#and then I had to open a second page in notes

[somewhatfound]

I read through the email again. The overly positive response with a slight undertone of aggression reading only “You can do it!” stared back at me.

Now I could do many things. I could write some damn good proposals for pitch meetings. I could soothe frazzled investors nerves over coffee. I could design a marketing camping guaranteed to increase sales by a minimum of 38%. I could even hyper focus and eat nothing but microwaved chalupas for days if I was stressed enough. But sell a glorified modern day torture device as ‘kid safe’? They must be shitting me.

The “Trans-plant ©” was a teleportation device meant to move living organic material across a “Unlimit’d (Trademark)” distance, and was also on its 33rd rebrand for a name. I was partial to linking it to a Fey portal fantasy theme but was shot down by investors as it being too feminine a reference. Clearly none of them read spicy fey romance.

So while I had my brain bursting with yet another round of branding ideas, already thinking about hiring influencers that worked in garden trends and #cottagecore to possibly be our first publicity stunt of using the “Trans-plant ©”, I had gotten the official details of the product itself. After 7 months of bureaucratic red tape and 1000s of meetings, today I was finally sent a single password protected pdf… on a locked server that could only be accessed with a 3-step verification log-in involving my personal and work cell phones… and social security number.

Dear God, it’s literally over 2000 pages.

Now despite working for years in advertising, I actually hate it. I hate the clients, I hate the work, and I hate bullshit like expecting me to read engineer notes (and understand them!) when all I wanted to know was how long does it take for teleportation to work? Why couldn’t anyone tell me that, I had to give SOMETHING to graphic designers this week. And the fact that they hired me at all meant they couldn’t pull off an advertising campaign with AI tools alone.

So it was bad. There was something very bad in here that required human ingenuity to spin into a positive.

I fucking hate my job.

I liked paying rent though, so I began a first pass of the reading through the document from hell searching for my turds they expected me to polish into gold. It took 10 minutes of scrolling only looking at pictures to reach the bottom of the document.

It’s fucking giant.

Ok, so it had what could be considered a preppers wet dream of a bunker storage beneath it filled with all sorts of spare parts, so it’ll have to be built by itself in the middle of an open field… not super convenient liked they pitched, but still workable with my current #cottagecore marketing plan. Middle of nature, middle of nowhere construction site, people will love it. I'll make them love it.

A second pass of the document was just the search function trying to find the speed of teleportation itself. No matter my keywords though, I found nothing.

Honestly they should never try to lie to their lawyers or their marketing team. It’s their public image that will be ruined if I pitch something wrong.

I was on my 7th plate of microwaved cheesy sadness when I finally found the bit I was looking for, page 1112:

The distance to which the organic matter must travel is proportional to the time divided by the size of the matter. In practice it has been found for stability reasons that the endoskeleton be targeted for transportation first, followed by soft tissue. For this configuration it is not recommend for living exoskeleton matter, or matter without any endoskeleton.

The highly complicated math problem underneath I had no hope of understanding, and I knew if I plugged it in to a computer it be recorded and I’d be reported and fired in a hot second. But through years of gas lighting I had developed a brilliant skill in translating hot air bullshit, so I read it again:

It takes a while to transport something big. To make sure it gets there, skeletons are transported first, followed by the flesh. Not recommend for crabs or jellyfish.

What. The. Fuck.

Ok so I did a little creative copy pasting that I absolutely should not do, but the only way I was going to get my answers was through the math problem. And What an answer it was.

A cat took 28 seconds. A full grown adult took 42 seconds. Hypothetically you could go the distance to the other side of the planet, but it would take 4 minutes and 17 seconds to get there. Bones first. Conveniently there was no health reports or mention of comfort level. Pretty sure there was comfort level mentioned somewhere. Maybe an email?

But no, there was nothing specific ever mention. More hours spent going through old client emails I discovered the only ones mentioning comfort level, "kid friendly" and "instant arrival" were all other marketing team people. The last and most recent one simply reading: “You can do it!”

I can do what exactly? Record influencers climbing into a pod in the middle of a bulldozed forest to make a space for the underground bunker, slowly melting bones first for 42 seconds? Perhaps a time-lapse…. No, no!

This was bad. The whole thing made my stomach queasy and for once it wasn’t the chalupas. I… I couldn’t work on this. The more I read the worse it got. Tiny foot notes relating to installing and stocking sedatives and other drugs to keep travelers compliant for "exceptionally bad responses to transport".

I had an ex coworker once who had gone full whistle blower on one of the clients. I had still been mulling over what to do, when I got the alert from IT our team was the compromise origin. I did what I could to minimize damage, calm tempers, but I was a grunt back then. Nothing I said could stop the full weight of the corporate law from coming down on them with a 80 year sentence.

I still sent them commissary money to use in jail. Once every few months an email since they were no longer allowed physical mail.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

This could not be allowed though. Every single thing about it was worse and worse and I didn’t even understand the math parts! I went to art school for craps sake. Human psychology was just another hyper focus of mine like my sad melted cheese lunches, that were only getting sadder with my reading companion. And cold.

The thing about my ex-coworker, is that they blabbed to the wrong people. The blabbed to the media, the general populace. But that’s just free publicity. The companies are titans. But you know… Maybe a titian could take down another titian?

It would be a longshot but… What if I it got leaked to their competitor? What if, in the rush to outpace my client, they got sloppy? A few horror stories here and there. Instead of influencers, everyday construction crew reporting live on the scene of the backstage horrors.

We’d need a name though. Something to mock, something to meme…. Bones first…. 28 seconds…

No, no. Wrong angle. People care about themselves first. Think locally!

Bulldozing homes and local markets to build these monstrosities. Underground bunkers holding mass amounts of drugs next to sweet children schools. Straining the resources of the power grid and knocking out hospitals, putting peoples lives in jeopardy. Sad music, rain in the background, night vision filters.

They’d lose every investor and most of the funding. At worst both company’s would install a hack job of a single set of teleporters, and it’d become a novelty no one uses after the first weekend.

I looked one last time at my email: “You can do it!”

Yeah… Yeah I think I can.

The teleporter was supposed to be instant. To your horror, as the one in charge of marketing, it is not. Now you have to find a way to sell this 'miracle machine' that slowly reassembles people, bones first.

[sharieb]

hello! just wanted to say I LOVEEE the way you do non-mc content. that being said could i request a headcanon on: lets say non-mc and the LI’s broke up because the dudes were still hung up on MC (they end up regretting it lol). then later on see non-mc in public who has moved on to someone else who is doing everything they guys failed to do.

The One Who Never Got It Right

Pairing: LADs x Non-Mc reader Genre: Angst (Breakup regrets) Writer's notes: Thought I could be getting more fluffs to do, but instead I got slapped in the face with this one, welp, no rest for the wicked, I guess 😅

He sees you across the bustling Skyhaven terminal—laughing, radiant, clinging to the arm of someone who isn’t him.

The man by your side is kind-eyed, attentive. He holds your bag, listens intently, and actually smiles when you talk. He doesn’t look distracted or distant—he’s there. Present.

Caleb halts mid-stride, fingers curling around the edge of his datapad. For a moment, it’s like the mission debrief in his hand doesn’t even exist.

He remembers every time he cut conversations short, gave you half his presence, let you walk beside him in silence because his mind was always elsewhere—on MC.

He thought you didn’t notice. That you’d wait. That maybe you’d always be around until he figured himself out.

Now you’re smiling in ways he never earned.

The worst part? You glance his way. See him. Then look away just as easily, returning to your conversation without missing a beat.

He used to be the safe place. Now, he's just a distant name in your past.

Later that night, he types a message to you. Deletes it. Writes it again.

In the end, he just stares at your contact photo for hours, then shuts off the holoscreen. And for the first time in a long time, Caleb can’t strategise his way out of the ache in his chest.

Mission Log 6.14.3A — Deleted Draft I saw her today. Not MC. Her. The one who asked me to be present. To try. To stop living like the past was all I had left. I thought letting her go would make me noble. Thought I was sparing her the weight of being second to a ghost. But maybe she wasn’t second. Maybe I just never gave her the space to be first. And someone else did. I hope he keeps holding her the way I never learned how to. I hope he never makes her feel like a placeholder. …I hope she never looks back.

He saw you at a gallery opening.

You're dressed in something elegant, arm-in-arm with a gentle-faced man who looks at you like you're art incarnate.

The moment hits him like a palette knife to the ribs.

You’re glowing—not in a spotlight way, but in a quiet, contented kind of joy he never could give.

He flashes his usual grin to the crowd, but his fingers twitch at his side.

Because of that new guy? He’s whispering something in your ear. And you’re laughing. That laugh used to belong to Rafayel, once.

But he made jokes about still missing MC. Let you hear silence when you needed security. Let you fade beside someone else’s memory.

Now?

Someone else painting you with attention. Frames you with love.

He downs his champagne and pretends to care about the next exhibit, but he draws you three times from memory that night.

None of them capture your smile the way he just did.

He doesn’t stop drawing until dawn. Each page is more desperate than the last.

 Sketchbook Entry — Page Torn Out She asked me once what I thought love looked like. I told her it was impossible to capture - always shifting, always out of reach. But she caught it. She was it. And I? I framed her in glass and called it finished. She wanted a mess. Partnership. Splattered hands and stained shirts. I gave her monologues and empty wine glasses. I thought she was a phase. A warm red before I returned to ash. But she was permanent. I saw her smile today. It wasn’t for me. And for once, I couldn’t paint a damn thing.

He was leaning on the railing of a shadowed walkway, scanning the crowd below on a recon run, when he spotted you.

You're tucked into the side of someone unfamiliar—someone laughing with you, their hand laced with yours, feeding you a bite of something sweet.

The softness on your face is devastating. It used to be his. It was once the only softness he’d let himself keep.

He stays hidden, watching.

That guy kisses your knuckles. And you smile like you trust him completely.

His chest tightens, fingers twitching. He almost drops the comms unit in his hand.

You’d begged him once to try, to stop comparing you to MC. To see you. He hadn’t known how to let go back then. Now?

He’s thinking about how that man just wiped whipped cream from your lip without flinching—and how he never even learned your coffee order.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, pushing off the railing.

But he doesn’t go down there. He’s already done enough damage.

And this time… someone else didn’t waste the chance. He hates it. He admires it.

Mostly, he regrets that it wasn’t him who made you stay.

Encrypted Voice Log – Never Sent SYLUS.ENTRY_097.BURNOUT Timestamp: Corrupted “She looks better without me. You’d think that’d piss me off, wouldn’t you?” “It doesn’t.” “Not really.” “He holds her like he’s not afraid she’ll disappear. Like he’s not too busy sharpening knives to hold her with both hands.” “I didn’t know how to do that. Couldn’t stop chasing shadows.” “I told myself she was a game. A way to forget.” “But she was never small. Never temporary. She waited for me to look up. I never did.” “He did.” [long pause] “She’s not coming back. Good. Let her stay gone. Let her stay whole.”

It’s late in the museum observatory, and Xavier’s here to recalibrate a projection model—until he looks down from the upper dome and sees you.

You're walking hand-in-hand with someone else through the starlit halls. Laughing. Calm.

The person beside you spins you under their arm, and you twirl without hesitation, radiant under the artificial cosmos.

He stands frozen in the upper dome, unseen.

You once asked Xavier to dance. He hesitated, too quiet and too caught up in thoughts of MC to say yes.

But that stranger below? He didn’t hesitate at all.

And you look so light in his arms. So free.

Xavier leans his forehead against the glass, breathing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

His star map reboots beside him, scattering constellations. But for the first time, he doesn’t reach out to correct them.

Because he knows now, you weren’t meant to orbit him forever.

And you didn’t. You became your own universe. One that he was never brave enough to explore.

Private Memoir Entry – Unpublished I was always afraid I’d look at her and see someone else. So I never truly looked. Not the way she deserved. She asked me once if I was choosing to heal with her or without her. I said, “Without.” She nodded. Didn’t cry. Just left. And now I’ve healed. Or so I pretend. But sometimes I think healing isn’t a choice. Sometimes it’s a cost. I gave up the one person who saw me in the shadows and stayed. And someone else saw her light and danced into it.

You’re seated in a corner café with a man Zayne doesn’t recognise—easy smiles, shared laughter, his coat wrapped around your shoulders.

Zayne was on his way to deliver lab files to the main district med unit but now… he can’t move.

His gaze locks on the way the man leans in to tuck your hair behind your ear. How your eyes crinkle with joy.

It’s the kind of comfort Zayne never offered you—not because he didn’t care, but because he was too distracted chasing clarity with MC.

You once told him you felt like his second choice. He never answered that. And now, someone else treats you like you're the only choice.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach.

But that image burns in his mind for weeks. It replays in the sterile quiet of his clinic, on late nights when no one needs stitching up.

And when he returns home, he finds one of your old letters still tucked inside his medical textbook.

He rereads it, fingers trembling, and realises too late—he could’ve loved you right, if only he’d let himself try.

His next patient finds him staring into nothing, stethoscope in hand, utterly elsewhere.

