he is /lh.. how would your interpretation of him even respond to that, gentle affection and intimate touch that ISN'T filled with a need to get off, just overall love and care for him.

✦ . jeff the killer

Jeff is used to violence. Roughness. Everything in his world is sharp. So when you sit beside him after a mission and slowly run your fingers through his tangled hair, it’s like tossing a match into a snowstorm.

“…You’re not scared of me?”

You kiss his temple. “Nope.”

“You’re weird.” But he leans in a little anyway.

He’s not sure how to process it at first. He might try to push you away with a crude joke, but the second you stop? He panics a little. Eventually, he starts pretending he doesn’t like it just to keep getting more.

✦ . ticci toby

Toby doesn’t do silence well—but you do. And when you pull him into a hug after a rough night, or press a cool cloth to his forehead after one of his tics flares up, he goes still. Like a wild animal caught in a muzzle.

“Why’re you alw-always so nice to me?”

“Because you deserve it, even when you think you don’t.”

He loves being babied when you do it sincerely. Praise and physical affection? Heaven. He may not say it, but he’ll bury his face in your shoulder and breathe in as if you’re the only grounding thing he has.

✦ . eyeless jack

He’s seen the worst of people—inside and out. The intimacy of medicine is constant for him. So when you clean his wounds, or cup his face despite the lack of eyes, it catches him off guard.

“You don’t have to do this. I can take care of myself.”

“I know. Let me anyway.”

You’re one of the only people who can touch him without fear. He doesn’t always show emotion, but if you catch him resting his head on your lap while you hum softly, just know he’s melting on the inside.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Tim doesn’t like being seen—mask on or off. But when you trace the edges of his jaw, or hold him in the dark and whisper things like “I’m proud of you” or “You’re safe with me”, he cracks.

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“You’re more than what you’ve done.”

He’ll deny needing it, but he’s touch-starved. Praise-starved. When you show up with a clean hoodie and hot coffee? His hands shake just a little. He’s not used to someone loving him without wanting something back.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Brian takes a long time to trust, and even longer to relax. You’d think he’d stiffen at affection—but once he does let you in? He melts under a gentle hand.

You massage his sore shoulders after missions. You patch him up, talk to him softly, and don’t push when he’s quiet. You don’t treat him like a monster. And that’s everything.

You kiss his hand.

He watches you for a long moment, then murmurs, “…You’re gonna ruin me.”

He returns the favor in small ways: your favorite drink left out for you, food prepped, the blanket already warmed in the dryer. Silently saying I love you too.

✦ . kate the chaser

Kate is always on edge. Aggressive, efficient, brutal in the field. But when you offer soft affection—stroking her hair after a fight, pressing kisses to her temple—she melts, privately.

“Don’t coddle me.”

“I’m not. I’m loving you.”

She’s quiet. She doesn’t pull away.

She won’t ask for care, but she needs it more than anyone. You helping her take off bloodied gear? Brushing dirt from her cheeks? Kissing her knuckles after battle? It calms her. Grounds her. And she’ll return the affection with a quiet kind of intensity that never wavers.

✦ . ben drowned

Ben doesn’t get it at first. He thinks you’re messing with him. When you rub soothing circles on his back or call him “sweetheart,” he short-circuits a little.

“You sure you meant to call me that?”

“You’re cuter than you think.”

“…You’re funny.”

Eventually, he becomes your shadow. He lays his head on your chest while you play games together, lets you fix his hair, and maybe even downloads stupid love songs because they remind him of you. (He’ll deny it.)

✦ . clockwork

Natalie is all sharp edges and guarded smirks, but she longs to be held gently. You touch her scars without flinching. You press kisses to her ticking eye like it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“You’re too soft for this world.”

“And you’re softer than you pretend.”

She’ll roll her eyes, but her grip on your waist tightens. After the walls come down, she’ll initiate the affection more often—fiddling with your hair, curling into your side, letting you wash the blood from her hands.

✦ . laughing jack

At first? He’s amused. He calls your soft touch “precious” and acts like he’s above it. But when you clean his face after a messy job, and whisper “You don’t always have to be the entertainment,” it hits somewhere deep.

“You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

“So are you.”

He laughs, but this time, it’s soft.

