#Slow Burn (But Make It Mentally Exhausting)

[aurorlia]

JUST MARRIED ! ★ clark kent

your new husband is obsessed with you !

꒰ super ! ꒱ ──── fem!reader ★ fluff. established relationship. romantic getaway. newlyweds. emotional intimacy.

Clark didn’t sleep very much the night after your wedding. It wasn’t because of nerves or worry or even exhaustion. No—he stayed up because he just couldn’t stop admiring you.

you were curled up on your side of the hotel bed, currently on your honeymoon. The soft sheets were bunches around your waist, your lips parted just slightly as you slept.

Your wedding ring—the one he had shakily slipped on your finger hours before—caught a beam of moonlight through the window. You were his, Legally. Emotionally. Mentally and he couldn’t believe it.

Now, the morning sun streamed through the small windows of a hand-built log cabin nestled in deep woods, something very private and away from chaos—if that was possible. Just the two of you.

You stirred a bit in bed and Clark? already wide awake and shirtless beside you. He was on you in seconds, wasn’t rushed or urgent though. His movements were slow and reverent as if you were something sacred.

“Mornings Mrs. kent.” He whispered against your bare shoulder, pressing his lips softly to your skin.

You let out a sleepy, giggling hum. “You’ve said it like..six times already.”

Clark chuckled, the sound deep and warm in your ear. “I’m trying it out. Just..can’t get enough of it.”— he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—slow and lazy. There’s no rush, you have a lifetime of mornings like this.

“I can’t believe you married me.” He mumbled, complete awe in his voice.

you nuzzled closer before chuckling, “you’re literally Superman..”—which he laughed at. He definitely felt like the lucky one.

“I don’t have anything to check in for so it’s just us.” He murmured quietly, “told no one to call me unless the moon falls out of the sky.” you laughed— “and if it does?”

“then..I’ll ask it to reschedule.” He tips your chin up and kisses you slowly. You reach up and gently run your hands through his hair— messy from sleeping, flying, life. “Let the world save itself for a few days.” You joked.

He smiles again. That boyish, open and hopelessly in love smile. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

The two of you finally get out of bed hours later, only because he insists on making breakfast. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants and an apron with a cheesy ‘Kiss The Cook’ logo on it, flipping pancakes at a quick speed— you told him the pancakes didn’t need to be heart shaped!

He brings you your plate like it’s fine dining, then he sits next to you at the very tiny kitchen table provided, watching you take every bite with heart eyes. You’re halfway through chewing when you catch him staring. “What?” You question.

He shrugs. “I just love you.” And you immediately throw your napkin at him.

after breakfast, he promised no Superman—just Clark. He walks with you to a quiet lake nearby. It was ridiculous, you had just eaten and he was setting up a picnic. Setting and spreading out the blanket and the picnic basket he packed when you weren’t looking.

He curls up behind you as you sit between his legs, your back against his chest. At some point, you can feel his eyes burning into you. not literally..!— you look at him and smiled, “geez, what are you staring so much for?”

“I can’t help it.” He says simply, his voice low and sincere. “I’ve seen..planets— beautiful things and yet none of them come close to you.” He chuckled, his head shaking in awe. “You really are obsessed.” Is all you can manage to say.

He softly kissed your temple, “with my wife? forever.”

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Dracule Mihawk (1/2)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

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1/2: Mihawk x Reader Length: 18.5k+ Rating: 18+ Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence (Eventually), Psychic Invasions of Privacy, Obsessive Tendencies, Emotional Dysfunction Played for Humor and Angst, Questionable Consent (Mental Realm), Long-Term Ghosting, Suggestive Themes, Unsolicited Sword Metaphors, Language, Mentions of Hormonal Meltdowns and Crayon Consumption

Having Mihawk as a soulmate is like being spiritually handcuffed to a haunted cryptid in a cape who thinks silence is foreplay and emotional repression is a personality trait. His presence is sharp, cold, and somehow always judging you mid-snack. He’s been lurking in your head like a cursed wine sommelier since the bond activated—critiquing your sword form, your taste in literature, and once, your soup. “If my soulmate’s a child, I’ll wait until they’re old enough to hunt.”

Part Two

For @ari20002

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

You’re a proud little girly-girl, equipped with dreams, skills, big ideas, and exactly thirty books of varying fairytales featuring soulmates you have been studying since birth.

It all starts innocently enough. You’re sitting in the corner of the room, reading fantasy books and chewing on crayons like they’re gourmet snacks. No shame. You’re living your best life, and crayons taste better than people think, okay?

And then—bam.

Somewhere, miles away, a certain swordsman with an unnerving mastery of Haki and a complete inability to handle social interactions hears you. 

Growing up, you assumed your soulmate is either dead, fictional, or a weird pile of emotionally repressed sea foam that’s just out there… somewhere… probably not interested. You’ve never met him.

And when he finally does decide to open his mental mouth? It’s always one of three things:

A single, cryptic monologue about blade technique that definitely sounds suspiciously sexual.

A scathing insult aimed at some rival you’ve never met, but somehow you’re still offended by.

Two words, maybe three, and then nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You: “Am I being haunted??”

Older you, lighting a cigarette: “Oh, honey. That’s just him. He does that.”

He doesn’t talk to you directly. He just... vibes ominously from across the soul realm, like some emotional tornado.

You try calling out through the bond? Silence. You try threatening him? A single cherry blossom falls dramatically from nowhere, like, you didn’t order that. You think a lewd thought? Your pillow spontaneously combusts.

You had dreams. You thought that maybe you’d meet him one day; he’d sweep you off your feet, kiss your forehead, maybe let you ride on his sword like it’s a magical broomstick. You had a dozen memorized stories telling you exactly how your soulmate should act. 

Meanwhile, your actual soulmate is out there, somewhere, fortifying his mental palace with stone walls, a moat, and a polite “do not disturb” sign carved from obsidian.

He ghosts you so thoroughly, so methodically, that you grow up convinced that your soulmate bond is just some cosmic glitch, like some weird, one-sided internet connection to an emotionally unavailable man. It’s like a weird echo chamber of self-inflicted torment.

You know nothing about your Prince Charming. Nothing at all.And the blanks? Oh, you fill them in… so badly.

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

Age 8:

You feel the bond click into place: a soft, clear sensation, like a silver bell ringing deep in your chest. You gasp dramatically, eyes wide, staring at the horizon as if something monumental is unfolding in front of you.

Your book goes flying into a bush.

"He’s here," you whisper, breathless, your voice full of awe. "My destiny."

You turn to the chickens behind your house and, almost without thinking, speak to them with conviction. "He’s probably a prince," you muse, excitement building. "With a tragic past. And excellent hair."

You’re positively buzzing with fairytale dreams, convinced that the universe has just handed you a perfect destiny. The moment the bond snaps into place, you practically spring from the ground, running barefoot outside like some mythical prophecy has just awakened.

"My soulmate is out there!" you shout, grinning from ear to ear. "I knew it! We’re going to get married on a cliff during a lightning storm. He’ll save me from a dragon, make breakfast in bed, and maybe, just maybe, we’re secretly royalty."

Meanwhile:

Mihawk, at the age of 16, is in the middle of training. His mind is sharp, focused, and his brooding demeanor makes it clear that he hasn’t smiled since he was a child. In fact, everything about him exudes an almost otherworldly calm, like a sword waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The bond pulses, and Mihawk feels you: your presence, your bright, chaotic energy. 

He pauses mid-training, his grip tightening on his sword hilt, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if he’s made a mistake, if this feeling is some kind of trick.

A voice. Soft, bright, and completely innocent.

"Do you like roses or daisies more? I wanna match!"

You’ve named the bond and named it something ridiculous, something cute. 

"Soulbeam," you called it. "Soulbeam" sticks in his mind like a dagger, a constant reminder that he is now tethered to this irreverent, energetic little creature, one who thought soulmates were meant to be some grand, poetic connection. And every time the bond flares, Mihawk feels you. He hears you. And the words you say are both nonsensical and endlessly annoying.

"Soulbeam reporting for duty! I think my neighbor’s goat is evil. What’s your opinion?"

He stands there, frozen. His mind reels, and for a second, it feels like his internal organs are on fire. It’s the strangest sensation; a pull, a presence that somehow makes everything inside him go still and wild all at once.

“Absolutely not.”

He didn’t block you out because you were weak. No, you were strong, too strong, in fact. You were a force of nature, filled with glitter and hope and an unfiltered belief that soulmates were supposed to love each other.

Mihawk, however, wasn’t interested in any of that.

He wasn’t interested in being “fixed.” He wasn’t interested in being attached to some tiny, romantic child who thought the world was a fairytale.

So he slammed the bond shut with the kind of telepathic force that one usually reserves for banishing devils, immediately, with no reservations.

And just like that, it was gone.

You?

You took that silence as a mystery. You figured he was brooding. And that? That was hot. Maybe he was mute. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he just couldn’t handle the intensity of the soulmate bond.

Back to you:

Your side of the bond? Nothing. Just… static. A void. You once tried shouting into it, and it echoed back like a haunted well. 

You: “Hello???”

Bond: [Muffled noise of a door locking.]

You start thinking maybe it was a weird fever dream. Maybe your soulmate died. Maybe they’re in another dimension. Maybe you’re the hallucination? Your fairy tale books haven’t given instructions on this sort of thing.

Meanwhile, Mihawk is actively dodging it like it’s jury duty.

-X-Passages from Your Childhood Psychic Transcript. Aka, silence.-X-

Age 9:

“Hello?? Mister Sea Ghost? I think you left your sword feelings in my head.”

You tried again and again. Sometimes, asking questions like “Do you like cats?” or “Do soulmates get presents or just the shared trauma?”

Every time, you were met with the deep, echoing void of a man willfully choosing psychic silence. 

But every time, you’re met with nothing. Not even a whisper. It’s like you’re shouting into the dark and waiting for someone to throw you a rope. You can’t even get a single scrap of acknowledgment.

Frustrated, you run to the library, a sanctuary of your own. You’ve always loved the smell of old pages and the promise of endless knowledge between covers. But today, it’s not for the stories. It’s because you want something to fill the silence.

You pull a book from the shelf, one that catches your eye. Something that might finally give you an answer about him. You shuffle up to the counter with a stack of books you’re not supposed to check out yet, hoping one of them has the magic key to unlocking this mysterious bond. The librarian glares at you, but you barely notice. You’re too wrapped up in trying to figure out if soulmates are supposed to be this distant.

“Do you want romance?” you whisper to yourself, flipping through the pages. “Or just awkward silences?”

The librarian sighs, taking the books from you and giving you a pointed look. “I’m not sure that’s what these books are for. You shouldn’t be looking in the adult section yet.”

“Do you accept interns?”

“Not under 12.”

You huff and roll your eyes, muttering something about soulmates not being nearly as fun as everyone makes them sound. You leave the library with nothing but more silence, and a creeping sense that maybe, just maybe, Mister Sea Ghost is the worst roommate the universe could’ve given you.

Elsewhere:

Shanks hears about it over sake once.

“You blocked your soulmate?”

Mihawk, sipping dark wine: “They were a toddler. I am not raising a mini swordsman with sticky fingers and jelly on their face.”

“So you just disconnected?”

“I meditated. With extreme prejudice. I don’t talk to children.”

Shanks: “…they’re like, small and have feelings. You could’ve just muted the telepathy.”

Mihawk: “I did. With violence.”

Age 10:

"I drew us getting married. That’s you. I made you a cape. You feel ‘capey.’"

Silence.

You flip open your new costuming book on princes, trying to fill the void. "Do you think our souls touched in a past life? Were we gladiators or pirates? Or royalty?"

More silence.

You sigh, glancing at the bond, hoping for a response. But it's as empty as ever, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your ‘capey’ drawing.

Elsewhere:

Mihawk, age 18, buries his face in his gloved hands. Seriously considers abandoning the concept of feelings altogether. Pauses mid-duel with Shanks. Visibly flinches. Shanks politely asks if he’s okay. Mihawk lies and says he’s allergic to pollen.

You: “HI. I HAVE A STICK. I’M NAMING IT SWORDY.”

Mihawk, mid-swing, freezes. Blade humming in the air. A vein in his temple throbs.

This man, a literal weapon-in-the-making, immediately drops his sword, turns on his heel, and starts walking. Doesn’t say where. Doesn’t say why. The monk who raised him just watches in silence.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from this bond before it gives me a migraine and a court summons.”

Age 11:

Over the Years…

“Do you like roses or daisies more??? Please, I'm planning the wedding!!!"

Mihawk at nineteen, in the middle of a bloody duel with three grown pirates. Someone lands a lucky cut. He blinks, distracted.

“My soulmate just proposed to me.”

Enemy: “What—”

Mihawk: [kills him in one stroke] “And I’m still not answering.”

Age 12:

You start writing letters to your soulmate like a tragic romance heroine:

“Dear Mysterious Mister Sea Ghost, I stubbed my toe today, and also no one loves me.”

He reads every mental blip you scream into the void.

And then he slams it shut.

Again.

More Silence. 

Years of it.

You do end up interning at the library.

Age 13:

Puberty.

“So I think I’m dying. Or my soulmate is. Or both.”

Mihawk stands and walks to the wine cellar. Opens the bottle labeled “For Soulmate Emergencies”. 

Pours a glass. “Absolutely not.”

“I got my period today. Is this a shared sensation, or should I send you a warning next time?”

Mid-wine sip. Chokes. Drops the glass. The entire forest around his castle hears the sound of despair.

He began meditating by candlelight, the soft glow flickering like a whisper against the encroaching darkness. But then, like a rogue wave, a hormonal surge hit him, crashing through the bond with all the subtlety of a glittering tsunami. It was a chaotic mixture of frustration, rage, and way too many crushes on fictional characters. The kind of feelings you only get when you’ve been reading too much and can’t decide if you’re emotionally destroyed or just overly horny.

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know how this is my life now.”

Age 14:

By now, you’re fully leaning into delusion because it’s all you have.

You’ve embraced it. Leaned into the madness like a warm blanket.

You still call the bond “Soulbeam.” It sounds better than "Psychic Invasion Hour", and it feels more romantic, like you're waiting for some tragic prince to finally cross the distance.

You journal about your imaginary man like he’s a mythic creature, half in jest, half in the hope that someone might believe it. You write about him with all the drama of a fairytale heroine; his soft eyes, his untold mysteries, the way he probably looks in a cape. You paint him in broad strokes, the perfect romanticized version of a man you can’t even meet.

It’s ridiculous. You know it is. But it’s all you’ve got now. So you document your imaginary soulmate's every flaw and glory, carefully cataloging his existence as if he’s a figure in a book, a beautiful, unreachable fantasy.

“Dear Prince Quiet mystery-man, I hope your cape is warm. I’m learning embroidery for our wedding.” PS: Do you prefer pink or yellow for curtains?”

Still, nothing. Not even static. Just spiritual tumbleweeds.

You start assuming:

He died tragically.

He’s a specter.

Or, worst of all, he knows about you and doesn’t care.

Your inner monologue morphs into a full-blown one-woman show. You whisper to the wind like a theater kid who’s way too familiar with the phrase “I’m just misunderstood,” but, worse, like a book nerd who’s read one too many romance novels and is about one tragic love story away from collapsing into a puddle of overdramatic angst.

Elsewhere:

You have feelings. Strong ones. For some bard. You cry. You scream. You throw a shoe at a tree.

Mihawk feels the hormonal flare hit his soul like a cannonball.

“Nope. Nope. This is a divine punishment. I will not engage.”

He adds a second moat around his estate. Trains baboons to intercept mail. Builds a telepathic firewall out of willpower and petty hatred for emotional chaos.

Age 15:

Every once in a while, your voice tries to come through again.

And Mihawk, cold, brilliant, emotionally allergic Mihawk, feels the bond tickle his consciousness with:

“Today I ate three peaches and cried for no reason. Is that… normal?”

He closes his eyes and forces his Haki to mute. At least you’ve lost your penchant for detailing your dreamed romances between the two of you. He’s tired of your mental monologues about him being the sleeping-beauty knight, the lone prince of some tragic story you’ve written in your mind.

“I will not be emotionally blackmailed by fruit.”

He once dueled a Yonko. He once cut a tsunami in half with a single swing of his sword. He once made a man cry from sheer presence. But teenage melodrama? Teenage love fantasies about someone who isn’t even in the same hemisphere? That is what’s breaking him.

It’s absurd, really. But here he is: tired, exasperated, mentally dodging your romantic rants about fruit, your attempts to weave him into some grand fairy tale that he’s long since dismissed.

“I LOVE BOOKS!” You scream it like you've just discovered fire, but instead of warmth, it's an unhealthy obsession with fictional characters who can't text you back.

And yet, despite his best efforts to ignore it, he’s still there. Still listening. Still unwilling to let you go. Because somewhere, beneath the layers of disdain, a part of him is invested in this bizarre, ridiculous game you two are playing. Even if he refuses to admit it.

Unholy. Unmanageable. Unwanted.

Every time you get dramatic, like crying over some village boy who won’t kiss you during festival season, he feels a distant pulse through the bond.

Your heartbreak echoes across the sea like a cursed foghorn. And Mihawk? Mihawk does the only logical thing.

He attempts to remember the spell to permanently silence the bond.

Back to you:

You start to spiral, your thoughts tumbling into chaos like a jar of marbles being shaken up. Everything is slipping through your fingers; your sanity, your grasp on reality, maybe even your sense of self. You’ve had enough of your soul-crushingly silent bond with him, but now you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole of existential dread.

It coincides at the same time your local library runs out of young adult fiction. Of course. You’re stuck with nothing but dusty classics, historical fiction, and some guy named Sir Nietzsche.

You accidentally pick up the book, thinking it’s just some old philosopher, and within ten pages, you’re questioning everything you ever believed in. The world? A dark, cold place filled with nothingness. Your soulmate? A twisted joke, just like everything else. You wonder if he, too, is secretly reading Nietzsche somewhere in the ether, sighing dramatically over the futility of existence.

It’s too much. You’re way past the point of asking for your soul back. You just want to close the door on this whole miserable mental game.

But, no. You can’t. Because, just like with the library books, you're stuck with this: your thoughts, your bonds, and him.

You sigh and shove the book aside, realizing you’re too deep now. There's no escaping it.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t have a soulmate. Maybe the universe gave me a soul void. A romantic absentee landlord. A soul eviction notice.”

Your frustration builds, and you hurl your arms out, gesturing dramatically to the empty air, like it’s the most insulting thing in the world. You start talking to the void, out of sheer spite.

“I bet you have terrible posture. You probably eat dry toast and act like it’s a five-star meal. Maybe you iron your socks like some kind of psychotic neat freak. You know what? I hope you step on a sword facing up. A big one, too. The kind of sword you don’t even deserve. You’re probably the type to judge people mid-bite of a sandwich.”

Still. Silence.

Your heart beats a little faster, not from fear but from a building, bitter sense of ridiculousness. You’ve been yelling at nothing. Nothing that’s listening, at least. You’re pretty sure the bond’s somewhere out there, but it’s as empty and oppressive as ever, like a vacuum that absorbs all your thoughts and spits out none in return.

You let out a long breath, crossing your arms, pacing in circles. “You know what? Fine. You’re probably emotionally unavailable. Maybe you’re not even real. Just some idea floating around in the universe to torment me, like some cosmic joke that I’ve been too dumb to get.”

The silence presses down harder, like it’s taunting you, and you’re done.

You grow convinced your soulmate is:

Emotionally unavailable 

Possibly fictional

Statistically likely to be the worst man alive (You are accidentally right.)

There’s a painful pause before you finally mutter to the void, “If I ever meet you, I’ll be surprised if you’re even human.”

Still, nothing.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t matter. You’re done letting the bond have control over your headspace. You’ve spent too long trapped in the cosmic void, waiting for someone who isn’t even sending postcards.

It’s clear now: your fairy tale dream of princes and seafaring romance is dead. Maybe it was always a stupid dream. Maybe you were just a kid throwing wishes into the stars, hoping one would land on someone with a cape and an absurdly sharp sense of decorum. But reality? Reality’s a bitch with a wicked sense of humor.

You pause, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the moment settle in. You’ve outgrown the idea of soulmates, of “destiny.” Screw fate, screw this soul bond that’s only ever been a reminder of how badly you’ve been ignored. You can’t spend another second waiting for a man who thinks “communication” is a weapon of war, one he’s long since abandoned.

“I’m done,” you mutter to the room. To the void. To whatever’s still listening, which is probably nothing.

Your dream of some grand, seafaring romance—of some mythical, sword-wielding prince who’d sweep you off your feet—shrivels up and dies like a flower left too long without water. You’re no longer holding onto the idea that he’ll come to your rescue, because the truth is: no one’s coming. Not him. Not anyone.

Age 17:

You’ve grown accustomed to the silence. It’s no longer unsettling. You’ve come to accept it, even embrace it, like that one sock you can’t find the pair to, but just keep anyway. The void is just… there. Like an old, familiar shadow that doesn’t judge you for binge-reading romance novels at 3 AM. Sometimes, you speak to it out of habit, though you no longer expect a response. It’s like you’re in a one-sided conversation with the universe, and it’s too busy to even pretend to listen.

It probably helps that you now work full-time at the library, where silence is practically a job requirement. And the books? Well, they don’t talk back, but at least they don’t judge you for talking to yourself.

"You probably read the dictionary for fun," you add, “and then rate it like it’s some high-class wine. 'Ah yes, this page really brings out the notes of 'preposition' and 'conjunction'...'" you mutter one day, tossing a stone into the nearby pond. "And never laugh. Or cry. Or do anything fun. You're probably allergic to happiness."

The bond remains silent, of course. A solid, oppressive wall. It’s just another thing in your life that refuses to engage with your existence.

So you do what every curious young woman does. Things.

Elsewhere:

Mihawk is alone. Reading. A glass of wine in one hand, a polished blade in the other. Entirely unbothered.

Until he feels it.

That snap. That flush of heat across the bond. The unmistakable psychic echo of you going:

“Screw destiny, I’m taking control of my own pleasure for once.”

And his whole body locks up. Wine shatters on the stone floor. The castle trembles.

“…No.”

He closes his eyes. Tries to mute the connection like he always has.

Fails.

He is pacing. And that’s the problem. Mihawk doesn’t pace. He’s muttering to himself, cape flaring like he’s fighting the wind indoors.

“She—why now—she chose this moment? Of all the moments? What happened to journaling? To princes? To dramatic poetry about rain? No. No. I refuse to acknowledge this.”

But he does. Because the bond is alive. And so are your extremely specific fantasies. And he cannot unsee them.

Back to You:

You don’t realize what’s happening yet. But suddenly, you feel… watched?

Judged?

Psychically menaced?

The candle flickers. A cold chill moves through the room. You glance over your shoulder.

“…Okay, maybe not tonight.”

Age 18:

Eventually, you come to terms with it. You’ve been haunted by a spook with an impeccable fashion sense and a crippling fear of emotional connection. It's fine. Really. You’ve learned to live with it, like that one awkward roommate who keeps leaving their shoes everywhere, but you’re too polite to ask them to leave. You’ve got books and some friends. Mostly books, though.