Medical Log – Never Filed Patient: N/A Status: Unreachable Treatment note: Emotional detachment leads to unintentional abandonment. Prognosis: Permanent loss. Notes: She used to come into my clinic with little things. Fake injuries. Paper cuts. Just to be near me. I knew. And I let her pretend. I let myself believe I had time. That once I stopped thinking about MC, I could finally give this girl the pieces I hadn’t sealed away. But healing is slow. And people… they don’t always wait for your hands to stop trembling. She’s warm now. She’s whole. And I still wear gloves to hold my regrets.

[scannainscanrula]

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

[sentbyjake]

SNEAKY INK [JAKE SIM]

pairing : jake x fem!reader

warnings : no sex scene, just oral (f + m receiving), strangers!smut, public!smut (kinda), jake is just a tad bit mean for one second but he means no harm

synopsis : getting a tattoo from a handsome hot stranger? sign you up.

author's note : four year old fic revamped, give it love <3

word count : 7.1k

hi, how can i help you?"

"i had taken an appointment? y/n y/l/n."

once the receptionist found your name on his laptop, he had you sit in room 3. "the guy's gone to refill his tattoo gun, he'll be back in a minute. you can relax in the room by that time."

you walked to the room and sat on the chair on the other end, looking at everything around you. photos of everyone with their tattoos were stuck around. everyone looksd quite happy with them. *so maybe this doesn't hurt as much right?*

there were ink bottles and all kinds of needles placed on a table beside you, a few rough sketches scattered, too.

"hey! y/n, right? i'm jake."

your eyes darted towards the door, the man standing over there wearing a simple black shirt tucked inside his jeans, a silver necklace dangling from his neck. he was holding a tattoo gun in his right hand and your eyes slightly widened at the sight, the sensation of the needles piercing already gnawing at you.

"don't worry. it won't hurt at all." he gave you a small smile and walked towards the bookshelf. "so, what kind of tattoo do you want?"

"i was hoping for a flower tattoo, but a really small one."

"and where are you planning to get it?"

your heart stopped for a moment before you muttered, "um, my inner thigh."

he turned around to look at you with slightly raised eyebrows before picking out a book that had various flower designs. "here, you can pick a design from any of these."

he handed you the book and went to the printing machine, turning it on and setting other things up.

you flipped through all the pages, finding all of the flowers too common and mundane and overdone. one design caught your eye and you looked at jake while pointing at it. "can i have this one?"

jake took a look at the design you were indicating and once again, gave you a “woah-dude-you-alright“ look before going back to work. "that's the flower of corriander. good choice. not a lot of people choose that one but it's actually very pretty."

you kept the book aside with the page open and had no idea what to do with your hands now.

once jake was done with whatever he was doing, he grabbed the book and let the printer scan the design.

"alright we're done with the scan, now all that is left is to sketch the tattoo on your leg and once that dries, we can finally get you a permanent inking."

his warm smile returned on his face and you smiled back at him. at that moment, when he bent down on his knees and looked at you, you could feel yourself starting to produce strings of arousal. he was literally eye level with your pussy and you had no idea what to do with this piece of fact.

"open your legs, darling."

and you instantly spread them apart, earning a small chuckle from the man in front of you. as soon as his warm fingers brushed across your thigh, you got goosebumps, and he noticed it but didn't choose to say anything, smirking to himself.

you noticed how he had really unique pink knuckles and how his fingers would very skillfully brush the sketching pen across your flesh. how his hands looked so delicate but his arms strong enough to crush a few bricks. you so wanted to just push his face on you and grind against his mouth, wanting to feel his fingers kneading your folds.

by this time, you were sure that you were emanating quite a strong pull from down there, but you didn't realize that jake could smell your arousal very clearly.

"do you know what corriander flowers represent?" he asked you, but you weren't focusing on what we he was saying. you were more focused on his plump lips and eyebrow slit. the way his eyes were laser focused on your thighs.

on hearing no response from your side, he continued, "they symbolize burning fire, passion, and lust." he looked at you for a second with deep dark eyes and then back at your thigh. the smell of you being turned on was literally shouting at him to keep everything down and pleasure you, touch you in places not everyone could.

his mind was swimming in all kinds of lewd thoughts, wanting to make you whimper against him, to hear the pretty little noises you could potentially make. but he had to remain professional and on his toes.

on second thought though, who the fuck cared?

jake lunged at you. holding you close to him by your waist. he was kneeling in between your legs, chest pressed flush against yours. he grazed your lower lip with his tongue, poking his fingers at your covered pussy, asking for permission. when you encouraged him to move on, he didn't hold back. ripping your shorts and panties off of you, he didn't take a second to even look at your dripping state, heading straight to business, immediately inserting his tongue inside you. his hands roamed above on your body, reaching out for your breasts, massaging and pressing them against his hands.

how the fuck was he good at this? and that too, at his first try on you?

as he rapidly flicked his tongue up and down you let out cries of pure pleasure, grabbing his hair and pushing his head deeper, almost depriving him of air.

he clicked his tongue and looked at you witha a sharp look. "did i tell you to touch me? did i tell you to mess my hair?" you shook your head in apology and rested back, signalling that you wouldn't interfere anymore.

he let go of you this time, chuckling at how readily obedient you were for a complete stranger, just for the sake of chasing your high. he went back to fondling with your thighs and nudging your clit with his nose while he gorgeously ate you out. when you came, your moans were too loud to be contained in the room. as he licked off all your release, wiping the excess cum from his chin, he got up and switched positions with you, so that now you were the one kneeling in front of him.

as you frantically took off his jeans and boxers, he put his hands under your shirt to caress your tits. you kept letting out small sounds and a loud one once you processed the sight of jake's long cock in front of you.

was this even going to fit?

but you didn't want to waste time in contemplating on the question, you collected his precum on your fingers and spread it all over his dick, eyes wide with fascination as if you were a toddler discovering paints for the first time. you hear jake snickerlightly and he put a strand of your hair behind your ear. "cute."

once you were done with prepping yourself, you moved your head down, taking his length till you couldn't anymore. he's thick for sure.

jake let out a long array of groaning and pushed you to continue.

moving your head up and down as fast as you could, you felt him gathering your hair in a pigtail, guiding your head. but he was a man of revenge. so he pushed your head further down, returning the favor of you choking him oh so nicely.

hearing you gag, his ego settled. he let go of instructing your head and sat back, letting you do your job.

"fuck, why are you so fucking good?"

hearing his indirect praises, you moved your head even faster, his increasing moans motivating you even more.

it was crazy, what was happening right now. you wanted to make sure that this man - this stranger - felt that you were good enough to make him dance in the clouds and that you were an expert in sucking dicks. and he did, once he came on your face, painting your cheeks, nose and lips with his cum.

he waited for a moment to admire your face, clearly proud of his creation before grabbing a tissue to clean everything off of you. once done, jake brought you up to him and sat you on his laps, hugging you from behind.

he kissed your nape, back of your jawline, ear lobe and tickled you with his nose, small sessions of chuckles following soon. checking the clock, the two of you finally finished what you had come here for, a tattoo.

you wouldn't say it didn't pain but, it didn't hurt as much as you had anticipated it to. plus jake helped you calm down everytime he inched to a sensitive region and just like that you were done with the tattoo in no time.

he walked with you to bid you goodbye till the shop's door and then headed back inside, confused as to why he felt a pit of disappointment when you left, wondering if you'd ever come back or not.

"hi, how can i help you?"

"i had booked an appointment? y/n y/l/n."

"your tattoo artist will be waiting for you in room number three, please wait while he refills his tattoo gun."

you smirked to yourself while walking to the familiar room, memories gushing in as you sat down on that one particular memorable chair.

the door opened and you looked up to see the same man who had made you see stars two weeks ago.

you got up from your chair and walked towards him, pushing him against the door while leaning in for a rough kiss.

looking at you, he smirked and closed the door behind him. "well hello there, miss."

"well hello there, mister."

[thibouniverse]

Dead Weight (Bob Reynold x gn!reader)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x gender neutral reader.

Summary: Bob is having a selective mutism day and you try your best to help him.

Warnings: none i guess, thoughts spiraling, bob needs a hug.

Word Count: 3,146 words

Author's note: I relate to Bob on a very high personal level and this is just what it is.