He becomes fiercely protective of you. He doesn’t know how to say thank you, but you’ll wake up to gifts, sweets, and strange little doodles of you two dancing under stars.

✦ . slenderman

It’s hard to imagine being tender with something so ancient and inhuman—but you do. You rest your head against his chest despite the lack of a heartbeat. You touch his hand without fear.

“Your mind is too fragile for this bond.”

“Then let me break a little.”

He doesn’t show emotion the way others do—but he begins to respond. His tendrils wrap protectively around you at night. He communicates comfort through presence, warmth, and silent understanding. You become the only being who grounds him.

꩜ .ᐟ

[angrythingstarlight]

What’s worse for Bucky- when Bee cries or when Malyshka cries?

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee.

CW: Fluff, implied smut.

When little Bee cries, Bucky automatically goes into protective dad mode.

She's a happy baby who's becoming an even happier, sweet toddler. She is also the most protected child on the east coast thanks to Bucky crafting a safe environment around her.

So Bucky knows when she's upset, it's most likely because she's tired and cranky and needs a nap. He knows how to get her to settle down, Bucky has put important meetings on hold so she could lay in his arms until she fell asleep.

She might cry when her head or tummy hurts, and like any child her age, she doesn't know how to convey what's wrong except by crying. It's okay though because Bucky can tell what's wrong by the way she behaves. And he knows how to make her feel better, whether it's with his grandma's soup or medicine hidden in some juice.

She's an active, imaginative little girl who's currently battling three dragons, it's inevitable that she's going to fall down and hurt her knee or hand. She knows all she needs to do is find her Papa and he'll help her.

Bucky has so many tips and tricks up his sleeve, things he's learned from his grandparents, friends, and the baby books he studied when Bee was still baking away in her mama's belly.

So Bucky doesn't really panic when his little girl cries because he knows that between him and her mama, they'll fix whatever is wrong.

But when his wife cries, oh that's an entirely different story.

Bucky considers himself a reasonable, level-headed man. Until someone upsets his wife. His stoic nature goes right out the window and a more primal side of him takes over. No one makes Bucky's wife cry and gets away with it. All he needs is a name and he's going to make things even.

He's an eye for an eye kinda man.

If someone makes the love of his life cry then Bucky makes them regret waking up this morning. It's more than fair.

There are other times when she cries that elicit a slighty different response from him.

When she was pregnant and hormonal, he learned to adapt to her rapidly changing, unpredictable moods. Bucky never teased her when she kept crying during movies or that one ridiculously sad commercial. He soothed and comforted her every time it happened. Let her cry on his shoulder while he rubbed her back.

If she woke up in the middle of the night in tears because she had a craving but her favorite restaurant was closed, Bucky merely made a call and would you look at that? Who knew Antonio's had a midnight delivery service, of course they serve their full menu at 1am.

Bad day? Overwhelmed and so stressed out that the only thing she can do is cry? Bucky knows a few ways to make it right, to take her mind off everything. It works. Every. Single. Time.

There is one exception to the rule.

There are a few instances when Bucky doesn't mind seeing his pretty wife with tears in her eyes.

That's when she's under him. On top of him. Bent over his desk. On all fours in front of their bedroom mirror. Mascara streaming down the sides of her face, eyes rolled back and her hands digging into his back as he goes deeper and faster.

He loves turning her into a pliant, whimpering fucked out mess. Loves seeing her struggle to take it. Loves the way he stretches her limits until she breaks around him. Loves cleaning up the mess he made.

Those tears—the ones that fill her beautiful eyes right around the time he's flipping her over and taking her for the third time that night—those tears turn him on, make him want to ruin her just a little more than he already has. So he does.

Bucky believes the only time his wife should cry is when he's making her feel so good she can't help it. That's the only exception. Anything else is unacceptable.

[nickssidewitch]

🎭🎬 💘 If the Sturniolos were actors, what roles would they play based on their looks & personalities? (A Tarot Reading) 💘🎬🎭

~Chris~

Best Fit Genres: Drama/Romance/Comedy/Thriller

The “Boy Next Door” who helps the main character with their problems throughout the plot, seemingly being the only person in the town who believes her claims. He flirts and teases with the protagonist constantly, but his hard work doesn’t go unnoticed.

Lines in this script:

• “Yeah? What d’ya need, pretty girl?”