One day, in the middle of a particularly rough shift at the library, you finally snap. “Where the hell is my mysterious phantom husband when I need him!?” you shout, thoroughly annoyed. The nearby librarian gives you a look, but she’s used to your bizarre monologues by now.

In a moment of pure frustration, you smack a late-returning patron with a frying pan (gently, of course, no need to ruin the books) and mutter, “I don’t need a damn soulmate.”

You’d long stopped broadcasting deliberately. You weren’t trying to reach him anymore. It was just... venting. Like singing in the shower or talking to your houseplants—except your houseplants actually exist compared to your ghostly soulmate.

But then one fateful day, you stub your toe on the corner of the coffee table, and the sheer force of your colorful curse causes the bond to flare up. Somewhere across the sea, Mihawk’s wine glass shatters mid-air, and for the first time in... well, ever, he cracks.

“…Fine. I’ll say hello. But only once.”

You: “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?!”

He vanishes in a swirl of cape and roses, because apparently, dramatic exits are part of his "soulmate package."

From that moment on, you can feel it. You’re being watched. Not in a creepy, "I’m lurking in your bushes with binoculars" kind of way, but more like, "I’m perched in my emotional fortress, judging your life choices while sipping my imaginary tea and judging your book choices."

You screech.

SENGOKU, GARP, AND KONG.

He exists. He actually exists.

Like, of course he does. Why wouldn’t your emotionally unavailable Mr. Sea Ghost make a grand entrance right when you’re losing your mind? And here you thought you were just talking to yourself... But nope. Apparently, your elusive, emotionally distant phantom husband has been there all along, waiting to judge you from the comfort of his invisible high tower.

And now it’s clear he’s been doing phantasm recon until you're at least old enough not to use a juice box as a shield. 

You’ve never felt so... tracked. You’re sure that one day, you'll turn around and catch him lurking behind a tree, sipping his wine with a judging glare, and mentally critiquing your posture as you reach for a snack.

Quietly. Judging. Possibly now interested.

Possibly against his will.

Ah, romance.

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

Age 19:

Okay, so your soulmate does exist.

Asshole.

You’ve realized that he’s definitely one of the worst soulmates in history. It’s not just that he’s a wight with a suspiciously good wardrobe (he vibes it) and a penchant for haunting your emotional well-being. No, it’s that he’s the type of visitant who shows up only when you’re trying to have a normal life.

But you don’t hide from him. No. That would imply effort. That would imply fear. And you’re way past the point of letting some cold-eyed, cryptid-in-a-cape, emotionally constipated wraith ruin your self-esteem.

You simply... decline to reach out.

Like a soul who’s unionized, demanding appropriate breaks from emotional trauma. You’re not scared of this poltergeist. You’re just profoundly uninterested in opening your heart to a man who:

Ignored you for over a decade.

Psychically recoiled every time you had a thought that was remotely more complex than, “Wow, clouds look nice today.”

Once accidentally received every single vivid, shameful detail of your first-ever kiss and responded by judging you so hard through the bond that you got psychically bullied. You just thought it was a hormonal downturn.

In retrospect, the impending sense of doom made a lot more sense. You weren’t depressed, you were cursed.

And now? Now you’re mad. Mad enough for a retry.

You lit candles. You were trying to move on. You were dignified, adult, and empowered. But just as things were heating up, somewhere across the Grand Line, Mihawk paused mid-training with the slowest, most dramatic blink.

“…Really? At this hour?”

And you felt it. That sharp, flat slap of his contempt. Not anger. Not awkwardness. Just pure, unadulterated bored disdain, like you were the most minor inconvenience in a late-stage opera rehearsal.

You’re pissed. Like, seething. You’ve spent years talking to an emotional spirit who barely acknowledges your existence, and now you finally summon the courage to put your foot down…and this is the response you get?

“Ah. So Mister Sea Ghost does exist,” you mutter under your breath, as though you’ve just discovered that the universe has decided to bless you with the worst astral gag ever.

His voice slices through the bond, so cold it could freeze lava. "You're more obstinate than I expected."

You don’t even flinch. You fire back, without missing a beat, "And you’re colder than I remember. Still judging people mid-orgasm, or was that a me-only feature?"

There’s a moment of utter, bone-deep silence. You can almost feel his internal eye-roll like a physical force traveling through the bond, so strong you almost choke on it. But you don’t care.

In fact, you almost relish the fact that he’s so ticked off. It’s like a small victory for the soul.

You stand there, stewing in your own indignation, while your soulmate—somewhere out there in his little fortress of icy emotional neglect—probably battles with his own internal conflict. You can almost hear him, pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering something about how much he regrets existing in the same universe as you.

You’re beyond giving a damn. You’ve got dignity to salvage.

And besides, it’s not like he actually knows what to do with you, either. It’s a one-sided dance of chaos at this point, and if he doesn’t want to tango, then fine.

You don’t need him.

So, with all the confidence you can muster (because hey, if your soulmate wants to be emotionally unavailable, you’ll just outplay him at his own game), you take a deep breath and mentally shout, "Get lost."

No more messing around. No more waiting for his ice-cold self to finally stop being a spiritual lurker in your life. You’ve got better things to do than entertain a man who critiques clouds and judges your most embarrassing moments.

The silence stretches between you, long enough that you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this is the one time it’ll be permanent.

And then, finally, his voice cuts through the bond, thick with irritation and, surprisingly, mild regret. 

"I will not be disrespected like this."

“Really?” you shoot back, leaning into the chaos now. “If you were going to keep being a judgmental wraith, you could at least have some respect for your own mental bandwidth. I’m not your emotional punching bag, buddy.”

And just like that, you shut the door. Not literally, obviously, because you're not physically anywhere near him, but mentally? You’ve slammed that thing so hard metaphorically that you think you might’ve left a dent.

You don’t need him. You don’t. You’ve got your dignity.

"Is there a special class for being this moody when absolutely nothing is happening, or do you just come by it naturally? You’re like the emotional version of a fog bank."

And if he wants to sulk in his silent, censorious stronghold while you live your life? Well, he can knock himself out.

You hear it.

A single exhale.

So faint you think you imagined it.

But it was a laugh.

Elsewhere:

And then, it happens.

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

Not a huff. Not a smirk. But a real, startled laugh; low, short, and completely unguarded. The sound is so unexpected that for a moment, Mihawk just freezes, as if the very act of laughing is something his body hadn’t done in ages. It’s the kind of laugh that escapes him without warning, a brief moment of human vulnerability in a world he’s carefully controlled.

He drops the book he’s holding, the pages fluttering uselessly in the air, forgotten. His gaze shifts to nothing in particular, staring into the distance, and for a long moment, he does nothing but process the unexpected disruption.

“…ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, the words somehow filled with both amusement and a strange fondness that he can’t immediately dismiss.

And yet, for the first time, he doesn’t mind it.

That’s it. That’s the crack in his armor.

Mihawk doesn’t get swayed by grand declarations of fate, doesn’t respond to insults or challenges with more than a cold stare or a heavy silence. He doesn’t even react to your complete disregard for the mystery that shrouds him. But you? You’ve broken through all that with nothing but a casual jab, a sarcastic remark thrown his way like a stone skipping across still water. The moment it happens, Mihawk sees it. A quiet shift. A soft, almost imperceptible movement, like a shadow flickering just out of reach.

You’ve made him happy.

It’s the smallest thing, barely audible, a breath of amusement that passes through him before he even realizes it. A chuckle, so unexpected it cuts through the suffocating silence that’s always hung between the two of you.

And in that brief moment, he wonders what it would be like to really know you.

His guard lowers in stages.

First, he listens at night, when the bond goes quiet and he feels the absence of your voice more keenly than he’d like to admit. He’s puzzled by it. It’s just silence, but it doesn’t feel like it should be quiet. Then, he notices when you stop talking. When the bond falls silent for a few hours, a day, or a moment. And, to his own surprise, he finds that he misses it. Misses you. Soon after, he starts remembering the ridiculous things you say. Not the cutting jabs or the sarcastic barbs, but the odd little details that make you who you are.

“She said her kitchen knife collection has a favorite. That one ‘just feels stabby, in a fatal kind of way’.

He remembers that. Oddly, he remembers it with a kind of fondness, even though it’s absurd. Who even says that?

He catches himself waiting.

Waiting for your voice to break the silence again. Waiting for your next ridiculous thought, your next unguarded, human comment that reminds him that you’re more than just an interruption to his well-ordered life.

And most of all, he waits for the next time you, without meaning to, see straight through him. You manage to expose something in him without even knowing it. Something he thought was buried too deep to surface.

He’s listening now. Not just because he has to, but because he wants to.

Age 20:

You stop broadcasting like a gremlin radio station. The shift is subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. You become quieter. Sharper. Focused. The chaotic stream of your thoughts that used to ricochet wildly across the bond settles into something more controlled. Something more dangerous, even. No more wild bursts of sarcastic commentary, no more throwing insults into the void. Now, when the bond hums, it simmers instead of screeches. It’s as though you’ve pulled the reins on a creature you never thought you could control, and yet, somehow, the bond feels more potent, more deliberate.

It isn’t long before he notices.

From then on, it’s a deeply predictable disaster of awkward sword flirtation, long silences, and mutual eye contact held for exactly 0.3 seconds too long. There are moments where neither of you speaks, but the air between you thickens with the weight of things unsaid. Your connection, once a tangled mess of desperate energy, has become something far more complicated. It's like a thread pulled too tight. One that can snap at any moment, but in a way that almost feels necessary.

You’ve never met him. You don’t even know his name. But somehow, you know he’s there. He’s listening.

It’s almost maddening at first. You can’t help but wonder when he’ll speak again. You stop trying to get his attention, stop throwing out your sharp remarks like they’re breadcrumbs meant to lure him out. Instead, you focus. You do your best to act like he’s not there. Like the bond isn’t there.

You’re muttering to yourself, still feeling the sharp sting of your latest rejection. A lord with a scent that could only be described as clove and desperation had just proposed to you, and you had turned him down with a level of dramatic flair that would’ve made anyone proud.

“My soulmate’s obviously a revenant,” you say, tossing a stone into the nearby pond. It skips across the water, barely touching the surface. “Or a weirdo. Or a dramatic loner with too many candles and commitment issues—”

And then?

He answers.

His voice cuts through the bond like a blade. Quiet. Dry. Absolutely him:

“I only have six candles.”

You freeze.

You blink, your hand still in mid-air from the stone you threw. For a moment, you think you misheard him. No way. He’s not responding. He never responds.

“...You’re listening?”

His voice is flat, as though this were some mundane conversation and not the soul-shattering revelation that it is. “Unfortunately.”

The words are out before you can stop them, the astonishment in your voice so clear that even you’re surprised. “You can hear? EVERYTHING?”

“Against my will.”

You can feel him, the weight of his presence pressing against the edges of your thoughts, filling the space with an unexpected, almost tangible coldness. It’s the most alive he’s felt in this bond in... forever.

For a moment, you just stand there, processing the ridiculousness of it all. He’s real. After all this time, all these years of ignoring him, of practically begging the universe to send you a sign, he finally shows up, and in the most unnecessary way possible.

“You’ve matured,” Mihawk’s voice comes again, almost like a quiet, distant comment. “You’re tolerable now.”

“Tolerable?” You almost choke on your own disbelief, completely forgetting for a second that this man, your mystery soulmate, has been haunting you from the shadows for over a decade. “Now you speak?!”

“Yes.”

“Oh ho ho ho. You’re real. And you’re a bastard.” The words spill out before you can stop them, the harsh truth ringing in the air between you.

His voice, colder than ice and sharper than steel, cuts through with no hesitation. “You named your blanket ‘Sir Fluffington.’ I was protecting myself.”

You blink, shocked by the audacity. “You ignored me for twelve years!”

There’s a silence before Mihawk responds, calm and collected as always. “You once cried over a seagull you thought was your cousin. Forgive me for hesitating.”

The mention of the seagull hits you like a punch to the stomach, and you can’t help but laugh. “GHOSTED!” you accuse, the bitterness still fresh.

Mihawk doesn’t even flinch. “I didn’t ghost you. I… delayed engagement.”

“Delayed engagement?” You can’t help the incredulous laugh that escapes you. “You spiritually blocked me for over a decade.”

“…It was necessary.”

You feel the weight of his words in the silence that follows. The bond is no longer just a distant connection; it’s a conversation. A connection. Something more real than you ever imagined. And somehow, you realize, you don’t want to let the moment go. You need vengeance.

You cross your arms, feeling more alive than you have in years. “You don’t get to come back after ghosting me through my entire emotional adolescence.”

Mihawk’s tone is casual, almost amused. “And yet, here I am. You don’t hide very well.”

“I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t even aware I had an audience!”

He leans in, his presence pushing through the bond with the force of a tidal wave. “Even worse.”

“Well, asshole. I’m disinterested now.” You say it like you believe it.

Mihawk tilts his head, that familiar cold glint in his eyes. You’re not sure how you know it, but you do.

“Liar.”

And just like that, the emotional distance, the years of silence, collapsed into a game. A game you didn’t expect. A game you didn’t want, but now you will play.

Because Mihawk? He’s petty.

He doesn’t force his way in. No, it’s far more insidious than that. He slips through the cracks of your defenses with such ease that you almost don’t feel it.

He doesn’t just break in.

He walks through your defenses, sits down, and leaves behind the unmistakable reminder that he could do this any time he wanted.

And you’re left with a choice: figure out how to shut it out, or play along.

Age 21: 

You’re grown. Battle-tested, emotionally disillusioned, and done with waiting for the “mysterious soulmate” who ghosted you harder than your absentee dad and that one traveling salesman who swore he’d come back with mangoes.

Your childhood fantasies? Dead.

Your teenage hopes? Buried.

Your bond? No longer silent as a crypt.

You don’t even know what he looks like. For all you know, your soulmate is a myth. A programming error in the universe’s romantic algorithm. A punishment for being emotionally available too early in life.

And he’s now invaded.

Your Thought Hut™: Formerly Private, Now Haunted

You used to have a perfectly functional internal monologue. Cozy. Chaotic. A safe space where you could:

Complain about the weather (obviously, it’s never good enough).

Think up creative insults for your enemies (did you really just make a creepy face at me, Roger?).

Overanalyze your own emotions (why do I cry every time someone asks about my hobbies?).

Narrate your day like a tragic anti-hero in a play no one asked for (cue the dark, somber music).

It was yours. Completely private. Your safe little corner of the universe where nothing could disturb your thoughts.

Until it wasn’t. Because, every once in a while, right in the middle of your most personal spirals, he speaks. Like a sword slamming into your breakfast table. No warning. No preamble. Just... there.

You, tripping over your own feet: “Ugh, I am elegance. I am grace. I am—falling on my face.”

Him, bone-dry: “Do you duel like that, or only descend stairs?”

You, contemplating your emotional wreckage: “Maybe I am the problem. Maybe I’ve been emotionally closed off because I’m afraid of being known—”

Him: “Or maybe you’re simply exhausting.”

You, when dinner burns: “If my soulmate were real, he’d know I’m suffering. And bring snacks.”

Him: “If you’d used the correct ratio of oil, this wouldn’t be happening.”

You, after a moment of poetic solitude staring at the waves: “The sea understands me. At least someone does.”

Him: “The sea is trying to drown you. Not understand you.”

You try to block him out. You really do. You talk less. You think in nonsense. You hum random songs in your head to fill the void. You even consider creating a mental “Do Not Disturb” sign made of barbed wire and spite. But it doesn’t work.

He still gets in. Not every day. Not constantly. But enough to be annoying. Enough to make sure you know: he’s still there. Still listening and still judging.

Once you get injured. Nothing life-threatening, just a cut or a bump that shakes you more than it should. You cry alone. But it’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. You mutter to yourself, half-laughing to keep it together:

“You’re probably thrilled. One less idiot to keep track of.”

For once, his voice doesn’t come in sharp. It’s... quiet.

“No.”

Just that. One word. A single syllable. But somehow, it lingers. It doesn’t hit you like the usual biting sarcasm. It doesn’t mock you. It’s just... there.

You freeze, blinking at the mirror. But he doesn’t speak again. And yet, that one syllable hangs in the air like a weight.

Later, you’re brushing your hair, glaring into a cracked mirror, your thoughts running a little darker.

“If I die, he'd better feel guilty.”

“I won’t.”

A pause.

“But I’d be irritated.”

You smile, despite yourself. That... almost sounded like interest.

“Wow. That almost sounded like concern.”

“Don’t push it.”

You don’t know his name. You don’t know where he is. You don’t know why the universe stuck you with the verbal equivalent of a gloved slap to the face every few weeks.

But you do know this:

He listens.

And that, somehow, is worse than nothing.

He’s suddenly your uninvited, deeply opinionated mental roommate. The kind that critiques your life choices while contributing absolutely nothing. He’s the emotional couch surfer who eats your snacks and somehow still manages to judge you for it.

And as much as you want to shut him out, there’s something about him that lingers. Like a shadow that you can’t quite shake off, no matter how hard you try.

Age 22: 

Your thought process: a perfectly normal house with a locked door.

Your soulmate: broke in like a nosy cousin, raided your liquor cabinet, and is now judging your life choices from your favorite chair.

You: “This is my mental space. My head. My domain.”

He: [already lounging on the couch with a glass of wine] “You live like this?”

It Usually Goes Like This:

 You: “Please leave.” Him: “No.” You: “Why?” Him: “I’m comfortable.” You: “You’re a soul parasite with a superiority complex.” Him: “You talk to your cutlery like it’s sentient.” You: “That doesn’t mean you’re allowed in here.” Him: “If you’re going to insult me, at least be original.”

And it just gets worse…

You try to meditate. You try to relax. You try to avoid bonding with a human man who is not your psychic wine-drinking punishment.

He interrupts.

Every. Single. Time.

You: “If you sabotage this date, I swear—” Him: “He’s using too much cologne. And his footwork is sloppy.” You: “You can’t see his footwork—” Him: “I know.” You: “GET. OUT.” Him: “Make me.”

At one point, you try freezing him out.

You stop thinking in words. Just walls. Ice. Silence. You go fully passive-aggressive, locking down your mind like a fortress. If he wants to get in, he’ll have to knock harder than that.

For a few hours? It works.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. There’s no voice in your head making sarcastic comments or evaluating your life choices with brutal efficiency. No dry commentary on your every move. It’s like he’s gone.

You start to relax.

But then…

“You missed a thread in your stitching.”

You freeze.

He’s back.

Commenting on needlework now, like a cursed aunt at a family reunion. His voice slices through your thoughts with that same unnerving calm, like he's somehow found the tiniest crack in your ice fortress and slipped right back in.

You hadn’t even realized you were stitching until he had to point it out. It wasn’t even a big deal, just a minor imperfection, something you'd fix later. But the fact that he noticed it? That it didn’t slip past him? It makes you grind your teeth.

You don’t even know how he does it. One moment, it’s all cold and silent, and the next, he’s right there, commenting on your needlework like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. You almost want to throw the sewing kit out the window and scream into the void.

But, of course, you don’t.

You just grit your teeth and mutter under your breath. “Auntie Sea Ghost strikes again.”

“Also, your soup lacks depth.”

You snap.

“GET OUT OF MY HEAD, VELVET NOSFERATU.”

“A stronger insult this time. I almost felt something.”

And he never leaves because: He’s bored, He’s petty, He is mildly invested in your emotional development, though he’ll never admit it. And deep down, some part of him thinks: “If I leave, who will keep you sharp?”

You try begging. You try threatening.

Nothing works.

So eventually?

You just start narrating everything to annoy him.

“Oh, I’m putting socks on now. One’s got a hole. I know that offends your noble sensibilities. You’re probably standing in a doorway again. You seem like the type. Do you own more than one shirt, or is it just one immortal shirt with a vengeance pact?”

Until finally…

You hear him sigh. Long. Sharp. Dramatic.

“You are intolerable.”

You grin.

“And yet. You’re still here.”

“…Petty,” he mutters.

“Exactly. LEAVE.”

Age 23: 

You’re in the middle of trying to live your life. Maybe eating, maybe healing from a fight, maybe just trying to have one private thought, when he slides back in, unprompted:

“You’ve been chewing that bread like it personally offended you.”

You snap. "WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE? For years—YEARS—you said nothing. Not a whisper. Not a name. Just silence and judgment! And now? Now you’re here every damn day with commentary like you’re hosting some twisted cooking show inside my skull!”

A pause, just so you can wheeze a breath mid-rant.

“Did you get bored? Did you miss the sound of my mental breakdowns? Did you fall in love with the decor? Because I didn’t invite you in. You’re not even helpful! You’re just—just—”

“Your better half?”

Silence.

Then, like the punchline to his own joke: “…Dracule Mihawk.”

You blink.

Because this guy, the one haunting your thoughts like an emotionally stunted soul phantom, is only just now giving you his name? The same man who sighed when you cried at fifteen, mocked your cooking attempts, and only speaks to you when you’re being “tolerable”?

 “…Sorry, what?”

“That’s my name.”

You stare into the mental void. 

“Dracule?”

Pause. He knows what’s coming.

“You mean to tell me you were judging me while walking around with a name that sounds like it comes with a velvet cape and an unpaid bar tab?”

He sighs deeply, like he’s carrying the weight of every sarcastic remark you’ve ever made. Long-suffering. “Yes. I figured this is how you’d react.”

“No wonder you didn’t say it sooner. If my name were a whole vampire aesthetic, I’d hide it too.”

“Are you done?”

“NO.”

He doesn’t leave. Of course not. He listens to the whole roast like a man sitting in a recliner he didn’t buy, in a house he doesn’t pay for, with snacks he didn’t make. You pace. You rant. You bring up the time he judged your taste in flowers but couldn’t even spare a syllable of acknowledgment when you were sobbing alone in the rain at sixteen.

“You—”

“Do you even realize how unfair this bond has been?”

Him: “Yes.”

You: “…And?”

Him, maddeningly calm: “I was waiting until you were worth speaking to.”

You go feral. A full-on growl escapes your throat. “Excuse me?”

But you quiet down after a moment. He’s still there, unfazed.

Now you know his name. Now you know he’s not leaving. But now? You get to judge him right back.

The bond is no longer a cold void. It’s a battleground. A sofa. A long, endless dinner table where sarcasm is the language and your soulmate is just the man at the end with a judgmental stare and the emotional range of a black-and-white movie.

-X-Unexpected Sights-X-

You’re working a quiet librarian job in a minor coastal town. The hum of the ocean outside is the only real noise, the occasional gull’s cry filtering through the dusty windows of the small office. Sorting archive files. Cleaning up old Navy intelligence and shredded wanted posters. Most are faded, outdated, forgotten; records of lives long past, irrelevant to anyone still breathing.

The pile in front of you is no different. A stack of yellowing papers, brittle to the touch, barely held together by fraying rubber bands. You sift through them, filing them into place, scanning for anything that might need attention. Nothing new. Nothing important.

Then, you find it.

A scrap of paper. Almost out of place, as though someone had tried to hide it away. Perhaps on purpose, perhaps by mistake. You lift it carefully, the edges crumbling in your fingers. The paper is yellowed with age, fragile. You can feel the years on it just by holding it, and your curiosity spikes. What’s so important that it would be tucked between two water-damaged records?