(pictures are from the Pexels website and the Thunderbolts movie)

~~~~

You hadn’t seen Bob all day.

You couldn’t help but worry about how he was doing. 

If it was a bad day or a bad day.

You didn’t want to pry either. When you were having a bad day, you’d rather lock yourself in until it passed. Not bothering anyone.

But Bob wasn’t you.

And even though you hated to think of it this way, it was a reality after all: Bob was—could be—dangerous on a bad day.

But it was obvious no one wanted to bother him.

He had been around everyone for the whole week, even cheerful and participating. Ultimately, he needed a little rest.

Away.

But you’ve been in the common room all day and he didn’t get out of his room—or you would have seen him.

And that meant he hadn’t eaten all day. And that worried you more than anything.

So between the long hours of the afternoon when everyone was doing their thing—whether it was dozing off in front of the tv, reading, going to their room or going training—you took the opportunity to take a snack; nothing big, just some cashew nuts—which you hope Alexei wouldn’t notice you’ve taken—and an apple, cut in little pieces.

You made sure to pick a book in your room before gently knocking on Bob’s door—which was always slightly opened.

You dared a look in the room to see him on the edge of his bed, his arms around his legs and his chin on his knees looking at the ground in front of him.

The air felt heavy and you couldn’t help the little tug at your heart when his eyes met yours for less than a second.

You removed your shoes and entered, hoping from the bottom of your heart that you weren’t invading his privacy.

Before you sat next to him you asked, gently, softly, almost in a whisper: “You don’t have to answer, but I just have two questions.” His head moved slightly to his right where you were, but without meeting your eyes. “Do you want to talk?” His head said no in the most imperceptible way and you nodded to yourself. Silent day then. “Do you want me to stay?” And this time he met your eyes for a tiny bit longer than a second and you almost regretted asking. It’s like he was saying How can I know what I want when I don’t know who I am?

“Alright,” you answered his unspoken question. “You don’t have to do anything, but I’m staying. Oh, and I brought snacks. You need to eat something, Bob. I know it’s hard, but believe me, it helps.”

You settled on his bed, back against the headrest, book in your hands and started reading, bathed in the silence of the room.

You left the snacks to Bob, not wanting to bother him with your chewing sounds if he was sensible to it, especially today.

The only sound in the room then, still came from you, from turning the pages once in a while, and it took some time before you heard the shuffling of fabric from Bob who moved a little. From your peripheral vision, just above the book, you saw him turn his head to look at you before returning to its original position.

As you turned another page, you heard him chew on the bits of the apple and you smiled behind your book, happy that he was putting something in his stomach. He obviously thought he was disturbing the silence as he chewed very slowly, sometimes even waiting for you to turn a page.

It took a whole chapter before he sat in the middle of the bed, keeping his position with his arms around his legs. He, nonetheless, brought the bowl of snacks closer to you so it was in your reach. You smiled at him even though he was avoiding your eyes and took some cashew nuts, chewing them slowly.

Once in a while he would sigh, out of nowhere, his turmoil of thoughts obviously weighing on him.

None of you moved except for your regular shift of crossing your legs at the ankle once in a while.

It took another fifteen minutes for Bob to move again and this time sitting next to you. There was still a little space between you two, but his right shoulder was inches from yours.

Bob wasn’t one to give or initiate physical touch, but there were days where it was obvious he was craving for it. He would sit closer to the person next to him. Or the way his shoulders dropped immediately when one of the team hugged him—mostly Yelena or you, but even Alexei. Or when he would look a little longer at a hand that touched his shoulder for a second, as if he wanted this touch to last just a tiny bit longer.

It reminded you of little you sometimes. That’s why you felt so close to him sometimes, like you could understand him without words.

That’s why this silence didn’t feel uncomfortable.

How many times were you unable to ask for some company—no talks, just physical presence—during one of your bad days? That just one person, next to you, could be here, reminding you that the world was real and that you weren’t alone. Most of the time you didn’t even know you needed quiet company to feel better. But sometimes a friend would come, unbothered, just sitting here in silence and you would feel better.

And you hoped it was the same for Bob.

When you saw him dozed off a little from the corner of your eye, his head slightly dropping until he shook it awake, you stated quietly: “You can rest your head on my shoulder if you want.”

His head snapped in your direction and immediately looked away when you turned your head to look at him, but saw his big round eyes anyway, as if you had said the most impossible thing. That made you softly smile before you saw him play with the hem of his shirt.

You shrugged, adding “I don’t mind” and returned to your book chewing on some bits of apple.

For a moment he didn’t move, as if your words had told him he should stay awake, like he had been caught and couldn’t be again.

But since he’s probably been in that state and in that position of hugging his legs since the early hours of the day, it didn’t take him long before his head, slowly, and tentatively, rested on your shoulder.

And you immediately felt relief from his gesture. He was letting himself be physically close with someone without the fear of bothering. That was progress.

You even felt the urge to read to him, as you were sure he was reading from where he was. You wanted to read to him so he could fall asleep more rapidly and easily.

It didn’t take long for him to readjust his position and be closer to you. You even removed the bowl of snacks so he could feel at ease and then the whole length of your left side aligned with his right as he stretched his legs out on the bed.

And surely, soon enough, his breath evened, his hands between his knees and his head a little heavier as sleep took him.

And you couldn’t help but smile for yourself. For how proud you were of him for coming all the way here. It was never easy when you were in this state, feeling like a burden, a dead weight. That no matter what you did, it felt wrong, whether it was in your head or in the eyes of others, your perception almost showing you another reality, a distorted one.

Bob was probably very close to a bad day. And you were glad that despite your fear to bother him and make things worse you were able to come and stay.

You even closed your book for a minute, appreciating the silence of the room, almost dozing off too as you realised that your surroundings hadn’t been this quiet for a very long time.

That meant you hadn’t spent time alone in a long while.

Or even with Bob.

Because he had this thing where, when it was just the two of you, everything was just… calmer.

Mutual understanding.

The adrenaline and rush in your veins seemed to slow from a tidal wave to a regular one, the peaceful rhythm of the waves reaching the shore. Everything was different with him. Which was weird knowing that his thoughts were going a mile a minute. But since yours were doing the same, it felt comfortable to know you weren’t alone.

You went back to your book to put your mind elsewhere and after a few more chapters Bob moved a little, and before he was even fully awake, his stomach growled making you chuckle a bit.

“Sorry,” he said, holding his belly as he sat right. His voice was hoarse from his sleep, but majoritarily for not talking all day.

“It’s okay. Here,” you replied as you reached for the bowls of snacks, without looking away from your book.

He cleared his throat before muttering a “thanks” to which you just smiled and nodded.

He looked around him, as if discovering his room for the first time as he picked some cashew nuts to eat.

“Is it any good?” he asked, suddenly, making you hold your book a little tighter at the surprise of his voice and question.

“Bob, it’s ok you don’t have to—” you stopped, looking at him for a second, analysing if he was feeling forced to talk or not. He seemed ok. “Yeah, it’s good. Actually I’m reading it again,” you add as his eyes seemed to focus around you a little more. “Much better than the first time.”

“Cool,” he nodded before eating some more cashew nuts.

You then closed your book, looking at him for a second. “You don’t have to answer, but, are you okay?”

He stopped for a second, holding the bowl in his two hands, before replying, hesitantly, “Sleeping helped. Thanks for coming, by the way. I’m sorry, I–”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” you reassure him immediately, slightly nudging his shoulder. “I came here on my own right? I’m ok.” He nodded, looking elsewhere. “Do you need anything?”

“Um, no?”

“Have you even drank water today?”

He just looked at you and you had your answer. You didn’t say anything bad, neither rolled your eyes like you would with the others, but just got up and told him “I’m getting you a glass of water.”

“You really don’t have to.”

But you were already out the door.

Of course he forgot to drink. He had been so caught up in his own mind and thoughts that drinking was the last of his problems.

You took the opportunity to stretch your legs a little bit, seeing that no one and nothing had moved or changed in the few hours you were with Bob.

It felt even quieter than before. As if something in the air had left the room.

You came back to Bob’s room, slightly knocking on the door just like before, this time a little “come in” answering you.

He was back to sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet on the ground and you sat next to him, handling him the glass of water.

“Thanks,” he replied, still unable to meet your eyes. “For everything,” he added before drinking half the glass in one go.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know”, he replied, some of his fingers brushing the rim of the glass. “I’m not sure how to. It’s just… all these thoughts. It’s like they keep bouncing and spiraling back and forth in my head and it never stops.”

“Must be exhausting.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled in a sigh, his elbows now resting on his knees and his head down. “And the more it comes the less I wanna talk, if that even makes sense.”

“It does. It’s like if you open your mouth you’ll just regret whatever comes out. Sometimes because you don’t want to bother, sometimes because you’re on the edge and then you’re sorry for whatever tone you used when you speak to other people. Talking just makes things worse all the time.”

“Yeah. So… you-you feel like this too?” he asked hesitantly while he looked at you from over his shoulder.

“Sometimes. Happened only rarely since we’ve been living all together. Sometimes it’s irritating not having time for yourself, but I guess the loneliness, the real one, is worse.”

“Yeah, it makes sense.”

You then sighed and put your hands behind you, looking at the ceiling.

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, suddenly aware you might overstep now that he was feeling better.

“No,” he replied without an ounce of hesitation which made you smile. “I mean if you’re ok with staying of course,” he added, slightly pivoting to look at you again.

“Of course I am.”

“Thanks.”

And as you crossed your legs on his bed and straightened your back he looked back at the floor, the glass still in his hands between his legs.

You still felt some uneasiness coming for him. It seemed like he didn’t feel as relaxed as when you walked out of his room a minute earlier.

“Everything ok, you sure? You can tell me, you know.”

“It’s just… I don’t like asking this kind of stuff,” he chuckled nervously.

“What is it?” you asked, hunching forward a little to level with him, your hands on your ankles. “I promise if I can help I will.”

“I’m sure you will.” He replied.

You could hear a smile in his voice but he stayed quiet for another minute.

You could almost feel his inner battle, how to say what he wanted, probably needed to say.

He took a few big inhales, but the words couldn’t get out.

“Do you want to write it? Maybe it’ll be easier.”

“No, I… I can say it out loud. I need to.”

“Bob,” you said gently, risking a hand on his shoulder, “you don’t need to do or say anything if you’re not comfortable with it. No one is forcing you.”

“I know. It’s just– I’m working on this. Even if it’s hard I need to let things out. No matter the thought or the request. It can’t stay up here, bottled up until it’s too late.”

“Okay, yeah, I get it,” you reassured as you removed your hand. “Take your time, then. I’m not leaving.”

He looked at you to make sure you were serious and you smiled at him, genuinely. If staying here could help him then you would.

He took another sip of water before putting the glass on the ground and mimicking your position, cross-legged on the bed. His right knee was touching your left and you watched him look at it.

You watched him close his eyes, take a big inhale as his hands grabbed his ankles, turning his knuckles white. It obviously was a struggle for him and you weren’t sure what to do at this moment.

“Can I, maybe, hold your hand?” you took his long exhale as a time to process his question before immediately answering: “Yes, of course.” And you held out your hand on your knee for him to take.

He slowly and tentatively reached yours, holding it like preschoolers, and you saw his shoulders drop instantly.

“Feeling better?” you asked in a whisper leaving a little pressure on his hand.

“Yeah,” he said in an exhale, nodding. “Thanks. Sorry if that was weird.”

“No, not at all. Next time you feel like this, you don’t have to ask, you can just… do it.”

“Seems even more terrifying,” he chuckled, which made you smile, “but I’ll try to remember that.”

You both stayed quiet for a while as your thumb slowly caressed his hand in a soothing way.

“Thanks. Again. For today.” He hesitated before adding “I think today might have been a bad day without you.”

“I kinda figured. I mean… I don’t want to overstep and you’ve been with us for such a long time this week, I wasn’t sure if I could or should come.”

“I’m glad you did,” he replied, holding your hand a little tighter.

“Bob?”

“Yeah?” he asked, looking at you.

“Do you want a hug?”

“I–” he hesitated, obviously caught off guard by your question. “Yes, please.”

He didn’t have tears in his eyes. Today wasn’t one of those days.

He just needed reassurance, something grounding. Something to make him feel real. You felt it so much as a kid. This need to just hold a piece of a human living thing. A reassurance in this wild big world that seemed so frightening from time to time.

You got up and helped him, your hands still clasped into one another, and you made sure he wouldn’t spill the glass of water on the carpet before you opened your arms. He slipped his arms around your back as you closed them over his shoulder.

His chin rested on your shoulder and he held you a little tighter. You could feel his warmth engulf you, and for a second you wondered how he could bear it. How could he wear sweaters and hoodies when his body temperature was so high all the time?

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I needed this.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you simply replied, slowly starting to rub his back.

“Are you actually a mind reader?” he asked, chuckling softly, his breath falling on your nape.

“Who knows,” you chuckled too. “You remind me of me sometimes. So I just assume. Most of the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’re good at assuming, then.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

It took another minute before he stated: “Tell me if this is too much.”

“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks,” and he held you tighter if that was even possible.

The hug seemed to last a lifetime as much as two minutes when his stomach interrupted the moment.