• “Alright, I’ll help you. But how’re you gonna pay me for my hard work? A kiss?”

• “Maybe you are crazy. But the best people always are.”

• “We’re onto somethin’. …Okay, you’re onto somethin’.”

• “I love you, y’know that? Crazy girl.”

The “Lover-boy” who claims he isn’t one due to being hurt in previous relationships, but the closer he gets to the protagonist, the more he realizes his worth in love and starts to embrace his romantic side.

Lines in this script:

“God, you’re a pain.”

“I’m a stupid idiot who can’t read between the lines, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I can’t read period.”

“I just… haven’t been in a relationship in a long, long, long time. Not interested anyway.”

“Don’t look at me like that— with those eyes.”

“…I miss you.”

The “Party Animal turned Serious Investigator” in a thriller. He holds his trusty flashlight for dear life, searching for clues amidst the horrifying unknown he was forced to reckon with. He’s either the final boy, or the one who sacrifices himself for the fate of the town.

Lines in this script:

• “Can we please just forget about the fuckin’ jobs and resumés and classes and shit for one summer?!”

• “Who are you?” *whispering* “Damn he’s ugly…”

• “Fuck, what happened to her?!”

• “I’m getting my lick back one way or another”

• “This is for ruining my fuckin’ summer!”

>Matt<

Best Fit Genres: Romance/Mystery/Action/Young Adult Drama

The “Mechanic/Handyman” who helps the protagonist with her new home/car, fixing up pipes, giving her free oil changes, cleaning her windows, etc. When the main character is going through issues with her boyfriend whom she moved in with, he allows the main character to see what real love is, despite not being the most romantic person himself.

Lines in this script:

“You aren’t from around here, huh?”

“Pretty name.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Me? Nah. No wife or girlfriend. I don’t have the time.”

“You know I always have time for you, pretty girl.”

The “Small-town Dad” who, when tragedy strikes in his neighborhood/family, decides to do the crime-solving work that the city cops and detectives won’t do. He ends up uncovering something so dark and dangerous that his life is at risk around every corner.

Lines in this script:

• “My wife didn’t deserve the way she died, and doesn’t deserve the way she’s being treated after death either.”

• “It’s okay, sweetheart— Daddy’s just been thinkin’… overthinkin’.”

• “The mob?! You think I got ties to the damn mafia?!”

• “I want you to tell me what the fuck I’ve been busting my ass for.”

• “I’m not doing this to please y’all— I’m doing it to protect my family.”

The “Highschool/College Freak” who everyone misunderstands and hates— even the protagonist— but he doesn’t care. He finds ways to navigate through the system that’s set up against him and his misfit friends, and somehow the protagonist follows him along.

Lines in his scripts:

• “Oh, fuck me.”

• “This place sucks a bit less with you guys in it.”

• “You tryna blow me or somethin’?”

• “Unless you wanna end up expelled or in jail, then I’d suggest you leave before it gets messy.”

• “You’re braver than you know. That’s a… Winnie The Pooh reference, yeah, I know.”

•Nick•

Best Fit Genres: Intense Romance/Coming-of-Age/Comedy/Thriller

The “Stone-Cold CEO” who’s a tough shell to crack after years of building his empire and setting his place n the business world. But his new secretary somehow manages to break down his walls.

Lines in this script:

• “Can you just get back to work and stop pestering me?” • "I think you're just doing this to get a raise...”

• “Love? I can’t do that. Not with you, or him, or anyone in this damn office. You want me to fail?! To lose?!”

• “It hurts! It hurts to feel this way so deeply.” • “I don’t know why I love you so much.”

The “Trusty Rich Uncle” with no kids, but a whole lotta mouth. He always has a clap-back ready for the family, especially when he see the protagonist constantly being belittled or underestimated by them, having been through the same experiences himself growing up. In this coming-of-age, the protagonist learns to navigate the world with his growing confidence.

Lines in this script:

• “Ugh, don’t talk to me.”

• “I hope it isn’t as awful as those shoes she’s wearing.”

• “I know this family sucks, but you gotta improvise, y’know?”

• “He’s a pain in my left testicle. Which is why I don’t have kids.”

• “Just live your life! Fuck ‘em all!”