You unroll it slowly, trying not to rip it, and there it is.

Young. Grainy. Black-inked. It’s a wanted poster, as old as the rest of the clutter in this room, but it shocks you in a way no other faded page has. The image is of a man with an arrogant profile, his gaze sharp and defiant. And there, beneath his face, the name hits you like a slap:

DRACULE MIHAWK

The words almost seem to leap off the page. Hawk-Eye Mihawk: The Marine Hunter.

You blink, disbelief flooding your senses. 

You read on:

Age: ???No known crew. No known allegiances.Exceptionally dangerous. Considered a duelist of unnatural precision.“Presumed armed at all times.”

The final line leaves a strange weight in your chest. Wanted Dead or Alive.

He’s tall. Lean. Broad-shouldered. Black hair slicked back, jaw sharp enough to cut silk, gold eyes gleaming like coins beneath candlelight. The outfit suits the name, a dark ensemble of black leather and red velvet gone vampire hunting, complete with what can only be a big-ass sword on his back.

You can imagine his hand removing a glove slowly, fingers long and calloused from years of wielding a sword heavier than most men’s dignity.

The dust motes in the air hang still, like they’re holding their breath. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just uncovered something much bigger than this coastal town, bigger than your quiet life as a librarian sorting forgotten pieces of history. It’s like the universe just handed you a secret and expects you to know what to do with it.

You blink again, your breath catching in your throat. “...I’m sorry. WHAT.”

And, of course, right on cue, he shows up through the bond.

Like a cold draft slipping through an unwelcome window, prickling your skin, his presence fills the space with an almost tangible chill. You’re already vibrating with indignation when the bond stirs, like he’s been waiting for just this moment.

“So. You’ve seen it.”

The voice is calm, almost too calm, like he’s expecting this reaction. Like he’s in complete control of the situation, as always.

But you can’t focus on his tone right now. The reality of it is too much: he’s real. The man from the wanted poster, the man whose name you only heard in hushed, fearful whispers, is standing in your mind, making himself at home like an unwanted guest.

You blink.

No fucking way.

“No. Shut up. Not you.”

“It is me.”

The voice is casual. Detached. Like someone trying to sneak into the kitchen at 3 a.m. but accidentally kicking the chair, the scraping sound echoes in the silence.

“You? The Most Wanted Man in the World is also my inner voice with the soul of a decorative gargoyle? No.”

“It is literally my name.”

“And I’m naming my next houseplant ‘Whitebeard.’ Doesn’t make it true. What are the odds?”

“I’d say absolute.”

You narrow your eyes at nothing, already painfully aware of who’s responsible for this intrusion.

“You.”

Him, unbothered, internally sipping wine:

“…Yes?”

“You told me your name was Dracule Mihawk.”

“It is.”

You stop breathing for a moment. The words hang in the air like the last few notes of a song you can’t unhear, and your thoughts spiral. The walls of the library close in around you, the books on the shelves suddenly feeling far too heavy, as though they know what’s happening and are silently judging you for it.

You lean against the desk, staring at the cracked, yellowing poster like it's going to answer for itself. Your fingers are shaking. You’ve been pulling at threads for days, and now that the knot is finally unraveling, it’s worse than you imagined.

This is not a game. This isn’t some misunderstanding. The man on that poster—the Mihawk—is talking to you in your head.

You feel like you’re losing your grip on something, but you're not sure if it’s the world around you or the reality you’ve clung to.

“You’re lying.” You hiss, your voice low enough to be a secret. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that my mysterious, emotionally unavailable brain spook who critiques my life plans and once made fun of my inner monologue is actually the Dracule Mihawk. That’s a real person. You are an asshole ghost with opinions and too much free time.”

“I am aware.”

You blink, a sharp laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “He’s six feet tall and kills people with butter knives.”

“Six-six.”

“Oh, good, you’re delusional and insecure.”

“I don’t care if you believe me.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

The bond crackles with that all-too-familiar, infuriating silence, like he’s weighing his words carefully, deciding how much of his charming self to offer. You know better than to expect anything resembling sincerity from him, but the defiance in his voice sets your teeth on edge.

You stand there, tension building, fighting the urge to shout at the bond to make it stop, make him stop. Instead, you clench your fists, the pressure of his indifference pressing down on you.

And then, his voice cuts through again, low and dangerous.

"Dracule Mihawk." The name feels foreign on your tongue, bitter. You toss the paper aside, ignoring the fluttering sound it makes as it falls to the floor.

His words twist through your mind like cold air.

"Yes, it’s my name. And you would do well to remember it."

You scoff, disbelief tightening in your chest, shaking your head as if you can shake off the absurdity of it all. "Nu-uh. No way you’re Dracule Mihawk, infamous Marine-hunter, the one who even I know about. That guy is a WARLORD of the SEAS."

You throw your hands up in frustration, your voice rising with each word, every syllable unraveling a little more of your sanity. "You’re just a menace and a liar! Mihawk’s a real person. A warlord. A swordsman. What are you?"

“Your soulmate.”

You freeze, the weight of his words crashing down on you like a wave. Soulmate. The word feels like a slap, ringing in your ears like it’s something that should’ve made sense, something that should’ve been welcome. But it wasn’t. Not now.

“No,” you mutter, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. "My soulmate died tragically or was raised by seagulls. You are not him."

There’s an almost imperceptible pause, a flicker of something familiar in the bond. A warmth. A strange ache you can’t place.

“I never claimed to be what you imagined.” His voice is quiet, like he’s finally peeling back layers, reluctant but steady. “But I am what you got.”

“You’re a pathological liar with a passive-aggressive tone.”

“You once named your pillow the Sultan of Snooze.”

“AND YET, I have not lied about who I am.”

You can feel him on the other side of the bond, his presence steady and calm like a stone in a raging river. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t explain. He just lets you stew in your confusion, letting your anger simmer until it’s boiling over.

"I am Mihawk, the one and only Dracule Mihawk," he finally says, voice dripping with a nonchalant edge that grates on every nerve you have. "You’d do well to stop underestimating me."

You huff, pacing in small circles, your mind racing in every direction.

"Stop underestimating you? You’re telling me that you are Dracule Mihawk, Marine-hunter, the guy with the goddamn title. But you relax in my head like a lazy cat who refuses to leave the couch, nibbling on existential dread like it's a snack???"

Your frustration is palpable, thick in the air around you, but you know he’s not even remotely fazed by it. That quiet confidence, that unnerving calm, it bleeds into the bond like an uncomfortable chill.

"A title I’ve long since outgrown. But yes," Mihawk’s voice comes in, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. "The very same."

You grind your teeth, a sudden, bizarre mix of confusion and annoyance settling in. "I don’t believe you.”

The bond hums with his presence, something cold and sharp at the edges, and his next words are almost... too calm.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

You freeze. His casual indifference lingers like smoke in your mind, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve gotten in deeper than you should’ve.

"I think you’ve misunderstood the situation," he says, and it sounds like an eerie kind of promise.

There’s something unsettling in his tone now, something that makes your skin crawl even as his words don’t hold the same bite they used to. It’s almost like he’s playing a game, waiting for you to catch on to some piece of a puzzle he’s only showing you in fragments. The more you listen, the more you feel a disturbing, silent pull in the bond.

It’s not just the words anymore. It’s the weight of them.

“Misunderstood?” you repeat, more to yourself than to him, feeling the heavy silence pressing in from all sides. “What, exactly, am I supposed to understand here?”

The bond shifts again, his presence curling around your thoughts like a shadow; quiet, precise, and strangely suffocating. You wish you could push him out, hope you could slam the door in his face, and be done with it. But he’s always there, always waiting, like an uninvited guest who’s already made himself far too comfortable.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and taut, like a wire drawn tight enough to snap. The weight of unspoken things pressed down on your chest, and despite the tension, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Mihawk knew something you didn’t. That realization hit you harder than it should have, and you felt it settle deep, like a stone dropped into a still pond.

“This seems like something you should have mentioned before inviting yourself into my head. You know, if you’re actually a WORLD FAMOUS PIRATE.”

A long, quiet pause followed, and you felt the bond stir, his presence cool and unshaken.

“… I didn’t hide it. You just never asked the right questions.”

Your breath caught in your throat, disbelief mixing with frustration. “You’re a grown man! I’ve had this bond since I was eight. You could’ve told me anytime.”

“You were a child.”

“You’re avoiding the part where you are a demon with poor social skills.”

“That assumption wasn’t entirely off.”

The familiar cold presence eased in, settling around your thoughts like an unavoidable chill, a hand resting casually on your mental desk.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You keep talking.”

“You’re a fake. Some weird bounty hunter or cultist with soul bond tricks. You got into my head and started freeloading like a couch surfer with emotional issues.”

“You’re unreasonably hostile.”

“You’re allegedly a war criminal in a cape!”

“Alleged.”

“I hate that you sound so calm about this.”

There was a long silence, heavier than before, pressing down on you from all sides. And then, finally, he spoke again. His words were slower, more deliberate. 

“You’re defensive when cornered. Noted.”

You huff.

“If you’re him, prove it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Show up. Step out of the shadows with your spooky golden eyes and your vampire vibes and stab something accurately.”

“You just described every Tuesday of my life.”

“Again: not helping your case.”

And then, for the first time, you froze.

His words hit differently. There was something more in them. Something raw, something unexpected. A shift in tone that felt… almost human. Almost vulnerable.

“I wanted you to speak to me, not my reputation.”

You freeze.

The simple honesty in his voice broke through the layers of distance you had built around yourself. The mask of indifference he wore so easily faltered, just for a moment. And for the first time, you realized something that made the silence after his words feel like it was pressing into your chest.

He wasn’t just a cold, distant figure. He was real. And, somehow, despite everything, you felt something. Something that made you wonder if the bond was never really about the lies or the distance between you. Maybe it was always about this.

The faintest, guilty apology pressed between decades of stoic silence. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you wondered if you’d gotten more than you bargained for.

He tries to say more, but you’ve already pulled away: emotionally, mentally, entirely. You shove the bond back like a heavy door, forcing your thoughts quiet. There’s no room for him here, not now. Not when you’re finally starting to make sense of things on your own.

He doesn’t push. Not right away.

But he lingers.

You feel it. That cold weight just outside, like a storm pacing the edge of your mind, threatening to break through. For the first time, he doesn’t have a sarcastic reply. He doesn’t taunt you or poke fun at your emotional state. Instead, you hear his voice, low and steady:

"I thought you'd be strong enough for it."

You freeze, the words hanging in the air. They don’t come with the bite you’re used to, the sting of his indifference. There’s something, something different in his tone. Something almost human. But you shake your head, the pressure building again. Not now. You can’t deal with him like this. Not when you’re so close to finally having control of your own thoughts again.

You don’t answer because you’re not ready to believe him. Because if he’s telling the truth, that means your soulmate is real. And he chose to abandon you until it was convenient. And he’s a real-life nightmare who unironically wears greatcoats and has a giant sword he uses to teach manners with.

And you’re not sure which betrayal is worse.

You’ve just spent years with this maddeningly silent, contemptuous presence in the back of your thoughts. A man who didn’t speak, didn’t share, didn’t even offer a name. For over a decade, he was nothing but a shadow of judgment and cold amusement. You assumed he was a repressed outlaw. A cursed monk. Maybe a bird.

The fact that he’s real and has been quietly watching you from a distance the entire time, or the cold realization that he had the power to speak up, to make things right, but chose silence instead. That decision weighs on you like a stone in your chest.

You swallow hard, the weight of it sinking deep. You can’t decide whether to scream or cry or just shut it all down.

So you don’t believe him.

You wouldn’t. You shouldn’t. Not after years of silence and disdain, only for him to suddenly start showing up like an emotionally unavailable gargoyle perched in your skull, and now you find out he’s ‘Dracule Mihawk’,  one of the most dangerous men alive?

No.

Absolutely not.

-X-Strange Happens-X-

You didn’t know what Haki was. Hell, you didn’t even know how to fight. You were just a normal person—scrappy, clever, sharp with your words, maybe—but not a warrior. No mental defenses. No training to ward off the most precise soul-knife of a man to ever walk the Grand Line. You worked in a small-town library, for god’s sake. Your biggest battles were with overdue books and keeping the library quiet. 

And yet here you were, tangled in a bond you couldn’t understand, with a voice that had been lodged in your mind for years.

Snide. Silent. Infuriating at times.

But recently? Lately, that voice had become too present. Too real.

You stare at the old wanted poster again. 

Dracule Mihawk.

The name still feels like an impossible thing to say aloud, something that doesn’t belong to you. But now, in the silence of your own thoughts, it’s there: solid, heavy, undeniable. His name had slipped into your mind like an unwanted guest.

You still weren’t ready to face it. Mihawk? Your soulmate?

It didn’t add up. None of it did. The bond. The silence. The years of torment, his casual indifference to your existence. It had to be a mistake. Or worse, some psychic scammer who’d been freeloading in your head for years, offering nothing but critique and emotional baggage.

But now...

"Tell me your name."

His words come in with a quiet finality, leaving no room for argument. You can’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet. Not when you’re still trying to wrap your mind around what’s real and what’s not.

You sigh.

It’s a long, drawn-out thing that seems to echo in the silence between you, a quiet rebellion against the inevitable. "You don’t get to decide that," you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and for a second, you almost think you’ve won. But then you feel it—the weight of his presence, unwavering, unyielding. His patience isn’t endless, but it’s damn close. And you know... he’s not going anywhere.

You rub your temple. "This is insane."

Weeks, maybe months, you’ve spent ignoring his request, turning the idea of sharing your name into the one thing you can control in this unrelenting chaos. You won’t give him that part of you, not after everything.

You feel his eyes, cold and calculating, through the bond, even though he’s miles away. His presence hovers in your mind, lingering, steady. He’s waiting. Pressing. The tension is almost unbearable. He’s asking. But you’re not ready to give. Not yet. Not when you still don’t trust him. Not when you don’t even know who he really is beyond the cold, unyielding voice in your mind.

So you say no with the same tone you’d use to tell a child, “NO CUPCAKE!”

But you can’t make him leave.

“You had years to ask nicely,” you say snidely, crossing your arms in a futile attempt to hold your ground.

He pauses, the silence stretching just long enough to make you question whether you've actually won this small battle. Then, in that voice of his—calm, unbothered, like he’s had all the time in the world—he responds.

“I’m asking now.”

And you swear, for a second, you hear the faintest hint of a smirk in his words. Damn him.

You grit your teeth, feeling the pressure building. This bond, this curse, has become so much more than you ever expected. He’s more than a voice now. He’s a constant. A weight. A presence that refuses to let go, even when you desperately wish it would.

“You don’t get to pop back in like a psychic roommate and demand access to my name, weirdo.”

“You know mine.”

The silence stretches, thick and heavy between you, and for a moment, you think the bond might go quiet again. Then, like the most casual of comments, his voice slides through with that same unnerving calm. It’s almost too composed, like he’s been expecting this moment.

“Ha, nice try, fake swordsman.”

You scoff. It’s not a real challenge, you know it’s not. Still, his words irk you more than they should. The nerve. You treat the bond like a crusty old switchboard, using it when you feel like it, ignoring it when you don’t.

You occasionally blow mental raspberries into it, just for fun. Sometimes you sigh dramatically, whispering under your breath as if to keep the peace, or perhaps ruin it.

And other times, when you're feeling particularly petty, you drop spicy half-thoughts just to see if he’s still listening.

“Oh no. Someone handsome offered me rum and a massage. Whatever shall I do?”

Cue: a wineglass shattering somewhere.

You can’t help the little smirk that creeps up your face. There’s a certain satisfaction in knowing you’ve triggered something, even if it’s just in his mind.

You know he’s listening. You know he’s there, waiting, his presence hovering in the bond like a shadow that won’t leave. He knows you’re not hiding. You’re not running.

You’re just… withholding.

It’s like holding up a very pretty, very emotionally unavailable middle finger wrapped in silk.

And that drives him insane because your soulmate is clearly a man who’s used to being the final page in someone’s story. The end boss. The goal. People fight for his approval. They strive for his attention. But you?

You treat him like an unreliable narrator with commitment issues. And somehow, that’s the one thing that gets under his skin.

So he retaliates.

You’re trying to sleep. Or focus. Or just have a single thought that isn’t under surveillance by the man you’re still not convinced is Mihawk.

You’ve locked the bond down tight. You’ve iced him out. You’ve mentally insulated your soul like a paranoid homeowner with psychic blackout curtains. You’ve made sure he can’t slip in unnoticed. You’ve kept him at bay, just at bay. It’s taken effort.

And he’s just there.

No knock. No dramatic flaring. No warning. Just a sudden, soul-chilling presence, like a sword being unsheathed inside your mind.

It’s not the usual invasion. It’s worse. It’s more intimate. More personal. The sensation of him slides through your thoughts like ice cutting through warm water, sharp and cold and completely unavoidable.

You sit up in bed, heart pounding, instinctively reaching out to slam the door on him, to shove him back where he belongs. But it’s too late. He’s already inside.

It’s nothing like the times before. You feel his weight in the air around you. Like he’s right there, just beyond the edge of your awareness, like his eyes are watching from the shadows. You’ve fought this, tried to control it, but now it’s him, and it’s real, and there’s nothing you can do but sit in the sudden, oppressive silence of his presence.

You feel it, but you don’t understand it.

It hits like a wave of stillness. Not threatening. Not loud.

Just this weird pressure in your thoughts, like something is waiting. Something watching. And suddenly, you’re… relaxed? Your chest is looser. The tension you’ve carried for so long, so desperately, starts to bleed away, as if his presence is lulling you into a strange calm.

You stop pacing. You stop fuming. You stop fighting.

Maybe it’s fine. Maybe you’ve been holding on to something that doesn’t need to be held. Maybe you’re just tired of guarding everything, tired of pretending this doesn’t matter.

Maybe, just maybe, he deserves one piece of truth.

You hesitate for a moment, but it’s enough. Enough to finally lower your mental shields, to let the walls crumble. You throw up psychic defenses—visualized walls, closed doors, salt lines, sheer willpower—and yet, he walks through them like they’re made of fog.

It doesn’t stop him. He’s in your head. He’s always been in your head.

You sigh, letting your back rest against the cool wall, exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs. There’s no fight left in you, not right now. The mental exhaustion, the constant pressure of the bond, it’s all too much. You finally give in, allowing a surrender, just a small one, barely a whisper of what you’ve been holding in.

“…It’s—”

You almost don’t want to admit it, but the words come anyway. Soft, reluctant, but enough to let it slip through. 

“Okay? There. That doesn’t make you right.”

And then you freeze, the cold grip of realization hitting you like a tidal wave.

“…Wait. NO. NOPE—”

His voice cuts through the bond, calm, infuriatingly controlled: “Thank you.”

You feel your skin burn with embarrassment, a rush of heat flooding your chest. "What the hell was that?!" You lash out, the words a mixture of confusion and anger.

“You gave it freely.”

Your blood boils. “You did something to me. You opened a door without my permission.”

“You were already standing next to it.”

The words escape you before you can stop them. You can feel the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, your stomach churning as you slam the bond shut with all the force you can muster. You lock it down tight, shutting out his presence, slamming the door on him.

Humiliated. Exposed. Angry.

Because he stole something from you! Not with malice. Not even with violence. But with something much worse: MAGIC.

It’s like one of your fantasy books come to life, and this? This was your territory. You were the one who got to decide what parts of yourself to give away, not some brooding, cape-wearing sword enthusiast who seemed to think “sharing” was a one-way street.

That one piece of yourself: your name, the last shred of your identity that you hadn’t willingly thrown into the abyss, was now in his hands. *And you didn’t even get to make a bargain!

You stare at the bond, your mental fist clenched around nothing. You try to imagine the worst. Maybe he’s wearing your name like a necklace now. Maybe he’s polishing it with his sword. Maybe he’s planning to tattoo it on his chest like some kind of bizarre declaration of ownership.

It felt like he picked the lock of your soul with a flick of his wrist, and when you weren’t looking, he walked away with your real name as though it were just a trophy.

And worse? He sounds so damn calm about it.

There’s no anger in his voice. No smugness. Just that unnerving, infuriating detachment, as though what he did was nothing. He doesn’t feel guilty. He doesn’t feel bad. He’s just there, like this was just another Tuesday for him. And somehow, that’s what makes it worse.

The calmness of it, the way he’s so casually infiltrating your thoughts like he owns the place, is maddening. It's not even a victory for him, just a simple fact. And you can’t stand it.

You grit your teeth, feeling your fists clench at your sides. You try to bury your anger, but it's impossible. Not when he's so calm about everything.

Then you hear it. That voice again, sliding through the bond like he’s settled back in for a comfortable conversation.

“You’re not even cool!”

"I’m the world’s greatest swordsman. Did you think I wouldn’t have finesse?"

“YOU MENTALLY VAULTED INTO MY SAFE ROOM AND STOLE MY NAMETAG WHILE I WAS EATING NOODLES.”

The bond crackles with his quiet, mocking tone, and it makes you clench your fists.“You imagined me shirtless twice this week. The line is blurry.”

The audacity. The nerve.

That. That right there is the final straw.

You scream. The frustration rises like a tidal wave, swelling in your chest until you think you might explode. But he’s unbothered. Completely unmoved. That cold, impenetrable presence of his remains steady, unshaken.

You’re in the eye of a storm.

Your thoughts are a whirlwind of rage, confusion, humiliation, and he’s still there, calm, collected, like he’s simply watching the chaos unfold for his own amusement.

Age 24:

You’re in the bath. Alone. Vulnerable. And mentally roasting him like he's the worst TV villain you've ever watched, because, let’s face it, he kind of is.

You sigh, sinking deeper into the water, letting the warm waves of relaxation drown out the mental chaos. Just you, your thoughts, and the peaceful silence.

“He’s not even a real person,” you mutter to yourself, scrubbing shampoo into your hair. “Just a soul-rotted mannequin with tragic hair and a superiority complex. He probably doesn’t even have a heart. Or a libido.”

Silence.

You relax.

You pause, an eyebrow arching as you entertain the thought. “I bet he’s like, in a relationship with his sword. Doesn’t even like women. He’d have done something by now. Right?”

You let the thought sit there, a little too smugly. The image of Mihawk, sitting there like some brooding monk, whispering sweet nothings to his blade, makes you snicker under your breath. It's absurd, and for a moment, it gives you a sense of control. Because this, this is something you can laugh at.

You close your eyes and exhale slowly, your thoughts finally starting to settle. The warm water cocoons you, the tension from the day starting to melt away. The bathroom is quiet, peaceful, and for a moment, it’s just you and your thoughts. No Mihawk. No weird psychic bond. Just some much-needed solitude.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Suddenly, the air shifts. That cold, familiar weight settles into your mind again like a shadow.

You freeze. No. Not now.

“I do enjoy your little theories,” comes his voice, as smooth and unbothered as always. “But you’re wrong.”

You shoot straight up in the tub like a startled cat. Water splashes everywhere as you choke on your own breath, wide-eyed and flustered. You sit up in the tub, water splashing around you, every nerve in your body instantly on edge. "I— what?"