“Come on,” you said, breaking the hug, but taking his hand in yours. “We’re gonna get you something to eat. Something more consistent than apple and cashew.” You added as he eyed the bowls, still on his bed, over both your arms.

“Won’t you get in trouble for that?” he asked as you exited the room.

“What? Oh the cashew, you mean?” he nodded “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. I won’t tell if you won’t,” you shrugged.

“I won’t.”

“Perfect!” you exclaimed, “Then it’s our little secret.”

You laughed softly and he smiled, and suddenly today felt much more better and far more promising than it did a few hours prior.

[mon-amorie]

‎ ‎ ‎ ... ‎ ( ‎ Hotline ‎ )

scene ‎ ─── ‎ on campus where anonymity breeds honesty, a late-night confessions app becomes your escape. a place where students anonymously share voice notes or texts about anything—stress, confessions, poetry, love, lust, loneliness—all sacred. naturally, you become drawn to a certain user, his words resonating deeply, almost bleeding through the screen. compelled by an unspoken connection, you send a reply

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ‎ ‎ ( pairing ) ‎ hyunjin x f!reader ‎ ( genre ) ‎ college au, slow burn, fluff, slight angst, academic burnout, profanity, contains mature content ‎ !mdni! ‎ ( wc. ) ‎ 28.7k ‎ / ‎ part two. ‎ back to nav.

゜・．・ note! ‎ ─ ‎ thought this was a super cute idea. got really into it (had to spilt it up in parts), so i hope you enjoyyy reading. please let me know your thoughts! took a while to finalize, so it'd mean a lot to me. lots of love, nana

‎ ‎ ‎"...and if we look at the second stanza, we’ll see how she contrasts grief with—"

You caught bits of everything, but held onto none of it.

Your mind had been elsewhere since morning, drifting in and out like radio static. The lecture, the notes, the faint scratching of pens. It all passed through you without actually sticking. You kept thinking about the bakery near campus, the unread emails piling up, the to-do list growing longer by the hour. It was all beginning to feel like too much, bit by bit.

The door creaked open. You payed no mind to it. But if you had, you might've noticed him.

A tall guy slipping in late, hoodie soaked dark at the shoulders. Damp hair curling onto his cheek. He didn't draw attention to himself, didn't offer excuses. Just eased into a seat a few rows back, his movements fluid, careful. His chest rose and fell, still evening out from the rush across campus.

You let your chin fall into your hand, your gaze sliding toward the window. The rain streaked sideways across the glass, soft but relentless. You let your eyes follow it, maybe hoping it would make things feel a little lighter.

"...so I'm going to give you the rest of the class as a study hall," your professor announced, barely fighting a yawn. "Catch up on readings, work on your papers. Just don't vanish."

A ripple of quiet relief passed through the room. Backpacks shifted. Chairs scraped. Someone whispered, "Bless," under their breath, followed by a soft chuckle. The projector clicked off, and in that dimmed silence, something inside you loosened.

You didn't wait.

As soon as the screen went away, your head dropped to your folded arms. Your shoulders slackened. Your grip on everything eased. The noise around you blurred into something soft and far away.

Barely a few seconds passed before—

"Yah, dead already?" came a voice, teasing but soft. A familiar one.

You didn't even lift your head. "Hey, Bin."

Changbin dropped into the seat to your left like gravity owed him something, juggling three bags and zero chill. His hair was damp from the rain, hoodie clinging to the curve of his neck. A paper coffee cup steamed between his hands, the scent curling faintly into the air around you.

On your other side, Chaeryeong landed with a theatrical sigh, like she'd rehearsed it. She slid her tote bag off her shoulder, reached across you, and gently shut your neglected laptop without a word.

"She's in mourning," she declared solemnly. "Fell in battle after that last psych quiz. May she rest."

"I salute you, fallen soldier," Changbin added, giving a mock salute.

You groaned softly, face still buried in your arms.

Chaeryeong grinned, already pulling a half-eaten box of pocky from her bag like it was part of her survival kit. "No, but seriously. You okay?"

"I'm tired," you mumbled. "And I've got like three papers due next week."

"Okay, but one of them's just a book response, right?" Chaeryeong offered.

You cracked one eye open, cheek still pressed to your sleeve. "The book is seven hundred pages."

Changbin let out a low whistle. "Yeah, no. Death sounds fair."

"Anyway," Chaeryeong said, grabbing her phone. "Can we talk about the girl who dropped a six-part rant on Hotline last night? All because her ex started dating someone from the chess team."

“I saw that!” Changbin perked up, popping the lid off his drink. “It’s so dramatic. Didn’t the girl cheat or something? And now she’s pissed he moved on?”

“She’s not mad he moved on,” Chaeryeong corrected, scrolling through her feed. “She’s mad he moved on fast and to someone who’s, and I quote, too niche. It’s so dumb.”

That earned a soft snort from you.

They both turned toward you, sensing the first sign of life.

“You use it, right?” Changbin asked, tone casual as he took a sip.

You blinked. “Use what?”

“The app,” he said. “Hotline. You’ve posted before?”

You shrugged, slow and noncommittal. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yeah, but you probably post those dramatic 2 AM voice notes,” he teased. “Like, ‘the rain reminds me of everything I never said to him’.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "God forbid a girl expresses her feelings."

He laughed, nearly spilling his drink.

Chaeryeong’s eyes flitted between the two of you, narrowed in curiosity. “Wait. Now I’m curious. What do you post?”

“I’m not telling you,” you said flatly, stretching your arms over your head until your spine cracked. “That defeats the point of anonymous.”

“Which means she definitely posts dramatic 2AM voice notes,” Changbin said smugly.

You rolled your eyes but didn't deny it. The conversation moved on without you, their bickering fading into background noise again.

The room buzzed with low conversation now that the lecture was on pause. A kind of collective exhale. Some students cracked open their laptops, pretending to be productive. Others leaned together in loose circles, whispering and laughing like this was a café instead of a half-lit lecture hall with forty minutes still left on the clock.

Behind you, a chair creaked.

Hyunjin sat slouched in his seat, hoodie up, pencil twirling loosely between his fingers. He hadn’t bothered with his laptop. Just a small sketchbook open on the desk, angled away from view. His bag sat untouched at his feet, the canvas edges still damp from the rain.

He’d slipped in late, quietly, after snoozing his alarm one too many times. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t the only one. He recognized most people in this class. Faces, names, friend groups that orbited each other in lazy, habitual loops. He didn’t talk to them. Didn’t need to.

After all, people only ever asked questions when you gave them answers first. And Hyunjin never did.

His gaze drifted over the room, not looking for anything in particular, until it landed on you.

You sat between two friends, head tilted, listening without really reacting. Like you were there, but not entirely present. Your fingers toyed absentmindedly with the frayed cuff of your sleeve. The kind of movement that said more than words. Like your brain was running in twelve directions, none of them clear.

He knew your name, though you’d never spoken directly. You were in his poetry seminar. Mondays and Thursdays, always a few seats ahead. Head bowed when tired. Notebook open and full when it mattered. He’d caught glimpses of your margin notes once, slanted in quick, neat handwriting. Thought about them later, for no reason at all.

He glanced down, sketchbook still open, finally letting his pencil move across the page. He didn’t try to define it. He just drew. Trying not to think too hard about the way you stared out the window like you were asking it a question. Like maybe you were waiting for an answer.

“It tastes like wood glue,” Changbin insists.

“You’ve eaten wood glue?” Chaeryeong shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

“Didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Their voices curled around you like ambient noise. Familiar. Safe. Like the kind of background hum you’d grown up with in a house full of sound. You didn’t have to join in to feel like you belonged there.

Study group at four. Grocery run after. Need to text Mom back. I should drop that one class. Chae’s hair looks really good today. The bakery closes early. I should go.

Outside, a blur of students ran across the courtyard, three of them sharing one hoodie like it was shelter. In the back corner, a girl hummed quietly to herself, scrolling on her phone. Behind her, a guy slumped in his chair while his friend patted his back over a crush spiral. Small, silent scenes repeating everywhere.

And you sat there, wondering if anyone else in this room felt the way you did.

Chaeryeong tapped her fingers against the desk, looking thoughtful. “Okay, but wait. Do you think it’s possible to fall for someone just through words?”

You turned slightly, attention slipping back into the present.

“What, like texting?” Changbin asked, frowning. “Isn’t that just… long-distance?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, “but I mean on the app. Anons. No names, no faces. Just someone’s voice. Or their thoughts. The way they write.” She said it like she’d already fallen.

Changbin looked skeptical. “That sounds like catfishing.”

"I think it sounds romantic," she countered.

"You think free samples at beauty stores are romantic."

"And? Have you ever been handed perfume by a stranger who calls you 'miss' with a French accent? That's cinema.”

You laughed, eyes drifting to your desk.

Her question sat with you. Not just because of the app. Not even because of the weird ache you carried around like a second skin. But because lately, the idea of being seen without being looked at had started to sound like safety.

To be chosen, not for your academics or how you looked when you walked into class on a Tuesday morning, but for your voice. Your words. The kind of things you say when you think no one’s listening.

Maybe it was all the poetry readings getting to you. Or maybe it was just everything.

You rubbed your temple, the pressure pooling behind your eyes. And then, before you could overthink it—

“I think I’m burnt out.”

It’s not dramatic. Just quiet. Honest in a way that felt like a sigh. They both go still.

“Wanna skip next class?” Chaeryeong asked, chin in hand, voice casual but eyes flicking toward you with quiet concern. “You look like you could use a break.”

You glance at the clock, considering. “Don’t you guys have an exam after this?”

“So?” they say in sync, almost offended.

You huff a small laugh. “I think I’m just gonna stop by the bakery,” you say, sitting up and brushing your hair back from your face. “You two stay. I’ll grab something and bring it back.”

Chaeryeong frowns, clearly not sold. “You sure?”

You nod. “I need the walk.”

Truthfully, you need the air and the silence. The space to pull yourself back together.

Changbin pulls a crumpled bill from his pocket and slaps it into your hand. “Bring me an iced americano.”

“In this weather? I’m not your delivery service.”

“You offered,” he says smugly, ignoring the logic.

Chaeryeong grins as you turn to her. “I’ll take something flaky and not too sweet. Please? Oh, and maybe a batch of cookies if they’ve got any.”

“Damn, you hungry or—” Changbin starts.

“It’s for all of us, dumbass,” she mutters, elbowing him. He laughs.

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth rising at the edges of your expression.

You stood, scarf in hand, wrapping it once around your neck. Phone tucked into your pocket. Outside, the rain’s picked up again. Steadier now, heavier. But there’s a comfort in it. Like if you just kept walking, maybe something in you would finally rinse clean.

Before you turned to leave, your gaze lifted just once toward the upper rows. That’s when you saw him.

Hood half-off. Headphones in. One earbud dangling. His phone glows dimly in his hand, thumb scrolling in lazy, distracted loops. The sketchbook still lies open beside him, spine bowed, edges curling slightly from wear.

You’re certain you’ve seen him before. In passing. In class, maybe. Familiar in the way foggy mornings are.

But you don’t stare. Don’t give yourself the time to linger. You miss the way he looks up, just briefly, as you step out of the lecture hall, offering the professor a quiet nod on your way out. His eyes follow the back of your head, watching the door as it closes behind you.

Then he exhales, shifting his gaze back down to the screen in his palm—

Only to catch his own reflection staring back.

𐪞

*ding*

The door chimed softly as you stepped into the bakery. A mid-morning lull. Only a few students were tucked into booths. Heads bowed, mugs cradled, music whispering through shared earbuds. The windows were gently fogged from the warmth inside, streaked by rivulets of rain. Soft jazz played low from a speaker near the display case.

The air wrapped around you like a blanket, rich with the scent of sweet dough and fresh espresso. Something about it made your shoulders loosen..

You exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.

The cashier, a boy with sleepy eyes and a polite smile, rang you up. Minho, his name tag read.

One iced americano. Two chocolate croissants. A small paper bag of cookies. You paused before ordering, hesitating at the register until the cold on your fingers convinced you to add a hot chocolate to the list.

“Here you go,” he said, sliding the bag and warm drink toward you with practiced grace. “Have a good one.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the bag like it held something more than food.

You found a booth in the corner, right by the window, and slid into the seat. The warmth from the pastries seeped through the paper bag, into your lap, grounding you.

Then your phone buzzed.

chae 🧡 — tell me u got the cookies ...

binnie — she want that cookie so effing badddd 

⤷  you — pls

you — got you both sweets, don’t be weird about it

chae 🧡 — french kissing you rn 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

(you) loved a message.

binnie — bro probably forgot my drink

you — i literally got it, wdym

binnie — oh

binnie — ok nvm ily

⤷  chae 🧡 — LMAO?

binnie — wait, what pastry tho?

you — choco croissant

(binnie) and (chae 🧡) loved a message.

chae 🧡 — chessss, u know me so well

binnie — BLESS

jisung —  ….

jisung — nah nah that's crazy 😭

jisung — did i die or something why am i not in this drop

you — you're sick

jisung — ok but i'm not DEAD

binnie — u sound like a frail victorian child. get off ur phone bro

jisung — i literally just wanted to feel something 😞

you — we'll bring you soup tmrw chill

jisung — finally. one decent person in this grp, yall suck

chae 🧡 — hope ur door stays jammed and that the tissues are just outta reach

jisung — :'(

you — anyway

you — see y'all in ten

A smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it. You tucked your phone away, fingers still warm from the cup in your hand.

The first sip of your hot chocolate tasted like a delicacy.

And for the first time today, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt kind. Like a small, unexpected pocket of calm had been carved out just for you.

𐪞

The low hum of your mini heater filled the quiet of your dorm. Soft, steady.

The mirror in the bathroom was still fogged from your shower, and a towel hung crooked on the hook, like it had given up halfway through the fall. The air smelled like your new body wash and the faint trace of laundry detergent from the pile you only half-folded before flopping into bed.

By the time you curled under the blanket, you were already halfway asleep. Hair still damp against the pillow. Your body didn’t feel tired so much as done. Like you’d been holding yourself upright all day and had finally set it all down.

It was past ten. Maybe closer to midnight.

The glow of your laptop still lit the far side of the room, casting shapes against the wall. But you weren’t at your desk. The assignments could wait a little longer.