The “Sly Mastermind” of the crime thriller. He seems to be helpful in the beginning, but it’s as if every piece of help or advice he gives the protagonist and their friends ends up getting them all into deeper trouble. It turns out he was the one who orchestrated the whole thing, and just doesn’t want his secrets revealed.

Lines in this script:

• “Of course, I’d help you! What sort of man would I be if I didn’t?”

• “You should check the city council’s office; perhaps the mayor knows something about this.”

• “Whatever do you mean? Me? No, why would I be involved?”

• “It’s because of you! You caused this! You made me be this way! And you will be the death of this city!”

[demie90s]

WAIT CAN YOU POSSIBLY DO PAZZI X READER WHO ALSO PLAYS FOR UCONN BUT HAS REALLY BAD ANXIETY??

(Y’all love making the reader go through stuff huh😭)

ᴘᴀᴢᴢɪ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Anxiety

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:You play for UConn too. Same jersey, same grind. But while they see a star athlete, you’re trapped inside your own head. Until they start noticing—really noticing—and refuse to let you fight alone.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:angst, slow-burn comfort, mental health, found family/poly love

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:severe anxiety, internal spiraling, overstimulation, emotional breakdown, comforting touch, implied therapy mentions, protective partners, soft Geno moment

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.6k

ᴠɪʙᴇ:raw, personal, gentle hands in hair, quiet affirmations, “you’re not a burden,” deep breaths pressed to someone’s chest

Azzi saw it first. You always managed to keep your smile on around the team, but she noticed how long it took you to lace your shoes. How your breathing sounded just slightly too tight during stretches. Paige wasn’t far behind either. She picked up on the way your hands wouldn’t stay still, fingers twitching against your thighs like your nerves were dribbling their own game.

Nobody else really clocked it. You played through it like you always did. Head down, focus up, lock in. That was your thing. The loudest voice on the court when it was someone else in distress—but dead silent when it was you.

Until it cracked.

One minute, you were running drills. The next, the ball slipped out of your hands mid-pass. A clean fumble. Azzi whipped her head over instantly, and Paige froze in her defensive stance like something in her spine just told her something’s wrong.

You dropped your hands to your knees, tried to steady yourself. It felt like a full-blown thunderstorm behind your ribs. That buzzing, vibrating kind of panic that had no source—just sound and pressure and sweat.

“Yo—” Paige’s voice cut through the noise. “You good?”

You nodded too fast. Shook your head a second later. Didn’t make sense.

Azzi was already jogging over, tossing a towel to KK without a word. “She’s not okay,” she said, matter-of-fact, even before she got to you.

You sat down hard on the bench. Geno called something out but didn’t press when he saw your shoulders shaking, your fists clenched too tight around air.

Azzi crouched in front of you, her hands warm around your knees. “Hey. Look at me.”

You couldn’t. Embarrassment, shame, frustration—it all hit at once.

“Baby,” Paige said, kneeling beside her. Her tone was different. Quieter. “It’s us. You’re allowed to not be okay with us.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your throat closed up. Azzi reached for your hands and held them like they’d break otherwise. Paige tucked hair behind your ear and whispered, “Breathe with me, okay? Just match me.”

You tried.

One breath.

Then another.

It didn’t fix it. But you weren’t spiraling alone anymore.

Later, after practice, you sat on the locker room bench with your head down. Still feeling like your heart was on timeout.

“I hate this,” you muttered finally. “I hate how weak this makes me feel.”

“You’re not weak.” Paige’s voice came from the doorway, firm and low. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

Azzi walked in behind her with your sweatshirt and water bottle. “Strong doesn’t mean silent. You don’t have to do it alone, babe.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I just didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

Azzi snorted, “You are the vibe. When you go quiet, the gym feels off.”

Paige leaned against the lockers beside you. “You’re always there for us. Screaming in huddles, keeping energy up, putting your body on the line. Let us show up for you for once.”

You finally looked up.

Paige smiled. “We’re your people.”

Azzi nodded. “Your girls. For every win, every breakdown, every bad day.”

And that’s when you broke. Not in a loud, messy way. But soft. Quiet. Shoulders slumping, tears slipping down your cheeks before you could catch them.

Azzi stepped in and wrapped her arms around your neck like she was anchoring you in place. Paige came in from the side, pulling you against her shoulder. You sat there, clinging to both of them like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

Because maybe they were.