You scramble to grab a towel like that’s going to somehow protect you from the psychic stalker in your head.

There’s no logical reason for it, but you feel it; his presence is there, as calm and insufferable as ever.

“I’m not in a relationship with my sword,” he says, as though this is just a casual conversation. “And I’ve always been... quite interested in women, specifically annoying librarians.”

The words land with a certain unexpected dryness, and for some reason, that makes you squirm.

The words hit you like a bucket of ice water. He says it with such ease, like it's nothing, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s not just in your head anymore, like he’s in your bath, too. Your private space, your peace of mind, all invaded by the actual Dracule Mihawk, who’s somehow decided that this moment was the perfect time to have a heart-to-heart with you.

You clench your jaw, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. Annoying librarians? That's the best he can do? You're supposed to be angry, right? Furious, even. But there's something about his tone, something about the way he speaks without a hint of hesitation, that makes you squirm in the most uncomfortable way.

You grip the sides of the tub, your fingers trembling from a mix of frustration and... something else you can’t quite place. The water suddenly feels too warm, too suffocating.

“Oh, really? Really?” you snap, your voice rising despite your efforts to keep it contained. “What part of me saying you’re a weird, cold mannequin with issues is wrong?”

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, as if he’s measuring his response. Finally, his voice comes back through the bond, smooth as ever.

“You assume because I do not pant like a dog or whisper like a fool that I am not watching. Not wanting.”

You blink, not expecting that. It sends a wave of heat rushing to your cheeks, and you have to swallow hard to keep your composure.

You never thought faux Mihawk would feel anything beyond exasperation and annoyance.

“You mistake silence for disinterest,” he adds, his tone slightly amused, as if this whole conversation is just one big joke to him. “You mistake control for lack.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. Your mind goes blank, trying to process what the hell he's implying. What the hell he’s doing.

And then, in the calmest voice possible, he drops it.

“I have imagined the sound you’d make when you gasp my name. I have thought about it more than once.”

Your heart skips a beat.

Everything stops.

You’re clutching the edge of the tub like it’s a lifeline, knuckles white, the water around you suddenly feeling colder than it should. The rush of his words, that terrifying calm, makes your brain feel like it's melting.

Your soul? It’s screaming in protest, but you can’t seem to make your mouth catch up with the chaos in your mind.

“I—what—you never—”

“No.”

The single word cuts through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, and you can almost feel the edge of it pressing into your skin. “You only think I’m disinterested because you want a man who fawns.”

He doesn’t let up.

“I don’t fawn.” You try to sound composed, but the words feel small, weak against his presence. “I claim.”

Your chest tightens. You want to shout, to say something sharp, to push back. But the bond presses on you with an unsettling force, and before you can even form a proper thought, he’s twisting the knife again, effortlessly.

“And for the record—I am not a statue. Nor one of your fairytale heroes. I won’t be treating you like a princess.”

You raise an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “Oh, no worries. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

His gaze sharpens, a flicker of amusement hidden behind that impenetrable mask. “You think I’m here for your amusement?”

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much else to do with all this chemistry between us,” you quip, leaning casually against a nearby table, knowing full well you’ve just poked the lion.

“Your idealized fantasy man doesn't imagine the shape of your spine when you stretch.”

Your pulse quickens, skin prickling with the weight of his words, like they’re seeping into you from the inside. Your breath catches, a sharp intake of air, and for a moment, your body is paralyzed, like you’ve been struck by something far too real.

“Your little dream prince doesn't dream of how your throat would sound when you beg.”

You feel your chest tighten, the heat in your face blooming, a rush of emotions flooding through you that you can’t even begin to categorize.

“The creatures you read in your books don’t hunt like I do.”

Your mind spins, spinning out of control, caught in the rhythm of his voice.

“I have waited. With patience. Perhaps too long.”

The final words hang in the air like an anchor pulling you deeper, dragging you under the surface of your thoughts. You try to steady yourself, to stop your hands from shaking, but all you can do is slap a wet cloth over your face and scream into it, the noise muffled by the fabric but no less raw.

Mihawk doesn’t speak immediately, but you can feel him there, unbothered, calm as always. His silence is thick, pressing against you, like a weight on your chest.

Then, just when you think the storm has passed, you hear it.

“Do not question again whether I want you.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. The room spins, your thoughts scatter, and for the first time in your life, you feel like you're losing control of the one thing you've held onto for so long: yourself.

And then, before you can recover, the final words slip in, cutting through your thoughts like a blade.

“Question only how long I’ll wait before proving it.”

The room around you shifts, the edges of your vision blurring. It’s not a dream. It’s not a thought. It’s him—right here, now, with you.

Suddenly, you’re not alone. You’re no longer in the safety of your room, the familiar scent of your surroundings replaced by something heavier, darker. You’re seeing through someone else’s eyes. His eyes.

You’re pressed against a cold stone wall. The air smells like aged wine and salt, the tang of something ancient that lingers in the corners. There’s candlelight flickering, barely illuminating the dim, damp space around you. The fabric of your clothes is torn open, the rough edges brushing against your skin as his hand grips your chin, tilting your head just enough for him to invade your senses.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, dragging down in a motion slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s marking you, branding you.

And then his voice, not just in your mind, but at your ear, low and ragged, like he’s already there with you.

“Pay close attention.”

You can feel it. Every inch of it.

The heat of his breath against your skin, the possessive weight of his palm on your waist, the way his fingers seem to hold you in place. The press of his mouth along your neck, not kissing, not yet, just hovering. Like he’s waiting, enjoying the anticipation.

You don’t understand it. You don’t know how to react.

“If I touched you,” he says, his voice rougher now, “you’d forget every version of your name except the one I gave you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You shudder involuntarily, the raw intensity of his claim sending a flood of heat through your body.

“Do you want to know what I see when you sleep?” His voice cuts through the air, sharp and dark, like a whisper that feels far too intimate. “Do you want to know what I think about when your voice goes quiet?”

Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between desire and horror. You try to pull away, to escape, but there’s nowhere to go. The bond is pulling you deeper, dragging you into the storm that he has created.

You try to scream, to force him out of your mind, but the vision only grows stronger.

Your hands are on his chest now, trembling, desperate. You can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, hear the soft, restrained sound he makes in the back of his throat, like he’s holding himself back, barely controlling the storm inside him.

And then you stand bolt upright in your bath, spilling water everywhere.

The sudden motion catches you off guard, and you gasp for air, your skin clammy, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as if you’ve just sprinted through a thunderstorm. Your heart is racing, and it’s all you can do to hold onto your thoughts.

“Mihawk,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and breathless. “What the hell—”

“You wanted proof.”

His voice slides into your mind, calm as ever, cutting through the chaos.

“You think I feel nothing? I could show you a hundred things that would make you burn.”

You swallow, your pulse quickening. 

“This was restraint.”

You throw a soap bottle across the room in frustration, your hands trembling as you try to regain control. You can’t process what just happened. You can’t even think straight.

“You violated my mind,” you snap, your voice shaking with anger and confusion.

“You said I didn’t want you.” His voice is still smooth, as if he’s not even slightly bothered by your outburst.

You cover yourself with a towel, red-faced, furious, and something else—something dangerous—lurking in the pit of your stomach. Something you don’t want to acknowledge.

“I showed you what true want looks like.”

You clench your fists, your chest heaving with a mix of emotions you can’t untangle. You want to fight him. To argue. To shut him down once and for all. But a part of you knows you can’t.

There’s a long pause, an agonizing silence that makes your heart thud louder in your chest. And then, finally, his voice. Low. Calm.

“Next time,” He murmurs, voice low but firm, “I’m making you beg. And I’ll be the one with a book, lecturing you.”

The bond goes silent, leaving you trembling in cold air, your heart pounding, and your mind a whirlwind of thoughts you can’t quite control.

Elsewhere:

Inside Mihawk’s head is the ongoing epic of eternal suffering.

He doesn’t need love. He doesn’t need softness. He’s never asked for those things.

What he does need, what he longs for, with a desperation he refuses to acknowledge, is five uninterrupted minutes. Five minutes where he doesn’t have to hear the constant flood of your thoughts. Five minutes where he isn’t trapped in your mental whirlwind, where he can have a single moment of peace without you mentally debating the politics of kissing someone with a mustache.

It’s maddening.

Mihawk is a man of patience. Of discipline. His entire life has been built on control. Control over his blade, control over his actions, control over his thoughts. He’s spent years honing himself to perfection, shaping his mind into something sharp, precise, like the edge of his sword. He’s never needed anything more than that.

But you?

You’ve managed to unhinge it all. All of it. Simply by existing in his mind.

You, with your distracted, erratic thoughts, your endless stream of overanalyzing, your sudden jumps from one topic to the next without rhyme or reason. You’re like a feral ball of energy with anxiety wrapped around every thought, bouncing from one question to another, never settling. And no matter how hard he tries to concentrate, it’s impossible to ignore you.

One moment, he’s lost in his own thoughts, strategies, training, and the plans he’s meticulously crafted for years.

And then there you are, wondering if your favorite color is really as important as you thought, if cucumbers are technically a fruit, and no, you didn’t just think about kissing someone with a mustache.

And yet, he can’t escape it. He has to hear it. The quiet, constant hum of your mind, like an unfinished symphony playing in the background of his every waking moment. It never stops. He hates it.

But there’s something else there, something unsettlingly fascinating about you. Something that keeps him tethered, keeps him from slamming the door to this ridiculous, chaotic bond.

Because for all your chaos, your incessant mental chatter, and your complete disregard for his peace of mind, there’s a strange allure in it. A part of him—one he refuses to acknowledge, even to himself—finds himself waiting for your next thought, your next outburst, the next wild tangent that takes you away from the seriousness of everything else.

You are the only thing that ever disrupts his perfect control. And somehow, that makes you all the more... compelling.

But still, the tension builds, unbearable, nagging at him like a constant itch.

“Five. Minutes.”

He’s had enough. His patience has worn thin, but the temptation to break his composure is almost too strong to ignore. He could.

“I could kiss you so precisely you’d forget every man who ever looked at you. I could carve pleasure into your throat with my name alone. I could use my hands like instruments. Not to undress you. To ruin you. Slowly. With reverence.”

The words land heavy on the air, slow, deliberate, almost too much.

His voice weaves through the chaos inside your mind, cutting through your scattered thoughts with unnerving precision; sharp, deliberate, almost too calm.

He could.

Grip the back of your neck like it was his to claim, a possessive hold that leaves no room for resistance. He could lay you across black silk and never raise his voice, only your standards, until the very air between you shifts, heavy and expectant.

He could speak only once, low and final, and watch you shatter with a single word.

He could make you beg without ever laying a hand on you.

But instead?

You’re currently imagining what he’d look like in a cowboy hat. You’re thinking about cats in little boots. You are thinking of other pirates. 

And that, of all things, is what twists in his gut.

You are, in his words:

“A walking contradiction—an unsolvable riddle wrapped in soft hands and frivolous thoughts.”

He’s helplessly intrigued. And he hates that he wants to solve you anyway.

“Stop thinking about grilled cheese. Stop wondering if seagulls pair-bond. Stop thinking about Benn Beckman. He’s not me.”

The words slice through your thoughts, sharp and pointed, like ice chiseling its way through the storm of your mind. His voice isn’t angry, it’s just there, unwavering and direct, commanding the space in your head like it owns it.

“Just... breathe. Sit still. Be worthy. And I will show you things no man could dream of offering.”

The calm in his voice almost makes it worse. There’s a quiet authority behind every word, a silent promise woven into the spaces between his sentences.

You can feel him now. His presence is suffocating; always there, an unshakable weight in your thoughts. His gaze presses against your mind like a physical thing, impossible to ignore, far too present.

“…You’re thinking about cats in little boots again.”

The frustration pulses through him like a crackling storm. “You’re lucky I’m even bonded to you.”

The irritation in his voice is masked by the quiet amusement, but you feel him so close, so insistent, cutting through your thoughts with perfect clarity.

You cringe. You don’t want to think about cats in little boots. But here you are, trapped in his attention, unable to escape, unable to stop.

“I could’ve had a sweet carpenter husband. A dog. A porch swing.”

You chuckle, but it’s not the lighthearted laugh it should be. It’s twisted, tangled in the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid between you. A bitter laugh. One that feels like a release, but also like the air’s been taken from your lungs.

And then, without hesitation, his voice slides into your thoughts again, low and deliberate, as if he’s been waiting for you to admit it.

“You don’t deserve a porch swing. You deserve to be pinned to the wall and read like scripture.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your breath catches in your throat. You trip over your own thoughts, your pulse quickening, a rush of heat flooding your face. You’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else. Maybe both.

“What?” you breathe, unable to keep the confusion and something else from rising in your chest.

He sighs, exasperated. The sound cuts through your mind, filled with a mixture of admiration and something raw. Something that makes you feel exposed, like he’s peeled back a layer you didn’t even know was there.

“You see? Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

Your mind spins. The words make your head reel, but the confidence in his voice makes it worse, makes it feel real. Too real.

“But no cats in boots.”

-X-Branching Out?-X-

You had a plan. A beautifully petty, completely unhinged, desperation-fueled plan to rid yourself of the relentless, mind-numbing chaos that had become your existence.

Step one: Find a perfectly attractive, fully consenting, not a psychic sword-wielding cryptid man. Step two: Seduce said man. Step three: Break the soulmate bond by committing the age-old act of physical defiance: horizontal cardio, maybe some nice hair-pulling.

It wasn’t about romance. It was about peace. Quiet. An hour where your brain didn’t feel like it was being sharpened by a murder monk with control issues. The idea of real, uninterrupted silence. Without Mihawk’s voice invading your every thought, without his smirking commentary. It was enough to make you feel like you could breathe again.

Sex.

You knew it was unhinged, but what else was left? What other choice did you have when the mental cage you’d been stuck in for years had become unbearable?

You needed peace. So, you picked a target. Someone uncomplicated. Handsome. Local. Alive. No swords in sight.

A nice, normal man who wasn’t bent on dominating your mind.

Great smile. Even better eyes, soft and warm. Everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving until now.

You could already feel the weight lifting, just by thinking about a night without Mihawk’s presence hovering over your thoughts.

You lit a candle. The soft flicker of the flame felt grounding, almost soothing, as you took a deep breath. Your heart raced, though, as the reality of what you were about to do settled in.

For once, this would be your choice. Your decision. You’d finally found a way out.

You made your move.

But as you reached for the door, a single thought threaded through your mind. One voice, low and impossibly calm, cutting through your confidence like a blade:

“No.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a request. It was an order, one that reverberated in your skull, sinking deep into your bones. Your breath caught in your throat, a shiver of something both dark and maddening rushing through you.

The bond had never felt this loud before. This forceful. His presence, once a quiet annoyance in the back of your mind, was now an undeniable command. He had crossed the line, stepping out of the shadows and slamming his authority against your will.

You flinched. Your date blinked, confusion flashing across his face as the room suddenly shifted. The candle flickered, its soft flame dancing for a moment before—by some unseen force—it was snuffed out, leaving you in the dark.

Your heart raced, the tension in the air growing thick, suffocating you from all sides. Mihawk’s presence in your mind tightened like a vice, smug and unrelenting. You could almost feel him, a cold, invisible force swirling through your thoughts, tightening his grip on your every move.

And then came the commentary; uninvited, unwelcome, and cutting through the fragile thread of your focus like a blade:

“His hand placement is sloppy. He smells like regret. Are you actually going to let that jawline near you? That’s the chin of a tax fraud. Pathetic. I could undo you with a look and a leather glove.”

You fought it. You tried to ignore him. You leaned in closer, closing your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace. Your date, still unsure, placed his hand on your waist, hesitant. It was just a simple touch, just a normal kiss. 

“That hand moves one inch lower, and I will dismember him.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You choked. Literally. Mid-kiss. The world seemed to stop. Your date pulled back, eyes wide with confusion and concern, his face a mixture of disbelief and alarm.

“Are… are you hearing voices? Like soulmate stuff?” he asked, his voice trembling, his face pale. You could feel the heat in your cheeks as Mihawk's influence weighed heavily on you. 

“Yes,” you hissed, barely able to hold back your frustration. “And he’s an asshole.”

And there it was, the smirking satisfaction that Mihawk never failed to bring with him. In the back of your mind, his voice whispered, smooth and cold, like velvet over broken glass.

“Also,” Mihawk continued, without an ounce of remorse, “I know where this man lives. His mother gardens. I will salt the soil.”

You shrieked into a pillow, the sound muffled, but not enough to hide the complete mortification coursing through you. Mihawk’s casual cruelty stung more than you wanted to admit. The complete absence of empathy in his voice, the sharpness of his words, left you frozen.

Your date, now visibly horrified, took a cautious step back, eyes wide with panic. "I—uh, I think I should go."

"Good idea," you muttered, unable to meet his gaze, still too raw from the invasion of your thoughts. Your date, with what could only be described as the fear of God in his eyes, excused himself quickly, leaving the room with a shaky goodbye. You could practically feel him racing out the door.

The next day, Mihawk was smug. You could feel it all the way across the sea. His presence, cold and unyielding, filled your thoughts again like a shadow, casting its weight over everything.

You could almost picture him, sitting back in some dark room, swirling wine in a glass, completely at ease. You knew it well enough now: Mihawk, with all his quiet arrogance, was mentally filing away blueprints labeled “Plan B: Possessiveness.”

You tried again. And again. Same result.

Every time you so much as thought about someone else touching you, his voice tore through your mind like a banshee armed with fencing commentary and relationship ultimatums.

You could practically feel his smug satisfaction as it reverberated in your skull, like his very thoughts were carving paths into your brain, suffocating all other possibilities. It was maddening.

When asked why you were drinking on the roof, you just muttered, “I’m being held hostage by a man in my head who thinks monogamy is enforced through psychic terrorism.”

Your friend nodded, passed you the sake, and said, “At least yours isn’t a cook.”

At first, you thought the other things were a coincidence.

A gentle flirtation with a local shipwright? He tripped walking away and broke two toes. An amiable chat with a traveling bard? His instrument exploded, the sound so sudden and violent that it made everyone in the vicinity jump. And then there was the marine lieutenant. He was trying to help you off a dock, his hands on your waist in a too-familiar way. The moment his fingers brushed your skin, he screamed. Dropped like a stone. Convulsed. His eyes were wide with terror.

No marks. No wounds. Just pure, unadulterated agony.

And there, in the back of your mind, you knew. You knew.

Because somewhere, far away, tied to your soulmark like a bloody signature, Mihawk was watching. Using that stupid black magic you knew he had.

And laughing.

Not loud. Never loud. It was always a soft chuckle, a smirk that rippled through the bond with the same unsettling calm that he always wore. That soft, smug mental chuckle that raked across your nerves like velvet over broken glass.

“I didn’t kill him,” Mihawk’s voice whispered into your mind, impossibly calm. “You should be grateful. The urge was considerable.”

You screamed into your pillow, the weight of his words cutting into you. That sickening feeling of helplessness, knowing that somewhere, deep down, he was always there, always watching, always controlling.

It got worse from there.

Every time someone so much as glanced at you with prolonged interest, the air around you thickened. It was slow, heavy, and suffocating, like a shadow descending too quickly, too dark. The pressure would build, suffocating your thoughts, until something bad happened.

A cracked rib.

A pulled muscle.

A debilitating charley horse at the worst possible moment.

You felt like you were losing your grip, like you couldn’t escape the invisible force that hung over you every day. You hated it. Hated him. The constant, omnipresent weight of his influence.

“Stop injuring people, you petty knife rack!” you shouted mentally, desperate, the anger clawing its way out of your chest.

And he—of course he—was utterly unmoved.

“If they valued their lives, they’d keep their eyes to themselves.”

You tried. You tried to explain the simple concept of consent. Boundaries. Reason. You yelled at him, vented your frustration, but he simply countered with the same cold logic that had been his hallmark for so long.

“I have never interfered with your choices. I only correct the foolish who imagine they had one.”

The words made your blood boil, but it wasn’t enough to break through his calm, calculated demeanor. His indifference was maddening, and yet it was what gave him such power over you.

You threw a chair. The loud crash echoed through the room, the sound sharp and jarring against the walls of your mind. Mihawk, from his distant perch in your thoughts, just complimented your form. It felt like a mockery. The very thing you had been trying to fight off (the control, the manipulation, the presence) had become so pervasive, you couldn’t escape it.

Now, most people won’t even stand within ten feet of you without checking the sky first. Your reputation has taken on a life of its own. You’re known as “the cursed one,” and, most depressingly, “Miss Librarian, please don’t smile at me, I have a family.”

It’s absurd. And yet, there’s something in your chest that twists when you think about it.

You’re not even sure if you should laugh or scream.

You’re definitely going to fight him when you meet him. If he ever lets anyone get that close to you.

But for now, with your heart still racing and your mind still at war, you can’t help but mutter, “You’re not even my type.”

And, almost immediately, you feel his presence in the bond again. He’s there, waiting, his cold, unfazed calm bleeding into your thoughts like ice.

“I like emotionally present people. With basic communication skills. Who aren’t legally classified as bladed weapons.”

Your words are sharp. A declaration. But it doesn’t seem to faze him.

“So not the world’s greatest swordsman?” he asks, his tone completely unbothered. You can practically feel the smirk, the satisfaction radiating from him, knowing he’s pushed you further than you’d ever admit.

You grit your teeth, and your mind spins with the frustration, but somehow, there’s a strange sort of pull. Something dark and undeniable that keeps you tethered to him.

The frustration simmers in your chest. “Seriously. If you were actually Mihawk, why the hell would you waste your time teasing some random nobody through a soulbond you’ve ignored for years?”

You wait for his usual biting response. The sarcasm. The sharp retort. The unmistakable sting of his presence in your mind. But instead... nothing.

And that? That’s worse. The silence lingers, heavy, suffocating, filling your mind with its oppressive weight. You can almost feel it pressing against you, like an invisible hand gripping your chest.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“If you would just… sit still for five minutes.”

As if that’s your fatal flaw. As if you’re the one at fault. Not the fact that his voice has tormented you for years. Not the way his cold, calculating presence threads through your thoughts like some twisted, invasive force, stitching together moments of torment.

Not the way he sends you sensory simulations of what “patience tastes like”. Which, apparently, involves mahogany desks, silk ties, and being pinned against a wall at sunset, unable to move, unable to escape.

You are the chaos. The disobedient spark that refuses to sit still, to be tamed.

And because of that, he plans. Oh, how he plans.

Dracule Mihawk. The stoic warlord, the emotional void, the sword-saint with a soulmark that binds you to him, and has conjured strategies for you. His mind is sharp, a finely honed blade, and his strategies are precise and meticulous. He waits for the moment when you finally stop squirming, when you stop snarling, stop stomping off every time he thinks “mine” just a little too loudly.

If you just sat still for five minutes? He could unbutton your coat with two fingers and a glance. He could press you back against a wine barrel and make you forget your name, your crew, your very mission. He could kiss you with the kind of terrifying precision that ends nations. Not with passion, but with intention.