Your phone rested beside you, screen dark. You unlocked it.

Hotline.

You hadn’t even thought about it. It was there, waiting. Your thumb hovered over the app like it knew the path before your mind caught up. Like muscle memory had guided you.

So, you opened it.

The interface bloomed onto the screen, slow and gentle. No ads. No noise. Just space. Dark blues fading into muted purples, then warm orange and soft red. An ombre that looked like dusk. The kind of palette that made you exhale without realizing.

The posts glowed in soft contrast. Little fragments of thoughts, floating like signals in the dark.

Your gaze drifted to the small mic icon in the corner of the homepage. You hovered.

And then, without really deciding, you pressed it.

‎ ‎ ‎user074320 • now (recording) — For a moment there’s nothing. Just the low hum of your heater filling the silence. "…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise’”

A beat of silence.

“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”

You exhale a breath that’s half a laugh, half just tired.

“I don’t know. I had a decent day. Laughed at something dumb. Saw a cute cat. Ate a cookie that was probably 90% butter. Got rained on, but in a main character kind of way, so… cinematic points, I guess.”

Another pause, like you’re deciding whether to keep talking.

“Still came home and immediately face-planted into my bed like I’d been sprinting uphill for hours. Like my brain’s doing laps while my body’s trying to power down. I don’t even know what I’m carrying, but it feels heavy.”

*whirr*

“…Anyway. If you’re listening, I hope today felt a little less heavy for you. Or that you had a good hair day. Or at least, I hope the soup you had was hot. That helps sometimes.”

Tap.

You didn’t relisten. You just let it post.

Then set the phone down beside you, screen still faintly warm in your hand. Your eyes closed for a second.

The app refreshed on its own. Your note now quietly sitting on your profile, timestamped and anonymous. Below it, the familiar scroll of recommendations began to fill the screen, one by one. Posts you’d probably forget in a few hours. Little confessions floating around like fireflies in the dark.

You scrolled. Mindlessly, absently. Not really searching just… keeping yourself company. Then paused.

A profile caught your eye. Not because of the username or the nearly empty bio besides pronouns, but because of the profile picture.

A blurry painting of flowers in a vase. Not neat or delicate. Just color and chaos, all messy strokes like someone tried to paint a feeling instead of a thing. Curious, you tapped.

The first post loaded, dated today.

‎ ‎ ‎user024025 • 15h — opened my notes app to study and ended up writing poetry about someone who doesn’t know i exist. so anyway. GPA stands for girl please acknowledge me.

A quiet laugh pressed into your pillow before you could stop it. And before you knew it, you were scrolling.

‎ ‎ is it weird that i want someone to know me so well they can tell what kinda of day i’ve had just by the way i say “hey”?

if you see this: drink water. stretch your back. your spine’s not supposed to feel like that.

‎ ‎ accidentally caught eye contact with someone while trying to sketch them and now i need to change campuses.

saw a couple slow dancing under the overhang outside the library during the rain. no music. just the sound of puddles. when will that be me????

‎ ‎ i think most people don’t actually want to be saved. they just want someone to sit next to them in the dark and not try to fix it. just… be there. and lately, i think that’s all i want too.

saw my ex get rejected by my friend who works at the bakery. what a good day to be alive. 7/10 pastry tho.

‎ ‎ sometimes i want to be held. other times i just want to be understood. today i wanted both but settled for neither. next question.

love when the universe throws me a bone. like yeah, i saw my ex. yeah, they tried to say hi. yeah, i pretended to be deep in a phone call with my grandma. (i was on the calculator app)

‎ ‎ i asked chris if i was annoying and he said “no more than usual.” it’s the little things keeping me alive.

got my coffee and accidentally said ‘you too’ to the barista when she told me to enjoy it. yah i’m never showing my face there again.

‎ ‎ you ever meet someone and immediately know you’d write poems about them that they’d never see?

group projects should come with therapy vouchers. and snacks.

‎ ‎ had a staring contest with a cat on the way to class. pretty sure it cursed me. failed a quiz an hour later.

i don’t want fireworks. just someone who holds my hand in grocery stores and knows how i take my coffee and doesn’t let me spiral alone at night.

‎ ‎ some days i feel like i’m here. like really here. i ask people how their weekend was. i nod at the right times. i drink my coffee before the ice melts. and it’s fine. it’s all fine. and then there are days like today. where everything feels like i’m two steps behind myself. like i’m watching my life happen through a window i can’t open. i think what gets to me the most is how no one notices. or maybe they do and just don’t ask. sometimes i just want someone to ask me something real. not like “how are you?” in the way people say it when they’re already moving on. like: “what do you think about before you fall asleep?” or “what memory do you wish felt less distant?“ but no one really asks things like that. so i write it here. not for attention or pity. just in case someone reads it and thinks, oh. me too.

Your thumb lingered on that one a little longer than you meant to. The date, just two days ago, stood out.

They weren’t sappy love notes or petty school gossip. Some were funny, in that quiet, offbeat way that made you smile before you even realized it. Others read like scattered thoughts—tiny moments most people would overlook. A few felt heavy. Not necessarily poetic, just emotionally fluent.

And somehow, the mix made it feel real. Like the person behind them wasn’t trying to be profound, just thinking out loud. And you’d wandered into the middle of it. A stream of consciousness, left open.

You hadn’t noticed how long you’d been reading until the screen dimmed and your eyes blinked back into focus. Your phone had grown warm in your hand, the heat pressed lightly into your palm.

‎ ‎ ‎1:03 AM.

The rain still tapped steadily on the glass.

Your chest felt different. Still heavy. Still stretched from the day. But in that quiet corner of the internet, nestled between strangers and static, you felt a little less alone.

Something about his voice, even in text, made you want to stay just a little longer.

‎ ‎ ‎

‎ ‎ [Three weeks later, Monday morning]

‎ ‎ ‎

The sky looked bruised, grey bleeding into dull blue. Wind tugged at the edges of your sweater, fingers stiff as you clutched your phone and bag tighter, breath visible in the air. The walk to class felt longer today, like the world was resisting your movement, nudging you to turn around and call it quits. But you kept going.

It was early. Too early.

Streetlights flickered lazily overhead, and puddles scattered like shards across the sidewalk caught the faintest blush of light. Some students trudged past on foot. Others biked through the cold with determined misery, scarves trailing like battle flags.

You don’t remember what song was playing through your headphones. Just that it had faded into background noise by the time you reached the stone steps of the humanities building.

Inside, the contrast hit almost instantly. The stairwell was warmer, just barely. Echoes of your footsteps followed you up the narrow steps, and by the time you reached the second floor, the change in temperature was more noticeable. You pushed open the door to your poetry seminar, and warmth met you like a second skin. Soft. Immediate. A quiet relief.

The room was already half full.

You weren’t late, class hadn’t even started, but clearly, you weren’t the only one who’d chosen refuge here before the day officially began.

You made your way to your usual seat and set your things down slowly, your hands still stiff from the cold. Everything felt a little off-center. Not wrong exactly, just out of rhythm.

Lately, that feeling had been harder to shake. The kind of tired that didn’t come with yawns or heavy eyes, just a dull pressure that settled in your heart and stayed there. You were keeping up with your work. More than keeping up, really, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

And it followed you even now, as you sat there thumbing through your notes and pretending not to notice the unopened grocery list still sitting in your phone. Another reminder you’d snoozed: Buy Minho a birthday gift.

You’d been meaning to. Really. You wanted to find something personal. Something that said thank you without saying ‘thank you for giving me a pastry when I cried in your bakery and not making it weird’.

Because somehow, that moment, nearly a month ago, had turned into a quiet friendship.

You hadn’t planned to cry. You barely even remembered what tipped you over. Just that you’d walked in soaked from the rain, holding too much all at once. And Minho had noticed. Said nothing about your face or your silence. Just slid a pastry across the counter, as if to say it’s okay to fall apart here, and turned away like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Since then, he’d been… steady. Generous, even. Letting you help around the bakery during slow hours, never mind the fact that you didn’t have any real experience. Never asked much from you, just gave you things to do, space to exist. And somehow, that space he gave had started to feel like something you could lean into.

You liked that about him. The way he didn’t make kindness feel like a spotlight.

It was so different from what you were used to.

Your dad’s voice still echoed faintly in your ears from the night before. Something about your grades. Something about getting a “real” job.

You’d tuned most of it out after the first few lines, just enough to keep from getting pulled under. It wasn’t like you weren’t trying. He just had a way of making even your best efforts sound like placeholder. Like you were always one decision away from disappointing him again.

Still, despite all that, your thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To him.

He never said his name. Only posted every so often, like he didn’t want to be seen but couldn’t help sharing little pieces of himself anyway. You’d never liked a single post. Never interacted. But you read every one. Not because you had a crush, exactly. There wasn’t anything romantic about it. Just curiosity. Like watching someone through a fogged window and trying to make out the shape of them.

You were pulled back to the present when a gust of wind rattled the window behind you. Your pen paused mid-scribble. The clock ticked closer to the hour.

With a quiet sigh, you opened your laptop and notebook, settling in. Around you, the room had filled up fast. Low chatter. Laptop keys. The soft rustle of jackets being peeled off. You barely noticed when the door creaked open again.

He walked in, unhurried for once. Bag slung casually over one shoulder, cheeks still pink from the cold. Your gaze lifted just as he passed your row.

It wasn’t a moment, just a glance. Eyes met. But it caught him off guard.

Somewhere in his head, something slipped. You didn’t catch the subtle shift in his grip, or how he sat down with a stiffness he didn’t usually have. His face slightly redder than before.

The professor arrived a few minutes later, launching into the usual rhythm. Announcements, dates, some soft reminders about next week’s readings. The background noise of scribbling pens and laptop keys filled in the rest.

You let yourself tune in loosely, just enough to stay tethered, until—

“I want you to write something,” the professor said, her voice lifting over the murmur, “about someone in this class.”

Your head tilted slightly. That wasn’t the usual prompt.

“Doesn’t have to be literal,” she added quickly, grinning as a few groans rose up. “And it doesn’t need to be emotional or romantic, so don’t panic. Just something rooted in observation. The way someone carries themselves. A glance. A moment you noticed. Real or imagined, doesn’t matter. Just write.”

The room stirred with sudden interest. Chairs shifted. Voices rose.

You stayed where you were. It wasn’t that the assignment scared you. It was just that your brain couldn’t decide what emotion to land on lately, and the idea of having to funnel that through another person felt like a lot.

Then your professor clapped once, sharp and cheerful.

“Pair up. You don’t have to tell your partner who you’re writing about. But you do need to help them brainstorm.”

You blinked. That part hadn’t been in the fine print.

Chairs scraped. People turned to their neighbors, already half-laughing and claiming partners with ease. You glanced once to your right, then left, more out of reflex than expectation. Then—

“You,” your professor called, eyes meeting yours. “Still need someone?”

You gave a single nod, calm. She gestured past you.

“Hwang. You’re with her.”

Well, damn.

He didn’t move at first. Still a few rows behind, seated along the elevated stretch of desks. His fingers tapped a slow, barely-there rhythm on the edge of his notebook, like he was waiting to see if you’d look up first.

When you didn’t, he stood. Walked down the aisle with a kind of casual hesitation, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. And then just hovered.

You glanced up when you felt his presence at your side.

“Mind if I—?” He gestured toward the empty chair next to you, already halfway pulling it out.

You shook your head. “Go ahead.”

He sat a little too fast, the legs of the chair dragging with an unfortunate screech across the floor. Someone in front of you turned briefly at the sound. You didn’t laugh, but your smile almost gave you away.

Neither of you spoke right away. He glanced down at his notebook like he expected it to do the talking. It didn’t.

“…So,” he said after a second. “Poem. About a classmate.”

You nodded. He paused like he had more to say, then shook his head lightly. “You wanna go first? Or—wait. That makes it sound like I’m trying to dodge it.” He winced. “I just meant—”

You let out a soft laugh. “It’s fine.”

The professor had moved to the far end of the room, checking in with another group. Someone nearby kept clicking a pen like it was a nervous tic.

He gave a short nod, still unsure if he should be relieved or embarrassed.

The silence between you wasn’t tense, just unformed. Like the space before a new sketch, when the lines haven’t taken shape yet. You glanced at his notebook. He hadn’t written anything down either.

“Have someone in mind already?” you asked.

His eyes flicked up, then back to yours. “Not really. You?”

You tilted your head. “Still deciding if I wanna make someone up or not.”

That earned you a quiet smile. A real one this time. He nodded slowly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

“I was thinking,” you added, “it might be easier to just write something loosely based. Not like ‘you wore a gray hoodie and sat four seats back on Thursdays,’ but more… the feeling someone gives you. You know?”

Your eyes flicked to him.

He looked at you a second longer than you expected, like he was still turning it over in his head. Then he nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

It was hard to tell if he meant it or was just trying to sound agreeable, but the way he said it felt genuine. Careful, in a good way. Like he’d actually considered it.

You both drifted into writing, or at least the appearance of it. His pen hovered over the page more than it moved, tracing invisible lines that never quite landed. You caught him sneaking a glance at your notebook once, but you let it slide.

A moment passed before he added, like it had been sitting in his mouth too long, “I haven’t done a partner thing in a while. Sorry if I’m kinda…”

His voice trailed off, a hand waving vaguely like he hoped you’d fill in the blank for him.

“Awkward?” you offered, not unkindly.

His head snapped up, his mouth falling open in mock betrayal, but the spark in his eyes gave him away.

“I was gonna say a little out of practice, but yeah, that too.”

You smiled, just barely. “I don’t talk much in this class either.”

That seemed to ease something in him. His shoulders uncoiled, settling just a little.