He could use his voice. Not the cold, clipped one he always uses. No, the low one. The one that slips into your skull like molten honey at midnight, when your defenses are down, when the bond pulses with a frantic rhythm, and your soulmark burns like a warning bell.

“Five minutes,” he says again, his words curling around your thoughts like silk, slow, deliberate, intentional. “I wouldn’t even need five. But I’d take them.”

The weight of his words presses against you like a physical force. You slam a pillow onto the floor in frustration. Your heart is pounding. Your mind is a riot of conflicting emotions.

Your neighbor, ever the observant one, watches as you collapse onto the couch. "You having nightmares?" they ask, their voice filled with concern.

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as you slump deeper into the cushions. "No, I’m not having nightmares," you mutter, your voice thick with exhaustion. "I’m having well-lit, fully choreographed mental war crimes from a man who says things like, ‘Hold still, darling. I’m aligning the moment."

You try to focus on anything else. You’ve taken to running drills, to burning off the restless energy that gnaws at your body. Anything to escape the suffocating grip of his thoughts.

But Mihawk? He knows. He knows every time you try to fight him. Every time you try to block him out. Every time you mentally scream, or imagine kissing a fisherman, just to escape the suffocating hold he has on your mind.

And each time, he responds with that same calm, smug satisfaction.

“Sit still,” he murmurs, his voice laced with satisfaction, as though he’s already won. “Or don’t. It makes no difference. I’ll have you either way.”

It’s suffocating. You haven’t known peace in years. You’ve become a woman possessed, consumed by a bond you never asked for, that you’ve tried to break at every turn. But Mihawk? He’s always there, watching. Waiting. With every passing moment, his grip only tightens.

@cupc4keics @eravariety @prorpy @sagyunaro @annieayuu @dearlymrme @alexicasa @selimaginary @mort-alicious @hephaestusx666 @sporkslol @verdantwyrmcat @ithoughtthinks @thatchickwithfoodintheback @orioncipher @wontknowbetter @cap-lu20 @nin-dy-tro @hiimhappysblog @panchadaara @uraritychain @mu5hro0m @dead-cipher @thecreativewayyysss @savvinion @svalrost @la-dee-dumb @mollys--stuff @wrens-versus-the-world @andreasaintmleux76 @ari200027 @ezzydantes @i-goon-to-doffy @littlebluepixxie @opscoups @estarosa34 @trouble-sistar @hisokas-fav-minor

[byanyan]

when will my motivation & energy for writing return....

[nephynes]

SECONDHAND HEAVEN ── .✦ lee heeseung

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

minors do not interact

pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

wc: 28k

content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.

WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.

nene’s note: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.

nsfw tags under the cut

SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

══════════════════════════

You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

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[keithyp00]

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

From Sam.

With a card.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

But Sam came over first.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

~~~~~

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

You smiled to yourself.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

[vylosinbound]

Slipping into sleep

MC falls asleep in front of the brothers

Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub and Belphegor

Genre: Fluff / Slice of Life / Comfort

In the Devildom, it’s always night, and for a human like MC, the lack of sunlight can become exhausting. With different rhythms and endless-feeling days, it’s not unusual for MC to suddenly collapse onto someone… even at the most unexpected moments.

How would each brother react?

LUCIFER

A soft, elegant melody played in the background, keeping you company alongside two glasses of fine demonus, one of Lucifer’s favorites. In his study, your voice had grown quieter and quieter until you finally gave in, leaning against his shoulder with a slow, deep breath.

Lucifer paused mid-sentence, his gaze drifting down to you.

“...Really? Now?”

he sighed softly, though a small, fond smile tugged at his lips.

The truth was, the warmth of your body against his affected him more than he cared to admit.

He watched you for a moment, then set his pen aside and slid an arm around you, pulling you closer to better support you.

“...You’re so fragile sometimes. But with me, you’re allowed to be.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

Lucifer continued his work with careful composure, though every so often, his eyes would flicker back to you, as if to make sure you were still breathing easily.

MAMMON

You were lying together on the couch, watching one of his favorite movies (a loud, over-the-top action flick), and Mammon was in the middle of an animated rant about how he could "take that guy down in five seconds flat", when he felt a soft breath against his chest.

You had completely collapsed, curled up against him. "Hey... MC...? You even listenin’—oh..."

His cheeks instantly flared bright red. Mammon bit his lip, barely holding back the urge to wake you up just to see that confused little face of yours. Instead, he tightened his arms around you, heart pounding wildly.

"Sleep tight, babe..."

The words were whispered so quietly he was sure you couldn't hear them, a sweetness he only ever let slip when he thought you were fast asleep.

LEVIATHAN

You had been gaming in his room, surrounded by piles of plushies and anime merch. At some point, your controller slipped from your hands, and you slumped against him, fast asleep. Levi froze instantly, his entire body stiff with panic.

"O-OMG... MC?! W-what do I do?!"

He was sweating bullets, heart racing, mentally flipping through every "how to handle sleeping MC" trope he had ever read in fanfics. Finally, he cautiously, so cautiously, laid a trembling hand on your hair, stroking gently.

"I-it's fine... you can sleep on me if you want..."

His voice was barely a whisper, but the tips of his ears were burning bright pink.

SATAN

You were reading with him in his room. His voice, calm and deep as he read aloud, had an almost magical way of lulling you to sleep. Without warning, you leaned against him, your breathing slow and even.

Satan noticed immediately and smiled to himself. "You really are precious, MC."

Without a word, he pulled a blanket around you and kept reading, this time just for you. His voice softened even further, a silent promise to guard your dreams.

ASMODEUS

Asmo had been showing you some new skincare products, excitedly chatting about face masks and beauty routines. You leaned into him, clearly exhausted.

He gasped, then giggled softly. "Aww, my darling MC… completely worn out! So cute!"

With infinite care, he repositioned you comfortably against him, running his fingers through your hair in slow, affectionate strokes.

Every now and then, he pressed tiny kisses to your forehead.

"Sleep well, love. You're in the best hands possible."

BEELZEBUB

Beel was munching on a snack after training when you slumped beside him, yawning.

He noticed right away when you leaned into his side, falling asleep without a second thought.

"Oh... MC fell asleep?"

He set his food down quietly and wrapped his massive arm around you like a protective wall.

Beel didn't even dare to move too much, afraid to disturb you. He simply sat there, holding you gently, feeling the slow rhythm of your breathing against him.

BELPHEGOR

Belphie was already half-asleep, of course. But when you curled up against him and buried your face in his chest, a smug little smile appeared on his lips. Without even opening his eyes, he tightened his arms around you, pulling you even closer.

"Yeah... right where you belong..."

He nuzzled against your hair, completely content, and let himself drift into sleep with you tangled securely in his arms.

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀too good at pretending.⠀✸⠀(⠀ myg ⠀)

pairing: idol!fwb!yoongi x producer!fem!reader

genre: smut, slow-burn tension, hidden feelings, late-night studio rendezvous, slice of chaotic intimacy, mutual pining masked as indifference

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), fingering, teasing, rough sex, oral tension, light dom!yoongi, semi-public sex, dirty talk, marking, overstimulation, slightly possessive behavior, soft aftercare if you squint, mutual denial of romantic feelings, mention of work-stress/mental fatigue, they’re both bad at feelings but good at sex

word count: 4.3 k

summary: it’s after midnight in a nearly-empty hybe building, and she’s still buried in deadlines and demos, jaw clenched and hands in her hair — until the only person who knows her chaos in silence shows up, just as worn out and just as emotionally unavailable. but when yoongi finds her in studio 3A, looking like she hasn't slept and biting down on her own frustration, the air shifts. and when he pulls her into his lap and tells her to be quiet if she doesn’t want the whole floor hearing — neither of them is thinking about feelings. only about relief. except everyone knows — even if they don’t say it out loud — they’re already each other's. just too damn stubborn to admit it.

lu's note: hey there i just wanted to pop up and say that requests are open, i'm on a writing spree and hopefully i'll update more regularly now that i'm almost done with the semester. i'd like to know if you want to see something abt any of the guys... just send a whisper ;)

⠀⠀⠀⠀m.list | latest

the building's nearly dead.

just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of someone vacuuming in another hallway. most people had cleared out hours ago — normal people, anyway. the ones with boundaries. sleep schedules. lives.

but not them.

yoongi stretches his neck as he turns the last corner, a paper cup of half-warm coffee in his hand, and there she is.

exactly where he figured she’d be.

her back’s to him, shoulders tense, hands tangled in her hair like she’s trying to physically pull inspiration from her skull. he watches her for a second before saying anything — mostly because it’s kind of fascinating, the way her frustration makes him want to smile. not in a cruel way. more like... fuck, of course it's her. of course she's making herself crazy over something that probably already sounds better than half the shit on the charts right now.

he leans against the doorframe. takes a sip.

“you know you’re not getting paid overtime for this, right?”

she doesn’t jump. just groans without turning around. “don’t start, yoongi. not tonight.”

he chuckles, low and quiet. walks in.

“been trying to reach you.”

his voice is softer now, casual, like this isn’t the third time he’s walked past her empty studio earlier, pretending he wasn’t checking in. “thought maybe you finally ran off to join that noise-pop cult you keep threatening me with.”

“almost did,” she mutters, fingers flying over her keyboard. “but then this demo started sounding like a crime against humanity and i couldn’t leave it like that.”

he settles into the chair beside hers — not close enough to touch, but close enough to be there.

his usual spot.

“play it.”

she hesitates, chewing her lip, and for a second he thinks she’ll argue. but she presses spacebar and leans back, arms crossed.

the track fills the room — unpolished, raw, still bleeding at the edges. but there’s something real in it, something aching and sharp.

and he knows her well enough to hear the exhaustion between the beats.

the trying too hard.

it ends. silence settles.

he nods once. slow.

“doesn’t suck.”

she scoffs. “great. can’t wait to put that on the album review.”

his smirk twitches. “i mean. it doesn’t suck as much as i expected, considering you’re trying to mix in what sounds like a dying printer.”

her mouth drops open in fake offense, and he can’t help it — the corner of his lip lifts again, amused.

this. this is why he came. not because he needed to hear the track. not because he didn’t trust she’d get it done.

but because she looks like a goddamn hurricane when she’s like this, all untamed and brilliant and so deep in her head that it scares him a little.

and he knows the world doesn’t always get the calmer version of her. the one that leans into the quiet. the one that lets herself just be.

but she gives him that version. even when she’s falling apart. especially then.

“take a break,” he says gently, pushing the coffee toward her. “you’re spiraling.”

she looks at the cup, then at him.

and for just a second — just one — her eyes soften.

but then she rolls them. “you’re annoying.”

“you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

he doesn’t say anything to that. just sits there beside her, letting the silence stretch, letting her know she’s not alone — that even when she forgets how to breathe, he remembers. for both of them.

the moment’s quiet.

too quiet for how fast his pulse is moving.

he watches the way her shoulders rise and fall — clipped, uneven — like she’s trying not to fall apart, like holding herself still is the only thing keeping her from unraveling right there in the middle of waveforms and midi tracks. and that shouldn’t do anything to him. he tells himself that every single time.

but fuck, there’s something about seeing her like this — worn down, raw around the edges, still fighting anyway — that guts him more than he’ll ever admit out loud.

he takes a step closer.

then another.

and when he’s close enough to feel the heat of her back through her hoodie, he bends a little, eyes on the crown of her head.

presses his lips there — soft, brief. a barely-there kiss that shouldn’t mean anything but always does.

her hand twitches on the mouse.

he pretends not to notice.

instead, he lets his hands find her arms, slow and easy, fingers tracing lightly from her elbows to her shoulders and back again. not squeezing, not rushing — just being there. reminding her she’s not in this alone, not tonight. maybe not ever, even if neither of them will dare say it.

his mouth finds her hair again, this time to whisper, low and amused, “you keep this up and you’re not getting anywhere with the song.”

her breath stutters — a soft exhale.

and she leans back the tiniest bit, like her body knows something her pride won’t admit.

“maybe,” she says, voice quieter now, “i just need to relax…”

he hums, and it comes out more like a growl than a laugh.

his thumbs drag slow circles into her arms now, a little firmer.

not suggestive — not yet — just intentional.

“yeah?” he murmurs, mouth still ghosting against her hair. “you want help with that?”

there’s a pause. one of those heavy ones, where a whole universe of unsaid things pass between two people who keep pretending they don’t care.

she doesn't say yes.

she doesn't have to.

her body shifts back into him, barely-there contact that might as well be a plea. her eyes stay on the screen, like she’s still pretending this is about the music — like the way her thighs press together slightly isn’t an answer in itself.

he leans closer, lips a whisper away from her ear.

“say the word.”

his voice is lower now. soft, rough, dangerous.

and god, if she says it?

he’ll make her forget what stress even feels like.

her hands on his hips feel deceptively casual — light, teasing — but he feels the tremor beneath her fingertips. the tension riding up her spine even though her voice comes out cool, steady.

"you know i’ll say yes, right?"

he looks down at her, lips quirking into that crooked half-smile — the one that always makes her roll her eyes like she’s not secretly addicted to it.

"yeah," he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the top of her arm. "but consent is sexy. and i’m nothing if not respectful."

her laugh is soft, almost a sigh, but her eyes never leave the screen, like it’s some kind of anchor. or maybe a shield.

he knows how much she hates vulnerability.

knows how much she hides behind work.

but when she leans into him like that — trusting him, choosing him — it undoes something in his chest every single time.

"c’mon," she says, still in that whisper, glancing toward the studio door. "we can’t take too long… we don’t know who’s still on this floor."

and he wants to say, let them fucking hear,

but instead, he lets her guide him — lets her take control the way she always does when she needs to feel like she’s not drowning.

her hand slips into his, fingers cold from hours on the mouse, and he follows as she leads him toward the tiny couch in the corner of the room, worn down from too many late-night naps and occasional power plays like this.

he sits down first, legs open, arms resting on the back of the couch like he’s not already burning for her.

she stands in front of him, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, pupils dark and pulled — and it takes everything in him not to reach for her right away.

but he doesn’t have to.

because she climbs onto his lap with no hesitation, knees bracketing his thighs, arms sliding around his neck like she’s done it a hundred times — like it’s muscle memory now.

and maybe it is.

he exhales, hands settling low on her waist as she leans in, their foreheads brushing for a moment. a charged pause.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely there.

her mouth tilts into a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes — not yet — and then she kisses him.

it starts slow, all lips and warmth and quiet desperation. not rushed. not rough.

like they’re trying to remind each other that even in chaos, this is the one place they always come back to.

his fingers press into her back, her hips roll into his without even meaning to, and the tension between them unravels thread by thread.

her hands are in his hair now, tugging, anchoring herself as their mouths move together in sync — and he swears she tastes like frustration and espresso and whatever scent drives him fucking insane every time she walks past him in a hallway.

somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears the vacuum whir down the hall again. a reminder of where they are. who they aren’t supposed to be.

but it doesn’t matter right now.

not when she’s sighing into his mouth like this.

not when she’s melting into his chest like maybe she’s tired of holding the whole world up by herself.

he kisses her deeper — just once — before pulling back just enough to whisper against her lips,

“five minutes.”

she breathes a laugh, breathy and wrecked.

“we’re gonna need at least ten.”

his fingers curl into the waistband of her sweatpants, slow and deliberate — a quiet warning and a promise all in one. the fabric bunches beneath his grip, and he tugs just enough for her to feel it, to know what’s coming next.

but then —

the vacuum hums closer, louder, just outside the door.

they both freeze.

he leans in, lips brushing her ear now, voice low enough to blend with the rumble in the hall.

“you’ll have to be real quiet if you don’t wanna get caught, pretty girl.”

his voice does that thing to her — that husky drop, the weight of intention threading through every syllable. she shifts against him, hips tilting just slightly like her body’s answering before she can think, and that’s all he needs.

he helps her out of the sweatpants — slow and careful, keeping her steady as she steps out of them one leg at a time. it’s practiced, familiar, intimate in a way that makes the air in the room shift.

and then she’s back in his lap, straddling him again, bare thighs brushing denim, skin against skin with only a whisper of lace in between.

her hoodie’s still on. her converse are still on — something about that is stupidly hot, chaotic and casual like everything about her.

his hands trail up her thighs, thumbs skating along the edge of her underwear, a slow tease that makes her bite her bottom lip.

he leans back just enough to take her in — flushed cheeks, messy hair, mouth slightly parted, and that signature don’t fall for me look in her eyes that he knows is all smoke and mirrors.

“lace, huh?” he murmurs, fingertips brushing just under the hem of her panties. “you really didn’t plan on finishing that demo tonight.”

her nails dig into his shoulders in response — not enough to hurt, just enough to say shut up and keep going.

he grins, letting one hand slip up her hoodie, dragging his palm along warm skin, the curve of her waist.

“we’re on a clock, baby,” he whispers, thumb circling higher now, just barely grazing. “think you can stay quiet for me?”

and yeah, he says it like a challenge.

like he already knows she’s not gonna make it easy.

her breath catches — barely audible but unmistakable — as his thumb draws slow, lazy circles over lace. there’s nothing rushed about him, no urgency in the way he touches her. just quiet control. patience that only makes it worse.

or better.

depending on how you look at it.

she shivers under his hand, biting her lip so hard it might leave a mark, trying to keep it together even though her thighs are already trembling around his.

he smirks against the crook of her jaw, amused and maddeningly calm, as if they aren’t one thin wall away from getting caught, as if she isn’t already this undone and he’s barely even touched her.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers, breath hot against her skin. “and i haven’t even done anything yet.”

then his fingers slip under the lace — slow, deliberate — and she gasps, soft and sharp, her hands grabbing at his shoulders like they’re the only solid thing in the room.

he grins, lips brushing her cheek.

“uh-uh,” he murmurs, nudging his nose along her jaw. “remember what i said.”

she nods, swallowing hard, eyes glassy and unfocused.

and that’s when he guides her hand.

takes her wrist gently and brings it down, pressing her palm over his own hand, over the fingers teasing slow, torturous circles just where she needs them most.

“use my fingers,” he whispers, low and rough. “you know what you like.”

and she does.

her hand trembles as she starts to move — guiding him, hips rocking in quiet desperation. it’s messy, it's intimate, and so fucking real.

he lets her take control, but never lets go — his other hand pressing firm at the base of her spine, grounding her, holding her there, reminding her that she’s safe, she’s seen, she’s his — even if they’ll never say it.

every breath she exhales into his neck sounds like a confession.

every roll of her hips says i need you louder than words ever could.

and yoongi, voice barely audible, lips pressed to the shell of her ear, breathes out the one thing he knows will wreck her:

“that’s it, pretty girl. just like that.”

his breath is hot against her skin — ragged now, catching with every sound she makes, every tiny gasp she tries to swallow back like it’s not unraveling him completely.

his fingers move slower, deeper. stretching her gently, curling just enough to make her spine arch into him. he knows her body by now — every twitch, every soft curse under her breath, every time she presses her mouth to his shoulder to keep from moaning too loud.

she’s trying to be good. to be quiet.

and he’s not making it easy.

“so fuckin’ wet for me already,” he murmurs into her ear, voice low and dark and laced with a smile she can feel. “this what you needed, huh? not a break. just my fingers inside you while the whole building’s still awake.”

his lips trail down her neck, open-mouthed kisses that go from soft to claiming real quick — he sucks just under her jaw, enough pressure to leave a mark that won’t fade by morning. something she’ll complain about later with a smirk, trying to act like she’s mad, like she doesn’t love it.

she whimpers — the sound small and stifled, but there — and his teeth graze her skin right after.

“shh…” he soothes, lips brushing the red bloom he just left behind. “you’re doing so good, baby. so fuckin’ pretty like this, falling apart on my lap, hoodie on, shoes still on — god, you’re such a mess for me.”

his fingers stretch deeper now, his rhythm steady but ruthless — working her open while his free hand tightens on her hip, pulling her flush against him, letting her feel just how hard he is under her.

“you feel that?” he breathes out, grinding her down a little. “feel what you do to me?”

she nods, desperate, mouth parted and gasping — but he doesn’t stop.

he can’t.

not when she’s trembling like this, thighs twitching, hands clawing at his shoulders, his name falling off her lips in broken whispers she probably doesn’t even realize she’s saying.

not when she’s losing herself and still trying to hold it together, still trying to not moan loud enough to echo down the hall.

he kisses her collarbone, trailing down with slow reverence before whispering against her skin — filth laced in affection:

“come for me, pretty girl. be quiet if you can… but fuck, don’t hold back on my account.”

she’s trembling in his lap now — her entire body shivering with the aftermath of it, hips stuttering as she rides it out against his hand, making a mess all over his fingers, on his jeans, like she’s got nothing left to give.

but the way she’s gasping his name, barely even trying to be quiet anymore, the way her hands are still gripping his shirt like she’s starving — that’s when he knows.

she’s not done.

not even close.

"yoongi," she breathes, voice wrecked, pleading, pulling at his shirt now like she’ll unravel if he doesn’t do something now.

he kisses her jaw, quick, and helps her up without a word, hands strong and steady under her thighs as she finds her footing again, legs shaky, lips kiss-bitten and slightly parted.

“c’mon,” he says, voice low, firm, laced with need so thick it’s almost a growl. he turns her gently, guides her to lean over the back of the couch, her knees sinking into the worn cushions — and fuck, the sight of her like that?

it nearly undoes him.

she pulls off the hoodie in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind her, hair falling wild and messy down her back. the black lace underwear’s still clinging to her thighs, barely pushed down, an afterthought now — and something about it makes his brain short-circuit.

he stands behind her, hands trailing down her spine, over the soft slope of her hips.

he could tease. he wants to tease.

but not now.

not when she’s already shaking for him, not when she’s arching her back just right, looking over her shoulder with that desperate, wrecked little expression that makes his cock twitch against his zipper.

he leans in, one hand sliding up her back, pressing down between her shoulder blades.

“you want it like this?” he whispers against her ear, hot and low.

she nods, frantic.

he barely tugs the underwear any further, just enough to expose her, to have her. he likes the way it looks bunched on her thighs, messy and rushed, like they never really had the patience to undress properly.

like they never do.

then he undoes his belt, the quiet clink loud in the stillness of the studio.

and just before he sinks into her, he leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of her spine, and mutters — low and reverent — like she’s the only thing he believes in,

“let me take care of you.”

his hands are rough now, no more of that slow build-up — it’s fast, all heat and urgency, all of it fueled by the risk, by how easy it would be for someone to walk by and hear the unmistakable sounds slipping out from under the door.

his fingers dig into the swell of her ass, spreading her open, thumbs pressing into skin like he owns it. he squeezes, slaps once — quick and sharp — just to watch her jolt forward on instinct, breath catching as she reaches for something to bite down on.

she grabs the old throw blanket folded lazily on the armrest — some gifted merch no one ever uses — and she sinks her teeth into it, moaning into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping her from getting caught.

yoongi’s head falls back for a second at the sight of her like this — needy and wrecked and his, half-naked with her shoes still on, knees digging into a couch they’ve both crashed on too many times.

and he’s fast now. fucking into her like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, low groans escaping his throat every time she clenches around him, every time her hips grind back like she’s just as desperate.

“look at you,” he pants, leaning in close, chest to her back. his hand tangles in her hair, not too hard, just enough to pull her head back so he can get to her ear, mouth brushing the shell of it. “biting that blanket like you don’t want the whole damn building to know how good i’m fucking you.”

she moans louder at that — muffled but loud — like the filth in his voice is winding her tighter.

“so fuckin’ needy,” he whispers, hips snapping into her, rhythm relentless. “you were practically begging for it, weren’t you? making a mess all over my hand, whining in my lap like a pretty little slut…”

he kisses the corner of her jaw, slow and messy.

"you think they’d still respect you if they saw you like this? bent over, drooling into a blanket while i fuck you stupid?"

her whole body shudders at that — hips twitching, back arching — and he grins, breathless.

“didn’t think so,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke. “now be good, baby. stay quiet, take it all — and don’t you dare cum until i say so.”

yoongi swears under his breath, voice low and ragged, eyes locked on the slick, messy glide of her body swallowing him whole — over and over again. the mess she’s making of him, of herself, of the damn couch cushions. it’s obscene. it’s art.

he can’t look away.

the way her thighs tremble.

the slick sounds echoing in the tiny studio.

the blanket still caught between her teeth, now damp with spit and moans she’s too scared to let out.

it’s almost too much — almost.

he slows suddenly, pulls out with a slow drag that makes her gasp and arch back instinctively, trying to chase the friction.

but he’s already palming himself, thick and flushed and dripping — dragging the head of his cock right against her swollen clit.

“yoongi—” she breathes, voice high and strung out, hips bucking back, needing more — needing anything.

he grins, lazily, running himself along her, smearing her wetness in tight little circles. messy, filthy pressure, just enough to make her legs shake.

“fuck, look at this,” he groans, thumbing her open again just to see the way she twitches. “you’re so wet for me, pretty girl. making a goddamn mess all over my cock, and i haven’t even finished with you yet.”

he pushes in just the tip — enough to make her cry out into the blanket — and pulls back again to rub slow circles against her clit, dragging the head across her like he’s trying to brand her with it.

“you like that?” he murmurs, watching her hips try to press back into him. “like how it feels when i tease you like this? you want more?”

she nods desperately, a muffled please slipping out around the fabric in her mouth, and it’s so sweet, so fucking perfect, it makes his grip on her hair tighten just a little.

“you’re gonna lose your mind if i don’t give it to you, huh?” he growls, circling her clit again, wet and hot and just enough to make her shake. “but i like watching you fall apart like this. so messy, so loud without even saying a word.”

he leans in close again, lips ghosting over her ear, voice lower than before — dangerous.

“keep that blanket right there, baby. ‘cause when i finally fuck you again… you’re gonna need something to scream into.”

he can feel it building — low in his spine, thick in his blood, the kind of tension that’s impossible to slow down once it starts burning through his veins. she’s soaked, her thighs trembling against his, back arching every time he drags himself over that perfect spot, and he’s dangerously close to losing it.

he pulls her up gently, not because he wants to be sweet — though he is, in his own way — but because he needs a better angle. needs to see her face, her wrecked little expressions. needs to feel her falling apart with him.

“come here,” he mutters, helping her shift, guiding her down onto her side, her legs curling slightly as he lays behind her. he hooks one arm under her knee, holding it up to keep her open, the other snaking around her waist to pull her flush against him.

and then he’s back inside her — deeper like this, slower for a second, but heavier, more intense.

“fuck, baby,” he grits, mouth pressed to the back of her neck, teeth grazing skin. “you’re so tight like this… you were made for this.”

she lets out a breathy, muffled moan — lips parted, eyes fluttering — and it’s so much, the intimacy, the sweat, the quiet gasps between them. the danger of getting caught still sharp in the background, echoing with every thrust.

he’s close — too close — and when she reaches behind her, fingers barely brushing his hip like she’s trying to pull him even deeper, that’s what does it.

“shit—” he groans, deep and rough, burying his face in her shoulder as he pulls out quickly, hand wrapping around himself.

in just a few rough strokes, he’s coming hard — hot and messy, thick spurts landing right across the black lace of her underwear still tangled around her thighs. he pants against her, forehead pressed to her back, hand steadying himself against her hip as the tremors run through him.

“fuck,” he whispers, breathless. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

they’re still tangled like that — her on her side, flushed and slick, his cum cooling on her thighs and lace — when a knock slices through the air.

sharp.

loud.

too real.

they both freeze.

she shoots him a wide-eyed look over her shoulder, and yoongi curses under his breath as he scrambles for her hoodie, tossing it over her bare chest while trying to zip himself up with one hand.

“(y/n)-ssi?” a voice calls politely from the hallway. a young male staffer, probably an intern. “i was told to remind you about the morning meeting. they asked if you could check your email before you leave.”

yoongi presses a finger to his lips, mouthing don’t laugh when she lets out a wheeze and nearly chokes on it, face buried in the blanket again.

“thanks!” she croaks out after a second, voice not nearly as steady as she wants it to be. “i’ll check in a bit!”

silence. footsteps retreat. door remains mercifully shut.

yoongi leans down, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, voice smug and low and just as wrecked as she is.

“you owe me a new pair of jeans,” he murmurs.

“and maybe a warning next time you decide to look that fuckable in sweatpants.”

-quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

IN THE MORNING

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Female Reader

RATING: Explicit

WORD COUNT: 2K

SUMMARY:

Jack comes home exhausted from work. When he sees you in bed, he's suddenly not so tired anymore.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

explicit content (18+ minors do not interact), reader insert, established relationship, no use of y/n, mentions of jack's prosthetic and mental health, morning sex, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected p in v, pet names, dirty talk, a little breeding kink, a little spit kink, creampie, cum play.

let me know if i've missed any!

Jack is exhausted as he opens the door to his apartment, the kind of tired that was bone deep and left him aching all over. His eyes burn, his throat is dry, and his leg is sore from thirteen hours on his feet. His thoughts are clouded with lab values and his ears ring with the phantom beep of machines.

He drops his bag on the dining table, promising himself he’ll stick it in the hall closet later, and heads for the kitchen. He opens the freezer and rummages around until he finds a breakfast sandwich shoved in the back corner. He grabs a plate from the drying rack and unwraps the sandwich, sticking it in the microwave. 

While it cooks, he visits the bathroom and strips out of his scrubs, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He starts the shower, turning the water to near scalding, and sits down on the closed toilet lid to remove his prosthetic with practiced efficiency.

His shower is quick and clinical. He sits on the built-in bench for most of it, scrubbing his skin raw. When he’s done, he shuts the water off and gets out, leaning against the wall for stability as he dries off. He keeps a stack of clothing in the bathroom closet — a t-shirt, boxers, a pair of sweatpants — and he changes into them before fitting his prosthetic back on.

The sandwich is barely warm by the time he opens the microwave but he doesn’t care. He eats it in four quick bites and sticks the plate in the dishwasher. 

Jack heads for the bedroom and opens the door quietly. You’re lying in the middle of the bed, face down with your arms wrapped around your pillow. You’ve kicked the sheets away in your sleep the way you tend to do, prone to running hot. The blackout curtains are already shut, a thin line of sunlight seeping into the room past the heavy fabric, and you’ve got the sound machine on, the ebb and flow of ocean waves drifting through the room.

Sometimes, if his shift runs late, you’re already awake when he comes home. You’ll be in the kitchen, making breakfast, humming some tune he doesn’t recognize because he listens to audiobooks more than music, but he likes the way you fill his apartment with noise. He got too used to the quiet, the way it would weigh heavy on his shoulders, full of memories and mistakes. 

Other times, like this morning, you’re still asleep. Warm, soft, lips parted as you breathe steadily. Selfishly, he loves this more because he knows it means you have nowhere else to be, nothing else to do — you’re all his. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and removes his prosthetic again, tucking it neatly between the bed frame and the nightstand. He reaches for the sheet at the end of the bed and drags it back, letting it settle over you both. 

You left your head from the pillow, squinting at him in the dark. Your lips stretch into a slow smile.

“Hey, baby,” you whisper, voice raspy from sleep. “How was work?”

“S’alright,” he says. You wiggle toward him, head on his pillow, a leg thrown over his hip. He runs his palm up your bare thigh. 

He’s not feeling so tired anymore.

You hum, eyes drifting shut again. He doesn’t stop touching you, letting his hand wander over your waist, sneaking beneath the hem of your t-shirt. The muscles of your abdomen jump under his touch. 

He reaches higher, palming your breast. You inhale sharply, arching into the touch, and he pinches the tight bud of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He watches your face, mesmerized by the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part in a breathy sigh.

Jack tucks his head between your neck and shoulder, taking a deep breath, what feels like the first since he stepped inside the hospital last night. You smell like something sweet, like that perfume you wear to work, but also like him — his detergent, his soap. He groans, opens his mouth, drags his lips across your neck in a kiss.

His hand drifts lower, down your belly, fingers finding the elastic of your underwear and slipping beneath it. He drags a finger through your slit, collecting some of the slick gathering at your entrance. He gently circles your clit, touch light, barely there, but your hips chase it regardless.