“I’m Hyunjin, by the way,” he added after a beat, almost like the thought just caught up to him. Then, quick—“I mean, I know you know that. It’s on the roll call, obviously.”

You blinked, a soft laugh pulling out of you. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”

There was a beat where he probably could’ve moved on, but instead, he glanced at you, a little unsure. “Uh, what’s your name? I mean, I know it. But I—like… it feels different asking.”

You tilted your head, a slow grin tugging at your lips. “You already know it.”

“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.”

That threw you a little. You told him anyway, your name landing soft but certain between you. And when you did, he nodded, like he wanted to remember exactly how you said it.

“Okay. Cool.”

Class was still going on, but the two of you had slipped into this quiet side stream, slightly outside the flow of the room. Everyone else was still taking notes, listening to the professor, but it felt like you’d ducked into some parallel pocket of time.

You weren’t sure what you were going to write about yet. But maybe now, you had more to work with than you thought.

You glanced over at him. “What’re you majoring in?”

“Visual arts,” he said, scribbling absently in the margins of his paper.

That fit. His clothes weren’t loud or branded, but they looked chosen. Like someone who knew how colors worked or at least cared. You could picture him sketching on café napkins, or showing up to class with graphite smudged on his sleeve without noticing.

“You?”

“English,” you offered. “Not super surprising, since we’re here.”

He smiled, soft and easy. “It fits.”

It felt like the conversation might naturally end there, but then he surprised you by asking, “Do you write outside of class?”

You hesitated for a second. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He nodded, a little too quickly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands after asking. “Cool.”

“Do you?” you asked back, not teasing, just returning the energy.

“Yeah—uh, I do. Just for fun, though.” He shifted in his seat like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. “Nothing serious.”

The quick glance he sent your way told you he wanted it to sound casual, but cared a little too much about how it landed.

You raised an eyebrow, like you were still deciding whether or not to believe him.

He reached for his water bottle like it was a prop he suddenly needed, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip, then pausing, realizing it was empty. He set it back down with overly careful precision, like that would somehow make the moment less awkward.

You gave him a look. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That. The whole…” you gestured vaguely toward the bottle, fighting a smile. “Was that supposed to be dramatic—?”

“No,” he said, sitting up straighter, ears just a little pink. “Forgot I finished it earlier.”

You nodded, feigning seriousness. “Right.”

That pulled a soft huff out of him, something close to a real laugh, but before he could say anything else, the professor called time. Pens dropped. Notebooks closed. Chairs scraped quietly against the floor as everyone started packing up, but for a second longer, Hyunjin lingered like he wasn’t quite ready to leave the conversation.

As he stood, he tapped the edge of your desk. Twice, quick and light. Just enough to pull your attention.

“I’ll… keep working on it,” he said, voice softer now. Somewhere between unsure and hopeful.

And then he headed back to his seat. Moving through the aisles, slipping back into his place like nothing had happened.

You watched him go.

Then turned to a new page in your notebook, and wrote the word: presence.

𐪞

“—I swear, he looked like he was gonna short-circuit.” You balanced a tray of clean mugs in your hands as you walked toward the dish rack. “He sat down so fast the chair made that god-awful scraping sound.”

Minho, halfway through dusting powdered sugar over a fresh batch of croissants, barked a laugh. “Please tell me someone clapped.”

“Almost. One guy turned around like he thought something fell. It was kind of tragic.”

He grinned as he moved the tray to the display case, sliding it in with practiced ease. The warmth of the bakery was a welcome contrast to the wind still sneaking through the door every time it opened. Outside, people passed with their shoulders hunched, while inside, the windows fogged gently around the edges. Jazz played low over the speakers, all saxophone and soft piano.

“What’s the guy’s name again?” Minho asked.

“Hyunjin.” you said.

Minho paused, hand still on the pastry tongs. “Wait—Hyunjin? Like, my Hyunjin?”

You blinked. “Your Hyunjin?”

He set the tongs down and leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing like he was putting pieces together. “Tall, handsome, kinda dramatic but pretends he’s not, draws a lot, goes quiet when he’s flustered?”

You stared. “...That’s weirdly accurate.”

“Oh my god,” Minho said, straightening with a wide grin. “You got paired with him?”

“I didn’t volunteer,” you said, laughing. “Our professor literally pointed at us like she was picking teams for gym class.”

Minho let out another laugh and shook his head. “That explains so much. He’s been off lately.”

You tilted your head. “Off how?”

He just gave a vague shrug and returned to wiping the counter. “Nothing. He just gets in his head. Keeps stuff to himself until he explodes in the most unhinged way possible.”

You raised a brow, amused. “So... normal?”

“Painfully.” He smiled as he passed behind you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his as he went.

That pulled a laugh from you, head ducking slightly as you dried your hands. “He’s... interesting.”

“That's a very polite way of saying what the hell is wrong with him.”

You snorted. “He wasn’t bad. Just... kind of awkward. But like, in a sincere way. Like he couldn’t help it.”

Minho made a face halfway between fond and pained. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

You shook your head, amused, wiping down the espresso machine as Minho poured steamed milk into a mug with far more focus than was probably necessary. The bell above the door jingled as another customer stepped in, and the two of you slid seamlessly into work mode. Greeting them, taking the order, moving like you’d done this together a hundred times.

You liked this part of the day. The quiet before the evening rush. The part where Minho didn’t hover, didn’t push you to talk, just let the conversation rise and fall as naturally as the light shifting across the tiles.

“I actually didn’t even say much,” you said after a pause. “Like, I wasn’t trying to be weird. But I think just existing near him stressed him out.”

Minho handed the latte to a waiting customer without missing a beat. “Sounds like he likes you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, all fake innocence. “What? Who said that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t start,” he said, already grinning. “I’m just making an observation.”

“Well stop observing. We’re not in class.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

The moment settled for a second. Minho’s voice cut through, quieter as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Did your dad end up calling?”

You didn’t answer immediately, hesitating. “…Yeah. Over the weekend.”

He glanced up. “And?”

You focused on the swirl of steam rising from the espresso machine. “Same thing as always. Asked about school. Then about jobs. Asked why I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Ah,” Minho said, voice flat like a deflated balloon. “Classic hit single.”

That earned a faint smile.

As he moved past you to grab something from the lower shelf, he paused just long enough to reach up and pat the top of your head. Lightly, without ceremony.

“You’re doing fine,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. But your chest felt a little less tight than before. Suddenly—

The bell above the door slammed open with a jingle too violent to be casual.

“YAH— tell her she’s wrong!”

Changbin came barreling into the bakery like it was his second home, puffer jacket already half-off, finger pointed like he was delivering courtroom evidence.

“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Chaeryeong shouted as she followed behind him, nearly tripping over the doorframe with a bag of snacks clutched in one hand.

“No hello?” you asked, brows raised.

“Okay,” Changbin said, panting slightly. “You’re on the train. You offer your seat to someone. They decline. Do you sit back down or stand anyway out of guilt?”

“Sit down,” you said instantly.

“SEE?!” Changbin said, turning to Chaeryeong like he’d just won an Olympic medal.

She gasped. “No! You can’t sit after that. Now it’s awkward. Now they think you think they’re weak.”

You raised both brows. “You came here... to ask me that?”

“Obviously,” they both said in sync, like you were the slow one.

You blinked, then turned to Minho who just looked amused behind the espresso machine.

“Let me guess,” you said. “They’re ordering something now.”

“Croffle and a latte,” Chaeryeong said immediately. “Oh—and if you have the cinnamon twist—”

“We do,” Minho said, already writing it down. “And you owe her five dollars for emotional labor.”

The drama faded as fast as it came, the two of them now deep in an argument over which season of their favorite show was the best, half-bickering, half-laughing as they waited at their table.

Minho handed you a cup to pass over the counter. You called out the name.

A guy stepped forward to grab it. Young, most likely a student. Soft smile, the kind that aimed to be casual. He grabbed the drink, then slid a napkin across the counter. A number was scribbled on it.

Minho didn’t even blink.

His hand smacked down on the napkin so fast the customer jumped.

“She’s not collecting these right now,” Minho said, cool and unbothered, slowly dragging it back toward the espresso machine like it was a misplaced receipt, unnerving eye contact.

The guy blinked. Laughed awkwardly. “Uh... got it. Thanks.”

Once he was out of earshot, you turned, arms crossed.

“What?” he said, dragging the napkin off the counter and into the trash without breaking eye contact. “I’m protecting the peace.”

“You know that was insane behavior, right?”

“Just vetting the vibe,” Minho said.

“You crushed his confidence in one motion.”

“He’ll recover. Probably write a poem about it.”

You couldn’t even argue with that.

The jazz picked back up, the windows fogging further with the heat inside. Laughter spilled from the table where Changbin and Chaeryeong were now splitting the croffle and debating over who had the better music taste.

You turned back toward the counter just as Minho slid a drink in your direction.

“Didn’t ask for anything,” you said.

“Figured you needed one.”

You took a sip. Hot chocolate. Rich and sweet, still steaming.

“…You were right,” you murmured.

Minho didn’t look up. “Always am.”

𐪞

You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes without thinking. The air in your dorm was a bit cold, not enough to complain about, but enough to make you keep your socks on.

The lights stayed dim. Just the one beside your bed, casting a warm glow across the floorboards. You tossed your coat over the back of the chair, sleeves flopping to the floor, and wandered toward the kitchen corner to put away your groceries. One item at a time, methodical, like your brain needed something simple to latch onto.

What should’ve taken five minutes took thirty.

By the time you were done, your body felt heavier in that strangely comforting way. The kind of exhaustion that meant you were finally still. Showered. Fed. Sweats on. Nowhere else to be.

Your phone buzzed across the room, screen lighting up on your desk.

jisung: i think i left my soul in lecture today

you: it’s okay he didn’t grade that part

chae 🧡: was it the 75-minute slideshow with 300 transitions

binnie: WITH SOUND EFFECTS

jisung: bro the trumpet noise when he changed slides???

you: i thought i hallucinated that

chae 🧡: no that was real. i flinched

jisung: if he puts a slide whistle in next week i’m dropping out

binnie: no because the airplane sound? when the graph "took off"???

you: oh my god i forgot about that

jisung: i was THIS close to just standing up and leaving

chae 🧡: i think i actually blacked out during the bullet point explosion effect

you: no bc why did it sound like an m80 going off

jisung: he’s not making lectures anymore he’s making action films

binnie: i’m buying noise-canceling headphones just for this class

you: just raw dog the visuals?

jisung: survival of the fittest, every man for himself

chae 🧡: anyway whos bringing snacks tomorrow im not sitting through econ empty handed again

binnie: not me. last time my granola bar betrayed me

you: betrayed you how

binnie: the wrapper was SO LOUD i literally stopped mid-open because people turned around

jisung: rookie mistake u gotta open it during peak laughter, sound camouflage

chae 🧡: so true. snack acoustics.

you: they don’t teach you this in orientation

You laughed, a low breath of sound that barely rose above the hum of your heater. Flopped down onto your bed, pulling the covers over your legs, thumb still lazily hovering above the screen. The group chat was half comfort, half chaos. You didn’t need to contribute much. Just dropping in was enough.

You were about to close the app when another banner slid across the top of your screen.

‎ ‎ ‎ Hotline: New posts added to your recommendations.

Your thumb hovered.

You hadn’t checked the app all day. You hadn’t meant to forget it, but it had slipped beneath lectures, errands, and Jisung’s running commentary about how capitalism was killing his will to live. Still, something about the notification made your breath catch.

You opened it.

The interface bloomed into dusky colors. That soft blend of indigo and burnt orange. It always looked like a late evening sky. Quiet, fading.

You didn’t even need to scroll far. His profile sat right at the top of your feed, neatly slipped into your recommendations like the app knew.

Two new posts.

Your thumb hovered over the first one. It was time-stamped earlier that afternoon.

‎ ‎ ‎‎user024025 • 10h — i said something weird in class today. like i meant it to sound normal, and then it left my mouth and immediately committed social suicide. anyway. this is why i don’t speak unless absolutely necessary.

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small, automatic. It was the kind of thing you might write down in your notes app just to get it out of your head. Something too stupid to share, but too real to delete.

Your thumb drifted down to the second post. It was newer. Less than an hour old.

‎ ‎ ‎user024025 • 32m — some days feel like static. everything buzzing, but nothing landing. couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still. felt like i was glitching mid-sentence. but she didn’t flinch. just looked at me like i made sense anyway. smiled, even. like being a little off wasn’t the worst thing.

You read it once. Then again.

And again.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t dressed up like some people’s posts on the app. His words always landed that way. Like they’d been written in a rush, like he’d almost left them behind. They didn’t try to be anything. They just were.

Still, they stuck to you. They always did. And this one more than usual.

You wondered who he meant. The thought brushed against you so quickly you almost missed it. Something faint pulled at your chest. Maybe curiosity.

Your gaze flicked to the Echo button just below the post.

You knew how it worked. When you echoed something, it didn’t just show up on your feed. It stayed. The post would ripple, soft waves pulsing out from the original like a quiet thread tying you to someone you didn’t know. A notification would ping on his side, nothing detailed. Just a simple signal: someone had resonated. Someone felt it too.

Sometimes posts picked up echoes in layers, gentle soundwaves folding into each other. You’d seen it happen. The soft chime that followed, a sound that shifted with the mood, was never loud enough to interrupt but always just enough to feel. For heavier posts, it was a low, echoing bell. For lighter ones, a soft, upward chime that almost sounded like wind moving through glass.

It wasn’t something you usually did. Echoing meant it stayed. It would sit pinned to your own feed like a quiet mark you couldn’t take back. Lurking felt safer. Passing through felt easier.