“Know you’re tired,” he mumbles into your skin. He lifts his head. “But can I—?”

“Of course.”

Jack groans, biting your shoulder lightly. 

Sometimes he can’t believe his luck, can’t believe a woman like you would even look twice at him, let alone let him call you his. You’re so bright that sometimes it hurts to look at you, hurts to touch because he’s scared of dimming your light. 

But sometimes, in the dark, it feels safe. Sacred. He can let himself have it because in the dark he's always found forgiveness.

He lifts his head and gently eases you onto your back, hovering over you. You tilt your chin towards him and he kisses you, slowly, thoroughly. He probably tastes like burnt coffee and microwaved eggs but you don’t seem to care, opening up for him, tangling your tongue with his.

He pulls away and tips his forehead against yours. You reach up to cup his face in your palms, rubbing your thumbs over his cheeks. Grounding him, something you do without even realizing it, like it’s second nature — a hand on his arm when you’re at the grocery store, wrapping yourself around him from behind when you’re standing in line, your foot nudging his calf at a restaurant. 

He reaches for the bottom of your shirt. You sit up a little to allow him to remove it and toss it to the floor. He kisses your sternum, over the curve of your breast, then to your nipple. He drags his tongue along the sensitive bud before pulling it between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you gasp, easing up slightly to let you catch your breath before doing it again.

Jack switches to your other breast, giving it the same thorough attention. Only when you’re squirming beneath him and your quiet moans turn to whines does he move on, leaving open mouthed kisses down your tummy until he reaches your underwear.

He sits back on his knees and pulls the scrap of fabric down your thighs, throwing it in the same general direction as your shirt. You let your legs fall open wider and he reaches toward you, framing your pussy between his hands and using his thumbs to gently spread you open.

“There she is,” he murmurs. He leans in closer, gathers some spit on his tongue and opens his mouth, letting it drip down right on top of your clit. The moan you let out is wanton, desperate.

“Jesus, Jack,” you say with a little laugh. “You’re filthy this morning.”

He hums, eyes flicking to yours. He holds your gaze as he licks through your folds, one broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your head drops back against the pillow, hands reaching down to tangle in his hair. He sets a pace that’s leisurely, all broad swipes and slow circles and long pulls of your clit between his lips. He could eat your pussy for hours and still not be satisfied, still not had his fill. 

“Jack,” you moan, hips flexing against his face. He doesn’t hold you still, lets you chase the pleasure however you want. His chin grows wet with spit and slick but he doesn’t care. “Fuck—I’m—more, I need more.”

He presses two fingers to your entrance, slides them inside of you with little resistance. The noise you let out is feral, something from deep in your chest that makes his cock twitch, smearing sticky precum all over his underwear, leaking through to his sweatpants.

Jack curls his fingers, stroking you from within. You start to tighten around his digits, close to finishing, and he uses his thumb to circle your clit in tandem with the pulse of his fingers. He reaches up, grips your chin in his left hand, holds your gaze as your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as you pulse around him, impossibly tight and hot and wet.

He eases you through it, slow and steady, until your muscles unwind enough for him to withdraw his hand. You whine a little at the loss but he shushes you, crawling up to lie beside you.

“So pretty,” he says, kissing you, “so pretty when you come.”

You smile at him, a little dazed — forehead damp with sweat and eyes glassy. He turns you onto your side, facing away from him, and presses in close, kissing your neck, dragging his tongue over your pulse.

“You didn’t think I was done, did you?” He asks. You shake your head.

“I know you better than that,” you reply. “You’re gonna make me all messy and I won’t be able to go back to sleep until I’ve showered.”

He pulls your hips back against his, grinding against your ass. “I like you messy.”

“I know.”

He shoves his sweatpants and underwear down, just enough for his cock to spring free. You lift your top leg slightly, giving him space to drag his length through your slick flesh. He groans, burying his face into your shoulder.

“Come on, baby,” you coo. You reach between your legs and guide his tip to your entrance. The next flex of his hips buries him inside your tight heat, just barely. Just the tip, splitting you open, your body welcoming him inside. “That’s it, just like that.”

He sinks in further, deeper, chasing the warmth. You hook your leg over his waist, keeping yourself open to him. His sharp thrusts fill the room with skin slapping against skin, loud enough to drown out the serene ocean waves.

You tilt your face back and Jack kisses you, reaching up to rest his palm on your throat. Not squeezing, not demanding, just solid and there. 

His release builds quickly, his thrusts growing short, fast, no true rhythm to be found. You’re moaning into his mouth and he can feel you fluttering around him, little pulses around his cock that drive him crazy.

“You gonna fill me up, Jack?” You murmur. 

He grunts, reaching down to grab your hip, pulling you back against his every thrust. “You want that?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter. “Please.”

“Say it.”

“Cum in me, baby.” His cock twitches. “Wanna feel it.”

Jack comes, moaning your name, squeezing your hip, pulsing inside of you, filling you with a sudden rush of warmth. He holds you tight against him until cock starts to soften and he slips free.

You turn over, facing him. Head on his pillow, nose brushing his. He reaches for your leg and drapes it over his hip then slips a hand between your thighs, dragging his fingers through the mess he’s made. Your eyelids flutter and you squeeze his shoulder as he presses two fingers inside of you.

“You okay?” He asks. You huff a laugh.

“Better than okay,” you tell him. He smiles in that Jack Abbot way, small and secretive. 

“You got anywhere to be today?” 

“Nope.”

“Good,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes. “Stay with me.”

It’s late afternoon when Jack wakes up to an empty bed. He’s not surprised. You usually last about another hour before having to get up before him, leaving him to sleep. He finds you in the living room, on the couch, watching TV. 

You look up when he enters. He rubs his neck, stretches his arms above his head, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a bit of his stomach. He looks good when he just wakes up. His eyes are a little brighter, shoulders a little less tense. 

“I made you some coffee,” you tell him. He glances toward the kitchen but moves toward you, sitting beside you on the couch.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling you in for a kiss that says he doesn’t mean just for the coffee.

Thank you, for everything, he thinks. When he pulls back, you smile at him, bright as ever.

“You’re welcome.”

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment or reblogging if you enjoyed this fic -- they keep me inspired!

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | AO3

[asiatic-apple]

Hiiii! Can I please request number 20 from the fluff list, with Caleb? (Female reader, please <3)

Thank you for the request, love! I’m actually feeling proud of this one, so I hope it was worth the long wait 💕

More than you realize

Caleb x female reader

Words: 1k

Prompt: finally confessing their love, only to realize the other has fallen asleep right next to them

Content: suggestive themes, so much mutual pining and yearning, ONE mention of being family but it can be interpreted figuratively

Caleb’s weight is nearly suffocating. You’ve been lying in your bed for twenty minutes now, with his head pillowed by your chest and his heavy arm slung over your waist. His breathing is slow, but not quite slow enough to signal that he’s asleep.

“You comfortable?” you murmur, carding your fingers gently through his soft hair.

“Mmh,” he hums in reply. “Too comfortable. Can’t move.”

You smile, even as your heart threatens to break through your ribs. With a nervous shift, you hope he can’t hear the thunderous pounding of it. But it’d be impossible for him not to with his ear pressed between the valley of your breasts.

The slight movement makes Caleb groan in playful annoyance, his hand gripping your waist tighter to stop you from scooching too far away. “Don’t leave me,” he mumbles in a soft plea. Your heart breaks a little at the sound. “This feels nice. I feel…safe with you.”

That word hits you harder than it should.

The two of you have been performing this song and dance for longer than you’d like to admit. You tiptoe around your feelings for him—the feelings you try to tell yourself are inappropriate given your relationship.

But ever since reuniting with him, Caleb has been louder in his song. And bolder in his dance.

Every step he takes toward you is measured as he looks at you with expectation. Like maybe one of these days, you’ll stop stumbling two steps back every time he confidently takes the lead.

Still, he doesn’t push too much. He knows where you’ve drawn the line in the sand. And he waits for you to cross it when you’re ready, even after all the hints he drops unabashedly.

Something niggles at the back of your mind, whispering that maybe now is that moment. He’s here, in your arms. Warm and half-awake and saying things like finding safety with you.

You could laugh this whole thing off. Laugh off how he nuzzles into you just a bit more, lips brushing against the clothed swell of your breast in a way that can’t be explained by any of the roles you’ve tried to shove him into in the past. You’re tired of pretending you don’t want more.

So you bite the bullet before you lose your nerve.

You let your fingers slide down, brushing the back of his neck and pressing him a bit closer to your plush curves.

“Hey,” you say softly while your heartbeat runs away from you. “I…I love you, Caleb.”

No, that doesn’t sound right by itself. You’ve always loved him—and he already knows that. But the words have previously been wrapped in the convenient title of someone you grew up with. Someone who feels like family, but not in the way he’s yearned for.

Now, you’re ready to meet him where he stands. You’re ready to follow his lead in this dance.

“I mean,” you quickly mutter, “I love you. More than you realize.”

There’s a beat of deafening silence. It lasts only a few seconds but feels like a tear to your heart.

Is he mad at you? Have you misread this entire situation?

You’re losing your mind with each second of silence that passes, so you fill the space with frantic words.

“Caleb? We don’t have to talk about this now if you don’t want to. We can talk in the morning. But please say something to let me know I didn’t just mess everything up. Why are you so qui–”

A soft snore cuts through your nervous rambling, followed by that unmistakable sleepy sound he makes that’s half breathy sigh and half exhausted moan.

You stare at the ceiling, mouth agape in mortification. Your ears burn. After all that mental preparation, all those pep talks you’ve been giving yourself lately, he fell asleep.

Calling his name again, only a fraction louder, you test if he’s pulling your leg with what could only be considered his cruelest prank.

Still no answer. He just lets out another quiet breath, completely dead to the world.

When you carefully lift your head to glare down at him, he looks peaceful. It’s annoying how relaxed and beautiful he is in his sleep.

There’s a faint smile tugging at his lips, but he snores softly once again, and you tell yourself it was all just bad timing on your part.

“Unbelievable.” You chuckle as you let your head fall back against the pillow. “I drop the biggest emotional bomb of my life, and you choose now to pass out?”

Caleb shifts slightly, snuggling in closer like he knows you’re talking shit.

You sigh, threading your fingers back through his hair while you grumble to the quiet room. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I’ll tell you again later. When you’re awake. When you’re actually listening.”

A long pause. Another whimpered exhale.

“And when you do say it back,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut, “you better make it count.”

Caleb can’t stop himself from grinning. He prays you can’t feel his lips twitch against your sternum.

It was luck that he was right at the cusp of sleep when you said those words, causing the drowsy fog in his head to dissipate immediately. You knocked the air out of his lungs and set his skin aflame with your confession.

And then, as if it wasn’t enough to say it once, you kept repeating the words like a chant. Your fingers tickled his hairline as you caressed your ‘sleeping’ giant.

He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to stop hearing those three simple yet not-so-simple words. The three words he’d been yearning to hear back from you since you were kids, but in a different way than the carefree declaration you’d always said before.

He knows it’s selfish—not speaking up when you were anticipating his reaction. But he hopes your courage will remain when the sun rises. With each repetition of your love spoken out loud, he can feel your bravery growing. 

So he continues faking a snore here and there, giving you more time to let the words sink in for you just as much as he revels in them.

Come morning, he’ll make it up to you by pressing the words against your lips and across your skin. Twice for each time you say them now.

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dividers by me (please don't repost)

[lazysoulwriter]

you blocked pedro pascal?! - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡content: tinder match gone wrong (but right), mistaken identity, funny meet-cute, flustered reader, playful banter, pedro being too charming for his own good, coffee date setup, light and cute.

---

You: are you actually Pedro Pascal or is this like… some dude named Kyle with too much free time and a good VPN Pedro: that’s a very specific accusationand it’s me. promise. You: sure it is, “Pedro”alright Kyle, have fun catfishing someone else lol

Blocked.

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

You had forgotten about it within the hour. Another tinder fake-out. It happened. You’d been burned before—there was once a guy pretending to be Andrew Garfield who sent you stock photos and then asked for feet pics. Absolutely not.

So when you saw Pedro Pascal again—in person—you were in CVS, in your deadest hoodie and mismatched socks, restocking toothpaste and chips after a mentally exhausting week. You were already feeling grimy and sleepy and deeply un-cute when a voice behind you said:

“Excuse me…”

You turned around, clutching a sad tube of toothpaste in one hand.

There he was.

Pedro. Pascal. Looking real, looking famous, looking like someone who absolutely should not be shopping for gum next to your sleepy self.

He gave you a slow, amused smile. “You’re the girl who blocked me on tinder, aren’t you?”

You blinked. Your brain full-on shut down. “W–what?”

“Yup,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “Profile name ‘sunflowerpunk’?”

You could’ve died.

“Oh my God,” you mumbled, half hiding your face behind the toothpaste. “You’re real?”

“I am real,” he said, casually leaning on his cart like you hadn’t accused him of being a guy named Kyle with a VPN. “Also, not named Kyle. Unless we’re playing a new game I don’t know about.”

“I—okay, in my defense, there are so many fake celebrity accounts.”

He nodded, pretending to be solemn. “I get it. I’m just some guy on tinder with a nice camera roll and emotional damage. Suspicious.”

You covered your face with your hand. “This is so humiliating.”

Pedro stepped a little closer, lowering his voice just enough to make your knees weak. “You really blocked me without giving me a chance to prove I was real?”

“You were typing with perfect punctuation and no typos,” you muttered. “That was suspicious.”

“Wow.” He laughed. “So you ghosted me because I know how to use a semicolon?”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Okay. Maybe I overreacted.”

“Maybe,” he echoed playfully. Then: “So… how are you planning to make it up to me?”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “Um.”

Pedro tilted his head. “I’m thinking coffee.”

“Oh.”

“Now.”

“Now?”

He grinned. “Before you block me again.”

You stared at him. “You're really pushing this, huh?”

“I’m persistent,” he said. “And I don’t like being ghosted. Especially not by someone who made me smile on a Tuesday night.”

You looked at him for a moment longer—tousled hair, gentle eyes, still holding gum—and felt your heart do something treacherous.

“…Fine. But I’m picking the place.”

“Deal.” He handed over a CVS receipt like it was a contract. “Lead the way.”

---

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

[tsuutarr]

Yandere!Hero (Chosen One) x Saint!Reader

Being the Hero – the Chosen One – means that the world’s fate is on Elias’ shoulders. He’s long since forgotten how to live for himself, his life belonging to everyone but him. He’s merely a puppet that’s being strung along by the world for the sole purpose of saving it.

At first, he was honored to be chosen as the Hero – it’s a privilege most don’t get. But everyone expects too much – everything – from him. His life is carefully shaped into what others want of him, people only looking at his role and not him as a person.

Now, he fights and saves people due to duty, not desire. There is no sparkle of pride when he helps villagers. Instead, all that is left is another thing checked off of his mental checklist. Now, he just wants to rest. He just wants things to be over.

So that’s why he despised the idea that some Saint from the Church would be his “helper.” Traveling with someone else is only going to slow him down. Not to mention the fact that he doubts the Saint has ever seen bloodshed and disease like he has.

But when he actually meets and travels with you, the Saint, he realizes that you’re actually not that bad. You’re actually kind of nice. He’d expected you to turn your nose at the commoner population, refusing to heal them, but you actively seek them out to help. You’re kind and gentle, but headstrong. Even when you’re visibly exhausted, you do your best to keep going. 

It’s… kind of impressive, actually. He had misjudged you, perhaps.

Even now, you’re helping the knights that were attacked by bandits (which Elias had vanquished), healing not only their bodies but their souls, too. He can’t help but look at you, a raw beacon of kindness that he hasn’t seen before in his travels. 

Once you’re done healing the knights, you look up at him, before a gasp escapes your lips. “Elias!”

He blinks at you, curiously.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Ah.” Elias looks down at his hand, blood dripping down his fingers. He had instinctively grabbed a knife by the blade earlier because he wouldn’t have been able to dodge it in time. “This is nothing.”

“Oh, shush!” you say, approaching him. You push him towards a tree stump, forcing him to sit, which he allows. Carefully, you take his hand in yours, frown deep set on your mouth. Your hand is so warm that it makes his heart burn.

“You’re tired,” he states, bluntly. He doesn’t tug his hand out of yours. “You’ve healed too many people.”

“I can–”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Rest for now, Saint. I am fine.” And he’s right – he’s the Hero, after all. His wounds heal much faster and better than a normal human being. He doesn’t necessarily need your healing.

“Still,” you murmur, looking up at him. “Can I at least clean and bandage it?”

It’s pointless, really, but Elias says, “Do what you want.”

So you do. You disinfect and clean his wound, before carefully wrapping his hand with bandages. For some reason, his heart squeezes painfully as he watches you tend to him so gently. He doesn’t remember if anyone’s ever treated him this kindly.

“There.” You look proud of yourself. It’s kind of cute.

“You didn’t have to,” he mutters without really thinking about it.

You give him a smile that makes his brain stop. “I wanted to. I want to support you.”

For some reason, your words almost make him want to cry. He’s not sure why – he’s seen so much death and destruction to the point that his emotions have become numb. Yet, you bring flickers of his feelings back to him – happiness, sadness, anger, love. 

You make him feel like he has an existence beyond just being the Hero. You make him feel human.

So, how can he let you go? He can’t – and he’ll do everything he can to make you his. Even if it means he has to destroy the world.

[aetherraeys]

relieving the pressure

remus lupin x afab!reader ⊹ 4.2k

for this request x

cw ⟢ smut 18+ mdni, very domestic, established relationship, fluff, soft remus, very attentive!reader, swearing, p in v, riding, creampie, aftercare

summary: you always take such good care of remus before the full moon, moodswings and all—he's just so overwhelmed with love for you. (techincally part two of this, but can be read alone)

a/n: REMUS SMUT MWHAHAHAHAH gosh the second i started this i literally couldn't think about anything else. WRAP BEFORE YOU TAP PLS, not proofread x

The warmth that radiated off you was so soothing, and in combination with the tender twist and coil of your fingertips through his hair, Remus really didn’t stand a chance—the low lulling call of sleep beckoning him forward. Unable to fight against the exhaustion that had been looming over him and the mental fatigue of the day’s emotional whiplash.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest slow, the small hum of his content sighs coming to a stop and his hand falling limp against your waist—sleeping.

For a long while, you continued to indulge him, carding your fingers through his hair, letting them settle at the nape of his neck—before slowly, delicately peeling yourself from him, adjusting the pillow beneath his head, the duvet over his body. Silently treading around the room to close the curtains in exchange for the small bedside lamp, switching on the diffuser as your exited—leaving the door just barely ajar.

Unfortunately for Remus, the ache of his limbs jolsted him awake not long after you left, his arm reaching out in search for the warmth of your presence. And the lack of your discovery cause a small pout to settle onto his lips, tossing and turning to get a look at the clock, 7:38pm, barely and hour and a half of sleep.

Pursing his lips together with a sigh of reluctance, he forced his way out of the duvet’s cozy embrace—a sharp wince making slipping into the air with first steps he took. Stopping at the door frame when he noticed the lack of life in the living room, the heavy trickle of water reaching his ears as he turned into the bathroom.

You hadn’t noticed him watching, perched on the edge of the bath, the sound of the running tap accompanied by your light absentminded hums—and the corners of his lips twitched up in admiration, as your fingertips glided through the surface of the water. After a few more moments of observation, he stepped onto the cold tiles of the bathroom, the flitting of light from his shadow over the burning candles alerting you to his presence.

Immediately your lips stretched into a warm smile, walking over to him and wrapping him up in your arms. His head instinctively fell into the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale—letting you fill all his senses, mumbling into your skin. The vibrations made your shoulders inch up as a giggle bubbled in your chest, leaning back to meet his gaze—eyebrows raised as an indication for him to repeat himself.

His hands settled on the curve of your hips, walking you backwards till your back pressed against the sink. You still looked up at him, eyes swimming with a soft, silent fondness that made his throat dry—your hands trailed up his sides, over his chest and neck, running over his hair before residing on the curves of his jaw, thumb tracing lightly over the scar by his lip.

“What y’doing?” His voice low and hoarse from disuse.

You stayed quiet for a moment, drinking in his appearence, the disheveled mass of curls on his head, the cowlick at the front of one of his brows, the slightly sunked dark circles that rested beneath his eyes; “Mmm, just running a bath,”

He knew it was for him, if the candle placement wasn’t telling enough, the book he’d been reading resting on the ledge by the window was a dead give away. Remus hummed back in response, leaning down and pressing small kisses across your face, leaving the last against your lips, grinning into the touches.

When you eventually pull away from him, leaving away, checking the rising water level—almost ready—he switched to holding your free hand, trailing behind you as you walked to the other cabinet. Shockingly clingy considering his previous mood, it still brought a small smile to your face—trying to work around the one handed handicap situation he’d put you in. When you reached for a small packet, you made an attempt to unzip it to no avail. Turning to look at him, your words littered with a huffed chuckle—

“I’m gonna need my other hand, bubs,”

Something similar to a pained groan rumbled in Remus’ chest as he released your hand—opting to wrap his arms around your middle, head resting lightly against your shoulder.

Opening the packet, you waddled over to the bath, Remus still clinging to your back, taking the small scoop and emptying it into the water—small buds of lavender rising to the surface as you leaned and ran your hand through bath.

“Am I the main ingredient in your soup?”

His words were muffled against your skin and your body shook with the giggles that ran through you—adding another scoop and turning off the tap before spinning to look at him, lips still stretched into a grin.

Your hand came up under the hem of his jumper, fingertips ghosting over the warm skin of his torso, and he made no attempts to fight against you—removing his jumper in one swift moment while you murmured. “It’s a bath salt, it should help with the aches,”

He leaned into your hold, hands rubbing small pressured circles onto the top of his hips—beginning his light assault again, this time peppering small kisses along your pulse, drifting up to the thin skin behind your ears. His voice was low and gravelly sending shivers down your spine.

“Will you join me?”

Letting out a soft hum of approval, Remus waste no time mimicking your actions and ridding you of your top—dropping it to the floor, joining his with a small thud.

Greeted with the newly exposed skin, his lips trailed to the tops of your shoulders, fingertips skimming over your spine, reaching up to unclasp your bra and roughly tossing it behind him. Soft sighs spill from your lips, basking in the affection before you eventually breathed—“It’s gonna get cold, Rem,”

Only then did he detach from your skin slightly, and with a squeeze of your hips, he stepped back, giving you both space to shimmy out of your bottoms.

His bones thanked him as the water embraced him, leaning against the cold ledge of the bath, coaxing him forward, you took your seat behind him, arms cradling his body as his did before. His hum vibrated low against your skin when he felt the warmth of your lips against his spine. You reached up, plucking the small vial of eucalyptus oil—dropping a pipette full into the water as well as your hands.

Using the heat of your hands to work it into his skin, Remus’ eyes closed as you started to work the tension out of his shoulders—letting his head hang forward, basking in the soothing lull of the water, as well as the attentive press of your fingers into his aching muscles.

“Does that feel okay?” Your voice was just above a whisper, breathy and honeyed against his neck, thumbs working their way down, on each side of his spine—goosebumps forming in their wake.

“Mmmm, feels really good, love,”

Once your hands reached the base of his spine, they snaked round back to his hips—kneading lightly into the flesh, pressing small pecks against his shoulder blade. Taking extra care to work out the knots that formed under his skin before bring your hands up to his hair—saturating the curls with water, massaging gently into his scalp as his rested his head against your shoulder. Looking up at you, eyes filled with contentment.

Your voice was soft and soothing in his ears; “Close your eyes,” reaching over him and adding a dollop of shampoo into your palm before lathering, sighs of relaxation spilling form his lips when the sweet jasmine scent took over his senses. For a few long drawn out minutes, you worked your fingertips into him in relative silence—bar the gentle melody you hummed lightly, soothing something deep in Remus’ bones.

By the time you’d washed, rinsed and conditioned his hair—he was sure he’d fall asleep right then and there if he wasn’t careful. After a final hum, more breath than words, he murmured, “Your turn, love,” When you stood, stepping out of the water, Remus quickly shifted back, making space for you.

The surface of the water sloshing against his torso as you re-entered, instinctively you laid your head against his chest, absorbing the familiar heat that radiated off of him—you lay against him for a while, his hands holding yours, rubbing absentminded patterns on your skin. Dipping your head lower, you submerged your hair into the water—eyes closed, letting the low dulling whoosh of the water bounce between your ears.

Just before you lifted your head, you opened your eyes to find Remus, his sights already on you—unfairly fond. Shampoo already lathered in his palms, waiting for you to full re-emerge, the softest smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

He repeated your actions, rinsing and resting his chin on your shoulder. With a deep inhale through your nose, you turned to look at him slightly—he was all but melting into you—voice gentle and candied, “Feel better, Rem?”

His lips stretched into a wide, crooked grin—burying his cheek into the curve of your shoulder when he responded, “Much,”

You waited for a few more minutes before shifting forward, a pout etching itself onto his lips at the loss of contact. Reaching for a towel as you stepped out and over the edge the porcelain, when you turned back to him, his expression resembled that of a kicked puppy. Brows furrowed high on his forehead, pout curling down into a frown, his fingers gripped the edge as if he were going to pull himself out.

Instead, you leaned over to the window-cill, adding another few drops of oil into the water—you let your fingertips massage small circles onto the highpoint of his forehead, whispering to him—

“Stay in a little longer,”

His eyes were closed, sinking further into the water, your voice sounded almost hypnotic to him, mindlessly nodding to your words. Feeling the soft press of your lips against his temples before you padded out to dress and dry yourself.

It wasn’t long before Remus made his way into the bedroom, draining the bath just before his skin could raisin. His bed clothes were laid out on the side of the bed, warm to touch, and his heart ached at the extra lengths you went to to make him comfortable.

The loud whirring of the hairdryer coming to a stop as your turned to him, sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed—clad in a tank top and a pair of his boxer shorts, and as he got dressed he couldn’t help but admire, eyes glued to your form.

A half-exasperated smile twitched at the corners of your lips at his staring, bringing your hand down to at the bed with a few soft pats. Remus crawled into the spot you’d sat in, still warm from your presence. Towel hung loosely around his neck, tips of his hair still dripping onto it—he leaned back, arms supporting his weight as your leg swings over his, settling onto his lap.

His brows quirk up slightly accompanied with a lazy smirk, automatically shifting his weight to free his hands, letting them curve and rest on the round of your thighs. Rolling your eyes at him, but it had no real bite—your hands run though his wet tufts a few times, and his eyes are swimming with adoration.

Placing one small peck on his lips—puling away just a quick as you came in, and he found himself following your lips as they left. Only to be met with your finger, abruptly stopping his chase in its tracks—raising the hairdryer into his view a semi-smug, knowing grin extending across your face, tongue darting out to wet your lips.

The steady whirring hum of the dryer started and Remus squinted as the cool pressurised air hit his skin, one hand combing through his locs, the other shaking the dryer around his head. He let his hands wander over your skin, fiddling with the hem of his boxers on you, pads of his fingers drawing patterns against your thighs lightly, dragging the back of his nails down the exposed skin of your spine as you worked away.

When you’d finally dried the last section of his hair, Remus’ hands rested comfortably on the curve of your ass, and he couldn’t fight the temptation, pinching at the flesh. As the dryer bounced against the bed, you jolted on his lap at the feeling—a sharp gasp leaving your lips, swatting his shoulder slightly in feigned annoyance.

He barked out a laugh, palm rubbing soothingly over the spot, his head falling into the crook of your neck—body shaking insync with his laughter. Seamlessly, his hands continued on their wandering path over your body, pulling you closer into him as he pressed small kisses against your collarbone.

A huffed scoff slipped passed your lips as your breathed—

“Restless, are we?”

He didn’t respond with anything more than a dreamy sigh against your skin as he indulged further, basking in you, his lips moving languidly up the side of your neck. Words tumbled from his lips, muffled against your throat, a quiet confession lost to the warmth of the moment. Your hands find their way to his jaw, pulling him back slightly—he looks at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky yourself, slowly leaning up your lips murmuring again—clearer this time.

“I don’t deserve you,”

There was no time for you to protest, to correct his words before his lips were pressed against yours and his fingers were spread, wrapping around the dip of your waist—pulling until you were flush against him. The once slow, languid pecks bloomed into unrestrained, craven touches. He moved his lips against yours—yearning, the burning in the pit of his stomach suddenly too much to bare, indulging himself with rough kisses. He couldn’t help it; it was impulse—his heart swelled—overflowed with adoration.

You loved him like it was second-nature, easy—an instinct, and Remus didn’t know what to do with himself.

He’d become feverish, gripping onto you with vigor despite the mild ache of his joints, overwhelmed with affection for you, an airy “thank you,” passing his lips into the small space between you. Your fingers tangling the tufts at the base of his neck, detatching your lips, taking the opportunity to plant kisses all over his face, muttering against his jaw; “Don’t thank me, Rem,”

A low hum rumbled in his chest as you worked your way down his neck, littering kisses and nibbles along the way. His palms are hot against you, sliding under the fabric of your top, curling around the curve of your breast in a mean grasp, earning him a light gasp. In an endless pursuit for your lips, he took his oppportunity, the second your lips disconnected from his neck.

Bringing your lips together with a quiet groan, Remus was getting more handsy by the second, hands drifting and taking a bruising hold on your hips, driving your hips forward to rock roughly against his. Words muffled by your lips, hoarse and honeyed—