But tonight, your thumb didn’t move away.

You tapped the ripple once. The animation bloomed gently, a soft wave that stretched outward and settled again. You tapped it a second time, just to feel the weight of it.

And before you could think about it too long, you followed him.

There was a space for a note, something small you could leave behind. People used it for quick thoughts, one-sentence replies that layered over time, quiet annotations shared between strangers. Most people said something. A word. A question. Sometimes whole sentences if they were feeling brave.

But you didn’t write anything. Just… something.

note to @ ‎user024025 • now — 🩶

Simple. Wordless. Nothing that could be misread. Nothing that could be traced.

You stared at it for a second longer than you should have, then locked your phone and set it face-down on the blanket next to you. The soft weight of it sat against your palm.

You turned onto your back and stared up at the ceiling. The quiet of your room pressed in around you.

You didn’t know what this was. You weren’t sure you wanted to. But still—you closed your eyes with a soft, aching pull in your chest and let yourself drift until the edges of it slipped away.

𐪞

If there was one thing that always brought Hyunjin back down to earth whenever his mind got the best of him, it was art.

Not in the lofty, vague way people often meant when they wrote about it in bios or pretended to feel in museums. He meant it literally. The drag of graphite across textured paper. The slight resistance of canvas under a brush. The weight of a pencil in his hand, familiar and grounding. The shift in the air when he locked into focus and the world got quiet. It was his reset button. Always had been.

In those moments, his thoughts didn’t vanish, but they softened. Became something he could sit with.

Tonight, he needed that quiet.

A half-finished still life sat before him, shadows and shapes slowly sharpening under the glow of his desk lamp. The warmth pooled across the page like a spotlight, soft and deliberate.

The dorm was calm, save for the low hum of a lofi playlist playing from Chan’s speaker. Some mix they’d agreed on ages ago. Chan sat across from him, hunched over his laptop like always, editing something with one earbud in and the other dangling by his shoulder. Comfortable silence.

Hyunjin had just showered. Damp hair clung to his forehead, shirt collar brushing against still-cooling skin. His knee bounced under the desk, restless and wired. He was trying to draw, really, but his mind refused to cooperate.

Exams loomed. Supplies were still unbought. Three still lifes were due before the week ended. And then there was poetry class. His pencil paused mid-stroke. He was genuinely considering skipping next time, just to avoid the fallout from earlier. From you.

God. You.

You hadn’t even done anything dramatic. You’d just talked to him. Looked at him with this kind of soft, steady ease like you weren’t afraid of what you’d find there. Like you saw something worth addressing.

And that alone had left his brain in the blender.

He slouched deeper into his chair with a quiet groan, hand scrubbing through his hair. “I need to get a grip,” he muttered to no one.

Chan glanced up but didn’t say anything. Just gave a barely-there nod like: same here, man. Then went back to editing.

Hyunjin leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. Tried to shake it off. It was stupid. He didn’t even know you. Not really.

You’d always been in the periphery. First in lit, then in poetry. He barely noticed you at first. But once he did, it was like your presence had carved out space in his brain without asking. The way you laughed with your friends. The way you only spoke when it mattered. The way you looked quieter when the sky was gray.

It made no sense. And yet, somehow, it made all the sense in the world.

That was just how his mind worked. Half artist, half hopeless romantic. He could fall in love with a passing glance, obsess over a fleeting moment, turn a single expression into a whole scene he couldn’t stop replaying. Not in a dramatic way. Just in that quiet, gnawing way where small things felt sharp.

He shook himself from the thought and returned to his sketchpad, shading aimlessly. Chan was still editing, head tilted in concentration. Their “working shift,” as they called it. Muted playlists, shared snacks, the comfortable rhythm of existing next to someone without needing to talk.

The quiet didn’t last.

His phone buzzed beside him, a soft chime that cut clean through. He blinked, set his pencil down, and reached for it, already feeling the shift in the air before he even looked.

‎ ‎ ‎ Hotline: You have 1+ new followers, Someone echoed your post, @ user074320 left a note.

Something about it made his chest tighten. Too specific to be nothing, too random to mean something. Still, curiosity tugged at him. So, he tapped the alert.

The post loaded up. His own words, floating under that familiar color gradient. There, near the top of the thread, was the new note: a single gray heart.

No text. No flourish. Just a symbol, still and quiet and maybe even a little sad. His finger moved without much thought, tapping the note, which led him to the profile that had left it. That’s when he saw it.

The profile picture.

A cat. One he felt like he’d seen before. Familiar in the strangest way, but just out of reach.

The bio was short.

‎ ‎ ‎ “brain and heart full” | she/her

Something about it felt… unfiltered. Not cryptic, not curated. Just quietly present.

He scrolled slowly, like touching anything too quickly might ruin the feeling. Posts littered the page, text entries and voice notes scattered like thoughts left behind. It wasn’t curated. It was lived-in. Like someone used the app the way it was meant to be used. Not to impress, but to exist.

His thumb paused over the most recent voice post. He pressed play without realizing. Silence first. Then a breath. A heater humming in the background.

Then—

"…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise.”

Hyunjin’s heart stuttered. His eyes widened, breath stalling. The voice was low, thoughtful. A little amused.

“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”

He jolted, sitting back like the words had physically knocked him. His hand scrambled to pause the post, thumb shaky on the screen.

“Holy shit—” he breathed, heartbeat lurching in his chest.

He practically launched backward from his desk, pencil clattering to the floor. His whole body buzzed, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. It wasn’t just hearing your voice, it was the way it filled the room. Close and clear, like you were standing right there beside him.

Chan looked up instantly, yanking out his earbud. “Yo? You good?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer. He was already pacing, dragging a hand through his hair as if it might ground him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Chan straightened, the humor draining from his face. “What? What’s wrong?”

Hyunjin spun toward him, wild-eyed, holding up his phone like it was a detonator. “It’s her. Chan, it’s her. She followed me. She echoed my post. She left the—” he shook the phone, as if words alone weren’t enough, “—the little gray heart thing.”

Chan blinked, trying to follow. “Who?”

“The girl. From my seminar. The one I told you about. The one I got paired with for the writing thing.”

Chan’s face stayed blank. “…Okay?”

“I don’t even know how to explain this,” Hyunjin groaned, pacing faster now. “I’ve been like… maybe-sort-of-definitely spiraling about her all semester and now, she’s read my posts. She followed me.”

The last part came out in full caps, despite the fact he meant to whisper it.

Chan just stared. “Wait, wait, wait. Let me see the profile.”

Hyunjin all but threw his phone across the room.

Chan caught it, his eyes darting over the screen. Two seconds in, his eyes widened. “Bro.”

“What?” Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Isn’t that—” Chan pointed at the profile picture. “Isn’t that Soonie?”

Hyunjin stared, confused, his brain buffering.

And then—

“OH MY GOD.”

He snatched the phone back, squinting at the image. Soft orange and white fur. The smug little face. The faintest tilt of a cat’s head that screamed superiority.

It was Soonie. Minho’s cat.

Minho, who did not casually share cat photos with just anyone. Minho, who only sent Soonie pics to people he liked.

“She knows Minho?!” Hyunjin yelped, his voice pitching high in disbelief.

Chan looked like someone had just told him the world was a simulation. “No way. This is literally a crossover episode.”

Hyunjin dropped onto his bed like gravity had doubled. “I’m gonna cry.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Chan snorted, grinning now. He leaned over to glance at the profile again. “Soooo? What’re you gonna do?”

Hyunjin stared at the ceiling like it held answers. “I have no idea. But whatever I was gonna do tonight… that’s canceled.”

He sat up suddenly. “Wait. What if she knows it’s me?”

“Why would she?” Chan asked, barely phased.

“I mean, not all of them were about her, but like, some of the stuff I said…” Hyunjin started flipping through his own profile, eyes wide with horror. “What if it was obvious?”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s not like you wrote her name.”

Hyunjin groaned into his hands. “Okay, but I was so specific. Like weirdly specific.”

Chan snorted. “You mean poetic.”

“It wasn’t even that poetic.”

He shrugged. “It was a little poetic. It just wasn’t subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle!” Hyunjin dragged his hands through his hair, still spiraling. “I didn’t think she’d ever see it.”

“But she did,” Chan reminded him, tapping the phone. “She followed you. Echoed your post. Saw it, and didn’t run for the hills.”

Hyunjin peeked at him through his fingers. “Do you think she liked it?”

Chan shrugged. “She didn’t block you. That’s something.”

Hyunjin dropped his hands into his lap, head falling back in defeat. “This is worse than freshman studio critiques.”

Chan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Okay, but hypothetically if she does know it’s you, is that bad?”

Hyunjin hesitated.

Then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? Yes? What if she thinks I’m weird?”

“So? You are weird,” Chan deadpanned.

Hyunjin glared at him. “Thank you.”

“But like… endearing weird.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He sat up slowly, phone clenched in both hands like it might disappear. “I didn’t think she even noticed me. Like outside of class. I always thought she just—” He paused, his throat tightening unexpectedly. “I don’t know. I thought I was background noise.”

Chan watched him for a second, then asked, more gently this time, “How long have you been into her?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders slumped. “Since the start of the semester. She sits a few rows ahead of me in lit. Always looks like she’s about to say something but never does. I don’t know, she just—”

His voice trailed off as he glanced over. “Are you even listening?”

Chan hummed, pretending to jot notes. “Keep going. These are solid lyrics. You’ll thank me when you’re famous.”

“Shut up.”

But Hyunjin’s mouth twitched, the smallest smile breaking through the panic.

He was too busy staring at the screen again. Your profile open, your posts still lingering. The little bio, the voice note that he couldn’t stop replaying in his head, like his brain was trying to burn it into memory before it could disappear.

“And if she knows Minho…” He flung the phone onto his bed like it had personally offended him.

Chan didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, no chance. Have you seen that guy’s side profile—”

“Don’t say that,” Hyunjin groaned, dragging a pillow to his chest like he could physically shield himself from reality. “What if she read everything?”

“She one hundred percent did.”

Hyunjin buried his face in the pillow. “She knows I sketch people in class. She knows about my ex.”

Chan nodded solemnly. “You’re emotionally naked. Congrats.”

Hyunjin flopped onto his back, letting out a strangled sound. “I can never show my face in class again.”

“You have to show your face.”

“I physically can’t.”

“You’re literally writing a poem about her.”

“DON’T remind me.”

Chan lost it at that, laughing so hard he had to pull his hoodie over his face to muffle it.

Hyunjin just groaned louder, sinking deeper into the pillow, fully committed to his spiral. The room settled again. The kind of quiet that hangs when something real is about to surface.

“…Do you think she’d like me?” The words came out small, barely above a whisper, like Hyunjin wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Chan slowly lowered his hoodie, the grin softening. “Why wouldn’t she? You’re a good guy.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced slow circles along the seam of the pillow, thinking, picking at the edge like it could offer a distraction.

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. What if it’s not enough?” His voice was steady, but there was a rawness tucked just beneath it. “What if I’m just this… collection of almosts?”

Chan tilted his head, his gaze steady but soft. “She sat with you. Talked with you. Shared something. Gave you her name. She even followed you.”

Each thing landed quietly, but with weight.

“She didn’t have to do any of that,” Chan added. “But she did. That’s something.”

Hyunjin looked at the screen again. That little gray heart sat there, faint and quiet, like a secret only he knew how to read.

Something cracked open in Hyunjin’s chest.

He exhaled, long and heavy, like he didn’t know how else to carry the feeling. “…What am I supposed to do with that?”

Chan stretched, grabbing the hoodie from his chair and tossing it to him. “You sit with it. You don’t freak out. And maybe…” He smiled a little. “Maybe you think about what you’d say if you weren’t trying to hide.”

Hyunjin caught the hoodie, turning it over in his hands like it could offer an answer. His eyes flicked back to your profile one last time, thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t press anything else. Not yet.

But his mind was already rewriting what he might say.

𐪞

“I’m just saying, there’s definitely a hot guy behind that profile,” Chaeryeong insisted, grabbing a small basket as you both stepped into Lunevelle.

The plaza hummed with that easy, midweek kind of life. Lazy string lights swaying above patio chairs, low music drifting from a nearby café, the scent of roasted peanuts and expensive cologne tangled in the air. You tugged your sleeves over your hands, letting Chaeryeong lead the way as you filled her in on the Hotline situation.

Inside, Lunevelle gleamed in that curated, chaotic way: rows of glosses like tiny potions, shelves lined with serums stacked like artifacts, soft bursts of laughter as people swatched eyeshadows and debated undertones. It felt like stepping into another universe. One where real problems didn’t exist. Just hydrating primers and glitter.

“Someone who posts like that?” Chaeryeong said, slipping past a wall of toners with scary precision. "Definitely at least a 7.5. Minimum."

You raised an eyebrow, flipping a hand cream tester between your fingers. “You’re just inventing stats now.”

“Not at all,” she replied, scanning cleansers like she was decoding a map. “Guys who can write? Rare. Like, golden retriever who files taxes rare.”

You trailed after her, amused, as she turned a corner. Everything sparkled here. The floor, the lipstick rows, the mirror-lined shelves whispering buy it, you’ll be a better person. You picked up a random lip balm just to feel less like a bystander.

Chaeryeong stopped in front of a display of perfumes, eyes lighting up. “Wait. You need a signature scent.”

You blinked. "Do I?"

“Yes.” She spritzed a card and handed it to you like she was passing judgment. “You’re entering your mysterious era. Hotline boy requires olfactory intrigue.”

You took a cautious sniff and immediately recoiled. “Chae. This smells like expensive heartbreak.”

“Exactly,” she said, completely unfazed. “Emotional damage, but make it luxury.”

You choked on a laugh and reached for the rollerball version of your usual scent, dropping it into her basket.

Chaeryeong looped her arm through yours, steering you toward makeup like a woman on a mission. “Okay, but be serious. He followed you back. That’s basically a soft launch. You have to get married now.”