“So pretty,”

Your breath hitched as he guided your hips over his, the friction sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers dug into your waist, desperate, as if trying to pull you deeper into him, to feel you more completely. Your name tumbled from his lips between kisses, each syllable a whispered prayer against your mouth.

A soft moan slipping from your lips "Mmf—Rem," threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to draw out a groan from deep within his chest. He shuddered beneath you, the tension in his body unraveling with each slow roll of your hips against his.

Holding your firmly before letting his back fall against the bed with a light thud, hand trailing down—slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Squirming against him when the rough pads of his fingers made contact with your clit, making small teasing circles over the bundle of nerves, drinking in each sound that fell from your lips—rocking feverishly into his touch.

Detaching with a sharp gasp, head falling into the junction of his neck when he slipped in a finger, pushing, and curling upwards—whining into his ear, breathy pants of—”f-fuck, hah—Rem,”

Gods did he love the way you sounded, the sweet, almost melodic pitches your voice would make—how you try to focus on your breathing patterns, gripping hard onto his hair when he pushed a second finger past the ring of muscles, tightening the coil that blossomed in the pits of your stomach.

Breathing completely erratic, trembling against him, more heat radiating off you with each stretch and scissor of his fingers, curling and curling, making your head spin. Peeling away his harsh grip on your hips, to take your jaw in his hand—compelling your gaze onto him. Cheeks and lips flushed red—brows knit high on your forehead in pleasure.

Remus pushed your lips together, greedy, indulgent—wanting.

And as his fingers slowed, slowly pulling them away from your core with a shudder, you wasted no time wiggling out of your shorts, tearing his off of him with an urgency that forced an incredulous laugh out of him. Though, it was cut off in an instant—a rough groan forcing its way out of his throat when you straddled him.

The friction without clothes made him dizzy, twitching against your clit, jaw tightening when the rich, candied tone of your voice reached his ears—ringing in his head over and over—

“Wanna make you feel good, Rem,”

He couldn’t even appreciate the sight of you sinking onto him, eyes screwing shut, brow curling into an arch on his forehead, jaw slacking at the feeling of you—sucking him in further—inch after inch.

Fingers splayed over the pretty little happy trail to steady yourself, the air punching its way out of your lungs when you finally reached the base, a choked out, gasping moan sounded beneath you,“f-fuckkk,” reverbrating around the room.

And you gave him no time to recover, compose himself, push away the desperate clench that made him want to spill inside you immediately, no, your hips moved against him in harsh mean rocks.

His eyes rolling into the depths of his skull, hands gripping—clawing at the flesh of your waist, seeking a slither of mercy from your sinful bucks. It was hypnotising, just the feeling alone, the way you swallowed all of him, the dragging of your walls with each grind. And the angle—he was so impossibly deep, you couldn’t think straight if you tried, stretching you out, making your legs trembled by his side.

“h-haah, shit—dove, wait,”

He couldn’t contain himself, sweat beading by his temples, biting hard into his lip—his hips already stuttered a rough thrust up into you—forcing you to jolt forward, hands pressing firmly against his chest for stability.

Back arching, walls fluttering—clenching around him, mouth agape, the mantra of his name flowing from your lips in urgent gasping, cries “o-oh! rem, fuck—ngh,”

Forcing his eyes open, chest heaving as he drank in greedy gulps of air, trying to focus on anything but the delicious squeeze of your core around him—his breath hitched the sight of you. Utterly divine, kiss-flushed lips, wet and parted, brows pushed together, pretty lashes fluttering and flittering, pupils blown.

The soft smell of jasmine, vanilla and sex filling the room.

A breathless whimper leaving your lips when you rocked against him once more, feeling him prod that spot that made the heat in your stomach coil impossibly tighter. Your rhythm—it made his throat so painfully dry, the way you grinded against him, adding just a bit of pressure. It had his brain so cloudy, drunk on you, on the way you looked at him with the bleary half-lidded eyes.

He never wants to let you go—not now, not ever.

His palms kneaded the flesh of your hips unforgivingly, coaxing you to rock against him harder, raising his hips to meet each trembling buck of your hips. He was already so close, huffed groans endlessly spillling from his lips, curses littered with your name, voice shaking with each rock—

”f-fuck, so perfect, a-ah—angel,”

Remus’ pace was getting more frenzied and off beat with each lewd squelch that sounded from where you were joined, jaw clenched in efforts to keep him from teetering over the edge, completely at your mercy.

Your hands trailed up from where they were planted on his chest, in exchange pressing into the pillows beside his head, leaning into him—lips brushing against the shell of his ears, voice airy, candied and oh so sweet.

“does it—mmfp, feel good, rem?”

God, he was going to lose it, rutting up, frantically, into each rotation of your hips, each roll of your waist—stuttering as your teeth grazed against the thin sensitive skin behind his ear. Eyes rolling back in his head slightly before squeezing them shut for a moment. Swallowing thickly, words punctuating with low gasps, “o- oh god, s’good, s’good—need you to cum, dove—f-fuck,”

Taking one bruising grip away from you hips, and forcing it between you—rough pad of his thumb finding the swollen bundle of nerves that rubbed against him, your breathing became more unsteady and irregular, incoherent babbles tumbling out of you. Walls clinging to him desperatly as you hips twitched and spasmed against him, arms almost giving out beneath you.

The harsh thrusts of his hips, had him buried deep deep deep, thighs squeezing at his sides as your high washed over you, cries of, “nnfgh, rem, rem, rem—” filling the room, mixing with the strained gravelly moans that tore through him, stuttering wildly before stilling beneath you. Your body shuddering against his, hands still stuck to each side of your hips, shocks running through him as his filled you up—hoarse groans echoing in the room.

Jolts of pleasure still wracked over you, laying boneless against his chest as the aftershocks pulsed through your limbs, your breaths mingling in the quiet, sweat-slick warmth of the room.

Remus hadn’t let go—not even for a second. His arms secure against your waist, holding you close. His lips found your temple, pressing a lingering kiss there before murmuring, “You alright, dove?” His voice was hushed, still laced with the remnants of desire, but softer—gentler now.

You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Mmhm perfect,” you sighed, lifting your head slightly, “Didn’t hurt you, did I?” You only felt the shake of his head, carding your fingers through his hair.

His hands traced slow, absentminded patterns along your back, fingertips ghosting over your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine—not from want, but from the sheer tenderness of it. You could feel the way his touch had changed, shifting from need to something even deeper, softer.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, already moving to press another kiss to your forehead before slipping away, shifting beneath you, reluctant but determined, carefully easing himself away despite how much he clearly didn’t want to let you go just yet. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder before slipping out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom. The absence of his warmth made you shiver slightly, but he was back in seconds, a warm cloth in one hand, a glass of water in the other.

"Here, drink." He handed you the glass first, watching as you took small sips, his knuckles brushing against your cheek in quiet affection. Then, with gentle precision, he cleaned you up, his touch careful, attentive.

"Thank you, Rem," you murmured, voice drowsy—full of warmth.

He only smiled, shaking his head as he discarded the cloth and slipped back into bed beside you, immediately pulling you against his chest. "Don’t thank me, love,"

You curled into him, sighing as his hands resumed their slow, absentminded caresses—fingers gliding over your back, up your arm, through your hair. His lips pressed soft, fleeting kisses wherever they could reach—your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose.

"There," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and warmth. "Better?"

You hummed in response, tucking yourself even closer. His scent surrounded you, comforting and familiar, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, steady and strong.

"Much," you whispered, lips curling into a small content smile, Remus’ arms curled more securely around you, his breath evening out, and with the soft rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, you let yourself drift off.

[tk-duveraun]

Inspired by @ficsiwontwrite but regressor SJ who kills qjl, steals all of the slave contracts, burns them, and fucks off directly to Cang Qiong.

He doesn't like it, but it's home. And it'll feel nice to haunt YQY and threaten to expose him before he's consolidated his position in the sect.

Instead, upon arriving at the disciple selection he's immediately tackled by YQ (who looks exhausted btw) who is ugly sobbing about how happy he is to see Xiao-Jiu and how sorry he is for being slow.

SJ is mostly shocked and still hasn't really reacted when the sect leader walks up and yq then turns to blubber that Xiao-Jiu is a much stronger cultivator than him and SJ can have his place so long as YQ isn't sent away and the sect leader laughs in his face (kindly) and says to let SJ participate in selection, so all of the peak lords can see his potential

SJ doesn't recover mentally from the whiplash but he gets to work on digging his hole and is selected by his own Shizun again and HEY QI-GE WTF, WHAT HAPPENED TO MAKE YOU HATE ME

(YQ eventually admits to planning to claim his sword early even though the sect leader didn't allow it and sj feels a terrible chill because YQY literally drew his sword only once that's not normal what did he do)

[godmadeaterribleerror]

No Love Lost Series Masterlist

Read on A03! - Listen to the Playlist!

Main Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, mental health issues, mentions of rape/non-con, and sexual content.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff.

Series Summary

Three years ago you were normal, the only demons you had to fight were your own, and you the most you knew of Vought and the Boys were what you saw on TV. But then you met Homelander at a stupid party, and woke up the next morning in a cell.

After almost two and a half years of you being Homelander's little project, Soldier Boy was woken up only go rouge and be put back under. Somewhere in there, you escaped. And before Queen Maeve went underground, she told William Butcher about the Anomaly, a powerful supe who recently escaped Vought captivity and may have an agenda against Homelander.

One month later, the Boys found you.

You spend the next five months helping them best you can, though your control over your powers is weak and your fear of Homelander makes you useless in combat. But you get an idea. A stupid, dangerous idea that turns you into Soldier Boy's keeper, giving him a second chance to take down Homelander, you hanging over his shoulder, a threat should he want to go nuclear again. It's exhausting and frustrating, and you might kill him and yourself as soon as this is over, but you said whatever it takes.

And this is what it takes.

Author's Note

This story is non-canon compliant, with the two main differences being;

1) Butcher doesn't have brain cancer, because I said so.

2) All of Gen V didn't take place, because I don't want to deal with the whole supe-plauge thing. Also that's too many characters to keep track of squad.

Because of this, the story will start in a similar setting as s4e5, but with different events leading up to it, and will deal with similar themes and have similar events to the rest of s4, but at an inconsistent rate. If you have any questions about other, smaller changes I have made, feel free to ask!

Navigation Key

❤️‍🔥 = Smut

🚩 = Additional Warnings

Chapter List

Chapter 1 - Where Winning Looks Like Losing Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension Chapter 3 - You've Torn Your Dress 🚩 Chapter 4 - You Might Be The Same As Me Chapter 5 - Popped, Cool, and Ready to Go Chapter 6 - I've Been Searching for a Fortified Defense Chapter 7 - The Blinding Ultra-Violence 🚩 Chapter 8 - I Just Find My Way Back ❤️‍🔥🚩 Chapter 9 - Can't Cover It Up ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 10 - Lead Me To The Ark ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 11 - The Wolves or The Ocean Rocks Chapter 12 - While My Blood's Still Flowing Chapter 13 - The Terror of Knowing Chapter 14 - Choke on Sun Chapter 15 - I Found A Martyr ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 16 - Let It Flood ❤️‍🔥 🚩 Chapter 17 - Make My Chest Stir Chapter 18 - Something In The Static ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 19 - Don't Look Back 🚩 Chapter 20 - Forget to Fall Down Chapter 21 - Some Things You Just Can't Speak About ❤️‍🔥 🚩 Chapter 22 - I Stayed In The Darkness With You Chapter 23 - Wherever You're Going ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 24 - You'll Never Be Alone ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 25 - All I Know ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 26 - I’ve Loved Everything About You That Hurts ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 27 - Just A Shot Away 🚩 Chapter 28 - Something That I'm Supposed to Be ❤️‍🔥 Chapter 29 - All My Bets On You Chapter 30 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh 🚩 Chapter 31 - I'd Do It All Again ❤️‍🔥

More Than You Could Ever Know - A No Love Lost Christmas Special

Part 1 - The Boys start Secret Santa, Ben pretends to do his job. ❤️‍🔥 Part 2 - Ben and Ryan go shopping, and you all try to find a tree. Part 3 - You and Ben have a Christmas Eve date. Many gifts are opened.

Bonus Footage (Standalone Chapters)

Dying’s Up to Me - A Prologue. Takes place 6ish months before Chapter 1. 🚩 They're Never Gonna Find You A Home - Request! Everyone adjusts to your life with the Boys. Takes place 5ish months before Chapter 1. 🚩 Back to Here - Request! They get horny at the dining table, and Butcher takes it personally. Takes place in Chapter 14. It's So Simple - You make Ben do icebreakers. He's a little bitch about it. Takes place in Chapter 14. Just Your Time - You give Ben internet lessons. Takes place in Chapter 14. As Much As I Do - Request! Ben finds you dancing, is immediately very normal about it. Takes place after Chapter 14 and around Chapter 15. Calling Your Name - Ben's first birthday awake isn't great. Takes place in Chapter 19. ❤️‍🔥 I Skip My Pride - You share some music with Ben over text. Takes place in Chapter 22. The Only Place That I Call Home - It's team game night, and everyone is sick of you and Ben's shit. Takes place in Chapter 24. ❤️‍🔥 Can't Help Myself - Request! Ben has a breeding kink, and you're incredibly horny, so it works. Takes place in around Chapter 24 and Chapter 25. ❤️‍🔥 Anywhere Else Is Hollow - A halloween special episode! Takes place in Chapter 25. It Was Smiling Down - A Ryan pov Chapter. Takes place between Chapter 26 and Chapter 27. A Call To Motion - Request! There's a lot of things you're good at. Sex with Ben is one of them. Takes places in Chapter 28.❤️‍🔥 I Want You Only - You and Ben go shopping. Takes place in Chapter 28 ❤️‍🔥 I’ll Hold Your Hand - Request! You get your period, and Ben has to do his job and take care of that. Takes place post series.

Found Footage (Post-Series Chapters)

Just Too Important - You and Ben head to Costco. Takes place about two months post-series. Dreams of Love - Request! You and Ben have to babysit. Takes place ten months post-series. Setting In A Honeymoon - You and Ben finally get a honeymoon. Takes place about a year post-series.❤️‍🔥 The Best Thing - Request! You, Ben, and Ryan get a cat. You Can Feel It - Ben has a birthday. Takes place on May 19th, post-series.❤️‍🔥 Never Saw the Sun - You and Ben have a baby!❤️‍🔥

Stuff By You Guys!!! (Art, Memes, and Anything more)

Early Chapters Moodboard by @deans-yn Ben and Sunshine Inspired Art by @castielsfoot Ben and Baby Rhia Art by @youdontknowe Ben and Sunshine Poster Art by @youdontknowe Ben Camera Roll by @thebitchandjerkwinchesters Sunshine's Camera Roll by @thebitchandjerkwinchesters

[thought-you-knew]

what more could i want

Summary: things were going great until you started having doubts about your friendship with bob. whether or not you or bob are ready to cross that line.

Pairings: bob reynolds x fem!reader/ex-widow!reader/avoidant attachment!reader

Warnings: fluff, slight angst, emotionally constipated reader/ avoidant attachment, slow burn, friends-to-lovers. limited use of y/n, reader's appearance isn't described. not proofread

WC: 2.6K

Author's Note: Hi! I accidentally deleted this blog when I was doing some old tumblr clean out. This is not plagiarized. I know that previously, some people wanted a part 2, and it will come, slowly. Please bear with me. This is the first time I've written fanfiction since my one direction days, and that was a lifetime ago. I have part of pt. 2 written, but I'm still unsure where to go with it. 

I also reuploaded the pb&jj roommates au

Who knew a name could hold so much meaning to you, and how much a name could change everything. Bob, how has such a simple name managed to become so deeply intertwined with your very being so effortlessly? Almost as if it was meant to be there from the very start.

"Are you even listening to me?" You tear your gaze away from the open skies and look over to the pilot's seat. Yelena is already looking at you. More like staring through you.

"Hmm?"

"What's with you lately? Your mind always seems to be," she waves her hand in the air, "not focused."

You look away from her piercing gaze. "It's nothing."

"Liar. I thought we promised each other no more lies."

"Lena, I'm just exhausted from the mission. That's all, promise." You try giving her your best fake smile. Which she obviously sees right through. It's a partial truth, partial lie. The mission had lasted longer than expected, and seeing as it was just you and Yelena on this one. It felt like you two did twice as much work.

"You know what I know," Yelena comments back while turning off the autopilot and taking over the controls.

"What do you think you know?"

"That Bob misses you." That simple statement makes you freeze, while your heart races a bit. You glance at her and see that she has a smug look on her face.

"Bob misses whoever is gone on a mission."

Yelena lets out her deep, throaty laugh. "Oh yeah, he definitely misses Walker when he's away for weeks at a time. Wanna try again?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Just admit what you've been denying these past few months."

You start picking at your nails. "We're friends. That's it."

"And that's why you're a bad liar."

A few hours later, you and Yelena are finally back at the Watchtower. Yelena turns to you when you're both in the elevator. "Don't worry about the report. I'll handle it."

"Yelena-"

The elevators open, and Yelena gives you a slight shove. "Go see your man." The doors slide shut before you can protest. Turning around, you see that the open common space is mostly unoccupied.

"Hey! Look who's finally back. Thought you died or something." You brush off John's comment. Too mentally drained to deal with the usual back and forth. You head for the open kitchen and see that Ava gets up and follows you.

"How was Istanbul?" She asks once you've managed to chug down some water.

You raise your eyebrows at her. "Fine, and when are you one for small talk?"

"I'm not. Something happened while you and Yelena were gone."

That caught your attention, and your mind immediately went to Bob. Is he okay? Is he hurt? Even though technically he can't get hurt, there's still a possibility. Everything was going so well. He's been doing so much better. What had happened within 3 weeks?

Ava placed a hand on your shoulder to ground you. John had wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching you two.

"Geez, don't make it sound like that," he had a slight smirk on his face, "don't worry, your boyfriend is okay."

"He's not my boyfriend." Some of the tension was leaving your body. Bob's fine, everything is fine.

"My bad, boy who's just a friend."

You turn your attention back to Ava. "So, what happened?"

You find yourself standing in front of Bob's door. Hand raised, but hesitant to knock. Your mind goes back to the brief conversation with Ava in John. It's no big deal, everything is fine. This changes nothing. Why did Ava and John make it seem bigger than it was?

Just as you're about to knock, voices from the other side stop you.

Two voices.

One is Bob's, low and quiet, yet still self-assured.

The other was a girl's voice.

A sudden barking and scratching at the door makes you move back and almost run.

"Oh, someone must be on the other side." The girl's voice says, and the door is swung open. Two things happen simultaneously. One, a fluffy brown and white dog leaps at your chest, and two, a girl with glasses and a long braid meets your eye.

Bob rushes over, his concerned face changes once he sees it's you. The girl moves back slightly so Bob can grab the dog's collar, said dog is still trying to lick your face.

The way Bob says your name makes you wanna run and hide away. "You're finally back."

The dog has finally calmed down and is panting happily while keeping a fixed gaze on you.

"Yup, just landed." You're gaze meets the girl's, and you can't help but feel a twinge of annoyance.

Why was she in Bob's room? Since when did Bob let random people in his room? Does Bob feel more comfortable with her than you? What exactly happened within the three weeks you were gone?

"I'm Beth," The girl said, holding out her hand. "I'm one of the trainers at the dog shelter."

Bob watches as you quickly take her hand, give it a firm shake, and quickly drop it.

Beth turns back to Bob with a slight, shy smile. "I should probably head out. Are we still on for tomorrow?"

"Yeah, and Gus too."

You watch as the two exchange a few more words, and then Beth is leashing up Gus, and the two are off. One thing you do notice is that Beth is wearing a very familiar scarf.

"Shall we?" Bob's voice startles you, and you're being pulled back to his presence. You look at him and see that he's gesturing back towards his room.

You find yourself feeling cautious, like the first time you entered Bob's room all those months ago. You stare into his room, almost feeling like you shouldn't enter. Bob says your name again, this time a little hesitantly.

"I'm actually tired." Your voice sounds vacant and faraway.

"Oh...yeah, no yeah. Long mission and all that." Bob says with a slight chuckle. You avoid his gaze and start to head back down the hallway.

Bob says your name again, and you wish he wouldn't in that tone. A tone that holds such care and almost a longing. You plaster on your best smile and turn back to face him. Bob moves closer and gazes at your face. You hold your breath and wait. Your eyes move across his face as well.

He moves a bit closer. You notice how much his hair has grown in the last three weeks. His hand raises up to tuck a stray bit of hair behind your ear.

His touch is warm.

"Do you-"

"Hey, Y/N." Mel's voice calls from the other end of the hallway. "I know Yelena is working on the report, but I need to double-check some things with you."

You pull away first and head towards her without looking back.

"I can't believe Bob has a dog," Yelena says, lying upside down on your bed. Ava is camped out on a bean bag a few feet away. "Also, who the hell is Beth, and why is she always here?" Yelena looks over at you, but your face remains void of any emotion.

"I mean, it's good that he has a dog," you reply, "I know animals help when it comes to emotional support. Look at Bucky and Alpline."

"Yeah, but Alpine didn't come with a Beth." Ava chimes in.

You roll your eyes, somewhat regretting this girl's night.

"Guys, it's fine."

Ava and Yelena share a look. "Say it's fine again and mean it this time."

"Also, if it's fine, why have you been avoiding Bob?"

"Oooh! Good point! Answer, please."

You stand from the bed, making both of them sit up.

"Guys, it's not a big deal. I think it's great that Bob is expanding his social circle. Also, there's no avoiding whatsoever. Bob's busy with Gus and therapy. And I'm busy-"

"Avoiding him and Beth, we know." Yelena interrupts.

You grimace, thinking back to the past week. So maybe you have been avoiding Bob. But you can't help it. Three's a crowd, and you're not a fan of watching Beth not so subtly flirt with Bob. Either Bob is oblivious as hell when it comes to Beth's advances or-

No. You don't want to think about the or. At the same time, you feel slightly guilty for feeling jealous. It's not like you've admitted your own feelings out loud. You don't know if you will now.

Not with Beth hovering around.

"Just talk to him."

And you do finally talk to Bob.

A week later.

Only Beth talks to you first.

You're half watching a show that Yelena has abandoned when Beth approaches you.

"Hey, do you have a sec?" Her tone is hopeful.

You mute the show and look up at her. She sits down a few cushions away, and you notice that she's wearing that scarf again.

Your scarf. Your scarf that you left in Bob's room the night before leaving for your mission with Yelena.

"...you know what I mean?" It takes you a moment to realize that Beth has continued talking, not waiting to see if you've been listening. "like I know he's been through a lot, but I can see a lot of improvement with him and Gus."

Been through a lot is an understatement, but you don't say anything.

"Do you think he's ready? Or am I coming off as too pushy? Sometimes I feel like he might like me back, but I can't be sure."

That does get you attention. "Ready for what?" But you already know what she's talking about.

Beth shoots you a slightly peeved look. "Y/N. Bob, what do you think I should do?

"Uh..."

She scoots a little closer to you, her gaze imploring. "Bob talks about you a lot. I mean, you are one of his closest friends. So, I thought you could give me some advice on how to ask him out without scaring him off."

You take her in, her eyes wide and hopeful. The expression reminds you of one that Gus has given the team members during meal times when he's hoping one of them will drop some food by "accident".

Feeling like you're not fully committed to this conversation. Beth reaches out and takes your hand. "I really like Bob."

So do I

You gently withdraw your hand and turn to fully face her. "Look, I can't speak on Bob's behalf, but just be patient with him."

Beth isn't satisfied with that answer." Okay, but do you think he likes me back? What about his past relationships?"

This was heading towards a red no zone.

"You've only known him a few weeks-"

"I know, I know. I should be asking him that, but it's too soon for that, ya'know? And since you're such close friends..."

Your mouth moves before you can think. "You want me to him if he-"

Beth lets out a squeal and hugs you. "Oh my god, that would be amazing!"

The only thing you can focus on is the soft material of the scarf brushing against your neck.

It's late. Too late to be up, but your mind can't quiet down. Which is why you find yourself standing in the semi-darkened kitchen, aimlessly scrolling through your phone. Deciding whether or not you should make something.

You're just about to call it a night when Bob enters the kitchen. Half asleep himself. You're both caught off guard by each other, so the only thing you can do is stare.

You notice that Bob isn't wearing one of his usual sweaters. He's wearing a white fitted t-shirt and grey sweatpants.

"Did you finally overheat?" You try to ease the slight awkwardness between the two of you.

Bob looks down as if almost forgetting what he put on. He tugs at the bottom of his shirt as if it will magically turn oversized.

"Oh..uh, this? I think this is Walker's. There was this laundry mishap involving him and Alexei. Long story short, they managed to break more than one dryer. So...yeah," He gives a slight laugh before looking back up. "it was either this or one of Alexei's obnoxious Avengerz tracksuits."

"It looks good on you." You say before thinking, and you catch Bob's slight change in expression, from apprehensive to relieved, to something else. Something you chose to brush off.

There's still a slight awkwardness in the air. The last time there was an awkwardness between the two of you was when Bob was still adjusting to the team.

"Couldn't sleep?" His question echoes back to the first time he found you in the kitchen at the dead of night.

"Do you wanna go for a walk?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

The city is surprisingly quiet at 3am. You and Bob stop at a park near the Watchtower.

"This is nice," you motion towards the empty park, "Gus would've liked this. Why didn't you bring him along?"

It takes Bob a little too long to respond, but when he does, his words make your heart beat faster.

"I don't need him when I'm with you." You look over, and Bob is already looking at you with a soft expression. Some small voice in the back of your head tells you to reciprocate.

Instead, you think back to Beth and the scarf. Why does she still have your favorite scarf? Does Bob know that it's your favorite? That's a stupid question, of course he knows, you wore it all the time. So why give it to her like that? So easily.

Instead, you panic, withdraw, and deflect.

"Beth seems nice, and she's good with Gus."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Ask him, Beth's question floats around in your mind.

"I think Beth has a crush on you."

Bob lets out a semi-loud laugh. "Oh, you think?" You look over and see that he has a slight smirk on his face. Okay, so he wasn't that oblivious. Which makes it worse. "Beth is nice and all, but... I dunno."

You can't stop yourself. "Do you like her?" What you've been wanting to ask is why does she have my scarf?

"Why? Where is this coming from?" You can see him staring at you from the corner of your eye. You don't dare to face him. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on a distant lamp post.

"I'm your friend."

"And?" He pushes gently.

You can feel a lump forming in the back of your throat. "And what else is there? If you like her, consider asking her out. Only if you're ready for that."

"Like I said, she's nice. But I'm trying to keep my options open."

You scoff. "What options? Robert, are you trying to tell me you've been sneaking around these past few weeks?"

"N-no nothing like that. But ya-know, there are always other... options."

"Well, there's her or someone from the team," you give a dramatic gasp, "Bob, don't tell me it's..."

Bob sighs, hangs his head low, and jokingly responds. "You caught me. There is something between me and Walker. We're in love."

You lean over and give him a playful shove. "Knew it. Enemies to lovers at its finest."

"What about friends to lovers?"

You catch his eye and give a small smile. "That's another good one. People love a good friends-to-lovers story."

"Really?"

"Yeah, what more could they want. It's romantic."

"Huh." Silence falls between you two, but this time it isn't awkward. Just calm and peaceful.

pt 2. pt. 3

[snail-day]

Shoko doesn’t exactly say you’re dating.

She doesn’t really do labels, thinks they’re kind of pointless, honestly. Why complicate things with definitions and conversations that only make people weird and nervous? She knows what she wants, and if she’s letting someone sleep over in her bed, steal her clothes, and hog all the snacks in her apartment, then clearly, that’s her person.

She’s busy. Her schedule is shit. Why waste what little free time she has sleeping with someone she doesn’t intend to keep?

Still… somehow, your little brain hasn’t quite caught onto that yet.

She notices it when you’re curled up on her patio one night, wrapped up in a sweater, hers, obviously. She’s standing a few feet away, shoulder leaned against the railing, cigarette burning lazily between two fingers. Her long hair is half-up in a claw clip, loose strands catching in the breeze as she exhales a slow puff of smoke, angled away from where you sit.

“You should go inside,” she mutters. “Secondhand smoke’s just as bad, you know.”

You don’t move. Don’t whine or pout like usual. Just stay quiet, and that’s what makes her glance over.

You’re chewing your lip. Hugging your knees. Your voice is soft, barely more than a whisper when you speak.

“I just… I don’t want this to be a situationship.”

Shoko stills and blinks for a moment. Once. Twice. Tilts her head a little, brows pinched together as she's trying to figure out if she heard you right.

A situationship?

There’s a long pause before she sighs through her nose, stubs out the cigarette on the balcony rail, and turns to you fully. Her expression is unreadable, but she’s mentally running the list: how many weeks it’s been since your toothbrush showed up in her bathroom, how many times you’ve dozed off in her bed, and she’s pulled the blanket up to your chin before crawling in next to you. She’s already memorized your coffee order. She knows which days your cramps hit worst. Your shoes are by the door. Your charger’s always plugged in by the bed.

She walks over slowly, crouches in front of your chair, and lifts your face with two fingers under your chin.

“There, there,” she murmurs, tone so soft it almost makes you cry harder, until she smirks. “You’re almost as dramatic as Utahime.”

You sniffle, cheeks burning. “You’re making fun of me.”

Shoko hums, brushing her thumb along your cheek. “Babe. I’m letting you drool on my pillow five nights a week. Who else do you think I’m doing that with, Satoru?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Shoko watches your brain short-circuit and presses a quick kiss to the corner of your lips, all smug and warm and lightly amused by your ongoing stupidity.

“What made you think we weren’t dating, hmm?” she drawls, pulling you into her lap with practiced ease. “Didn’t I ask you to be my emergency contact? You think I give that spot to just anyone?”

You try to protest, something about assumptions and mixed signals and wanting to be clear, and she just rolls her eyes and plops backwards onto the patio couch, dragging you with her until you’re tucked under her chin, limbs tangled and noses brushing. Only the stars watching you both from above, the sounds of cars from the Tokyo streets from below.

“God, you’re exhausting,” she says fondly. “So needy. It’s cute.”

You sniff again, rubbing your face against her shirt. “You could’ve told me.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “You could’ve asked.”

You open your mouth to argue - try to argue - but it’s hard to hold onto indignation when her fingers are stroking slowly up and down your spine, warm and rhythmic. You melt against her chest, cheek pressed just under her collarbone, your body giving up the fight before your brain does.

Your eyes are already fluttering shut when she presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and final, like the punctuation on a decision she made weeks ago.

“We’re dating,” she murmurs against your skin. “You know that, right?”

You nod, barely.

“Good,” she says, a little smug again. “Now stop being a brat and let me take care of you.”