“That is not how any of this works,” you said, half-laughing.

She ignored you, already swatching lipsticks across the back of her hand with the intensity of a pro. “What’s his vibe? If you had to guess.”

You thought about it. “Quiet. Smart. Probably has good hands.”

Chaeryeong froze, halfway through swatching. “Pause. What do hands have to do with this?”

You shrugged. “Writers. Artists. Same difference. Nice hands.”

She blinked at you. Then burst into laughter so loud a worker down the aisle glanced over. “You are so gone,” she wheezed.

“I’m not,” you muttered, cheeks warming.

“Denial,” she said, adding a sheer gloss to the basket. “First stage of love.”

Then she found a heart-shaped blush compact and gasped like she’d discovered treasure. “Tell me this isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen,” she said, cradling it like a newborn.

You peered at it. “It’s you. In makeup form. Small, dramatic, overpriced.”

She gasped dramatically, clutching it to her chest. “How dare you. I’m at least reasonably priced.”

Your laughter spilled over both of you as you wandered toward the mini skincare section. She picked up a travel-sized moisturizer and squinted at the label.

“Ten dollars?” she hissed. “It’s the size of a single Tic Tac.”

“Capitalism thrives on our despair,” you said dryly, tossing a mini sunscreen into the basket. “If I’m going broke, I’m dragging you with me.”

She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

At some point, Chaeryeong slowed in front of a mirror, pretending to adjust her hair with exaggerated focus. You caught the flicker in her eyes. Strategic.

She wasn’t admiring her reflection. She was scanning.

You followed her gaze, subtle as you could. Near the cologne section, a guy was testing out a line of scents. Tall. Sharp jawline. Long black coat that moved when he did. A baseball cap pushed back over dark hair, revealing enough to catch your attention but not enough to give much away.

Chaeryeong elbowed you so hard you nearly knocked over a display of mini mascara wands.

“Target acquired,” she whispered, dead serious.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to wingwoman you or…?”

She waved you off, eyes still fixed on him through the mirror. “Please. I just want to observe from a safe, non-humiliating distance.”

“Oh, good,” you deadpanned. “Stalking. The foundation of every stable relationship.”

“Exactly,” she said, beaming. “Academia could never teach me this level of social maneuvering.”

You shook your head, smiling as you guided her away before she developed a backstory and assigned him a name. She kept sneaking glances over her shoulder like she was tracking a rare bird, nearly tripping over a stray basket left on the ground.

At checkout, she dumped both your hauls onto the counter like she was unloading a smuggled artifact. Travel-sized everything. A rollerball perfume. A suspiciously expensive blush you definitely didn’t need but had somehow ended up holding like it had chosen you.

“New plan,” she declared, nudging your arm as the cashier began scanning items. “Post-haul ramen. I’m starving.”

You blinked. “We were in here for thirty minutes.”

“And yet,” she said, solemn, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. “My body cries out for noodles.”

You stifled a laugh. “Fine. But you’re buying my drink.”

“Done.” She handed the cashier her card with flair, like it was her credit card and her resignation letter. “Just don’t tell Changbin. He still thinks I’m saving money.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. Somehow, the stress of the week felt lighter, tucked between perfume samples and the promise of warm food.

Outside, the night had cooled.

The sky was clear now, the rain from earlier leaving the pavement damp and gleaming under the soft light of the plaza. Your bags swung gently at your sides as you stepped into the evening air, your breath misting slightly in the cold.

You weren’t even five steps out before someone collided into your shoulder.

Three figures.

You staggered slightly, blinking against the sudden blur, only to hear a gasp so dramatic it could’ve ended an episode.

"Changbin!" Chaeryeong cried, clutching her shopping bag to her chest. “We literally manifested you.”

Changbin looked vaguely alarmed. “That sounds… dangerous,” he said, laughing as he shifted back a step, giving you both room.

Chan was just behind him, hoodie zipped halfway, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’d been waiting to be amused. He gave a polite nod, eyes flicking to your bags.

Hyunjin lingered a few paces back. Shoulders slightly hunched. Hood up. His posture was looser than usual, but his hands were fidgeting with the sleeve of his coat, tugging at a thread that probably didn’t exist.

He looked like someone deciding between walking home or vanishing into the sidewalk now that you’d seen him.

You offered the group a sheepish smile. “Sorry for the collision.”

“All good,” Chan said easily, giving you a grin that felt familiar in the way coffee shops and study playlists were. He nodded toward the haul in your hands. “Retail therapy?”

“At its most expensive,” you joked.

“I regret nothing,” Chaeryeong added, shifting her shopping bags like she was carrying treasure.

Then her eyes lit up. “Wait, this actually works out. We were literally about to hunt for food.”

At the word, Changbin’s head snapped up like someone had summoned him by name. “Food?” he repeated, already halfway invested.

“Ramen,” Chaeryeong said with a nod, like she was offering a sacred truth. “Few shops down. Cozy, life-changing, slightly overpriced. Want in?”

You caught it in the corner of your eye. Hyunjin, still quiet, still standing just outside the circle. His fingers shifted on the strap of his bag, but his gaze flicked up at the mention of ramen. Not quite a smile. Just a flicker.

“I’m in,” Changbin said, already turning in the direction of the restaurant like a man with purpose.

Chan looked between you and the rest, hands still tucked into his hoodie pockets. “You guys mind if we crash?”

You shrugged, already smiling. “The more the merrier.”

“Perfect,” Chaeryeong said before anyone could second-guess it. She looped her arm through yours with flair. “Let’s go.”

So you did.

Just like that, you were all walking down the plaza together, a slightly chaotic little group drifting past late-night shops and glowing storefronts.

The ramen place sat tucked at the far end, half-hidden behind hanging lanterns and a dark wood façade. It looked like it belonged somewhere much fancier than a college plaza. The kind of place that felt secret once you stepped inside.

The door swung open with a soft chime.

Inside, the world shifted.

Warm air hit your face, thick with the scent of slow-cooked broth and toasted sesame oil. Golden light hung low from paper lamps, painting the wooden walls in a honeyed glow. Most of the noise stayed outside. This space held only hushed voices, the gentle clink of bowls, and the soft shuffle of slippers against floorboards.

Some tables sat open near the front, but the real charm was deeper inside. Alcoves tucked behind narrow dividers, each with a sunken table and thick floor cushions. It looked more like a dream than a college late-night dinner.

The hostess greeted you all with a soft smile, hands folded politely. After a few beats of mild chaos—mostly Chaeryeong trying to convince her that “five can totally squeeze into one booth, I swear”—you were led toward the back, past hanging noren curtains and a gently humming heater.

The floor dipped slightly into the recessed area, and the heat beneath your socks was immediate.

“Take off your shoes,” Chaeryeong whispered like it was a secret, already kicking hers off and sliding in with practiced ease.

You followed, stepping carefully over the threshold and tucking your shoes neatly to the side, the warmth of the floor making you relax without thinking.

The seating settled naturally, like a puzzle clicking into place: you in the middle, with Chaeryeong on your left and Chan on your right. Across from you, Changbin spooled out into his seat like a cat, already messing with the paper napkin holder. And Hyunjin slipped in beside him, careful not to jostle the table.

Somehow, it didn’t feel crowded. It felt intimate. The divider muted the rest of the restaurant, turning your corner into a private bubble of clinking spoons and soft lighting. The lamp above your table glowed amber, casting halos across every sleeve and half-shadowed smile.

As soon as you were seated, the chaos started again.

Changbin dove in immediately. “Okay, so explain to me how you almost broke Lunevelle, Chae.”

She exhaled dramatically, tugging at the sleeves of her sweater like it was part of the story. “I almost tripped because I was distracted by love.”

“Love?” Changbin raised a brow, clearly entertained. “What, did a highlighter call your name?”

Chaeryeong swatted his arm. “No, idiot. A guy. And how do you even know what a highlighter is?”

“YAH, I’m not illiterate—”

You snorted into your sleeve, the edges of your menu curling slightly in your hands. Their voices were overlapping now, sparring with ease and rhythm like they’d been doing this forever.

“You should’ve seen him,” Chaeryeong went on, eyes wide. “Tall. Black coat. Hair that looked illegal.”

Changbin gagged. “Illegal hair. Fantastic. I’ll alert the authorities.”

Chan chuckled low beside you, and you turned toward the sound, half-curious. He looked relaxed, arm resting on the low table, eyes squinting a little with the smile.

"Is he like this around you too?" you asked, tilting your head toward Changbin.

“Unfortunately.” Chan leaned into his palm, still grinning. “We’ve known each other too long. I can’t take him anywhere.”

You laughed under your breath, your thumb tracing the edge of your menu. “Figured. You two in the same major or something?”

Chan shook his head. “Nah. Different departments. Just found each other early. Stuck, I guess.”

There was something easy about the way he said it. Like it didn’t need to be deeper than that. And you liked that. The idea that some people just stayed because they wanted to, not because they had to.

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your major?”

“English,” you said, fiddling with the corner of your napkin. “Technically literature, but same deal.”

“Ahh.” He nodded like something had clicked. “Explains the bookstore energy.”

You blinked. "The what?"

He gave a half-laugh, more like a confession.

“Bookstore energy. You know, like you’re always about to recommend a novel that’ll emotionally destroy me, but in a character-building kind of way.”

You stared at him, then cracked up, half-embarrassed. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a red flag.”

“Both,” he said easily, his grin widening. “But I mean it in a good way.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, another voice chimed in. Quieter, a little hesitant.

"What kind of stuff do you read?" Hyunjin asked.

Your eyes flicked up, surprised to find him watching you.

His fingers played absently with the hem of his sleeve under the table, and his voice, though soft, carried easily in the cozy space.

You tilted your head slightly. “A little of everything. Lately… mostly poetry, I guess.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly, like he wasn’t surprised. Like he’d already guessed that. Like maybe he’d been waiting to hear you say it out loud.

You tried not to think about how still he looked when he was listening. Or how the space between you across the table suddenly felt more noticeable than it had five minutes ago.

“And you?” you asked gently, because it felt right to return the question.

He shrugged, gaze dropping to the table. “Sketchbooks. Notebooks. Whatever fits.”

His voice was light, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Like he was trying not to sound like he cared too much about the answer.

You smiled, soft. "That's fair."

The conversation could’ve ended there. Should’ve, probably. But somehow, it didn’t.

Chan leaned in a little, his shoulder brushing yours. “You guys have the same poetry seminar, right?”

You blinked. "Yeah. How’d you—"

"Hyunjin mentioned it." Chan smiled innocently.

Your stomach dipped, just slightly. The kind of shift you feel before anything’s actually said. You glanced at Hyunjin. He didn’t look up. Just traced the edge of his chopsticks along the table, like they might draw a line he could disappear behind.

Beside you, Chaeryeong popped back into the conversation like she hadn’t just been arguing about the superior gyoza dipping sauce. “Speaking of tragic poetry—do you think Mystery Coat Guy is thinking about me right now?”

Changbin didn’t miss a beat. “He’s probably filing a restraining order.”

“You’re evil,” she said, launching a paper napkin at him with perfect aim.

You ducked your head, laughing softly into your hands as their voices tangled together again, warm and too familiar to fully tune out. Somewhere in the middle of all that, you risked another glance across the table.

Hyunjin wasn’t looking at you. But his hands stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to wonder what that meant.

In the background, Chaeryeong had declared war over appetizers.

“I swear on my mother, Bin, we are not ordering plain edamame again—”

“It’s healthy!”

“It’s depressing!”

Chan raised a hand like a weary coach breaking up a team fight. “Split the order. Half gyoza, half… whatever Changbin’s weird health phase is.”

“I accept these terms,” Chaeryeong said, nodding solemnly like she was signing a treaty.

The waitress returned mid-laugh, clearly amused by the chaos, dropping off thick menus and a wooden clipboard for drinks. Changbin snatched the list with the determination of a man making history.

“Okay, team,” he announced, tapping it against the table. “We have a decision to make. Shots?”

You nearly choked. “Changbin. We haven’t even ordered food yet.”

“Exactly.” He looked dead serious. “Empty stomach. Maximum efficiency.”

“You’re going to pass out before the noodles even show up,” Chaeryeong muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Chan shrugged. “One round won’t kill us.”

You and Chaeryeong exchanged a glance. The kind that spoke in full sentences.

She sighed like she was giving in to fate. “Fine. One round. But we’re ordering actual food first before Changbin’s spirit leaves his body.”

Menus were passed. Orders were shouted over each other. Someone demanded extra broth; someone else lobbied for dessert mid-meal. The entire table fell into a kind of organized chaos that only made sense among people who felt safe with each other.

The heater against the wall filled the alcove with slow, gentle warmth. One by one, people started shedding layers. Chan shrugging out of his thick jacket, Changbin tossing his hoodie beside him, Chaeryeong stretching out her legs with a dramatic sigh as she slid off her fuzzy cardigan.

You pushed your sleeves up, tucking your legs beneath you, comfortably folded into the glow. The playlist hummed softly through overhead speakers. A slow roll of Japanese city pop, syrupy basslines and dreamy vocals giving everything that floaty, out-of-time feeling.

When the drinks arrived, a neat row of shot glasses and a bottle of soju that looked far too unassuming for what it was about to unleash, Changbin clapped once, loud enough to startle a nearby table.

“Alright! Round one, let’s go!” he declared, already pouring like an enthusiastic bartender with zero training.

“Wait—” Chan reached for his glass. “Drumroll. It’s law.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Drumroll!”

Chaeryeong immediately started smacking the table like she was in a percussion ensemble. You joined in, then Chan, the rhythm gaining speed until even Hyunjin caved and tapped a lazy beat with his knuckles, a half-hidden smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

Changbin raised his shot glass like he was about to deliver a campaign speech. “To retail therapy, ramen survival, and future mistakes we can blame on peer pressure!”

“Cheers!” everyone chorused, the clink of glass sharp and bright before the burn hit your throat.

It was smooth. Sweet at first, then sharp as it settled. You winced just slightly, and when your eyes flicked up, you caught Hyunjin watching you, the corner of his mouth quirking into something crooked and unreadable.

Food arrived in waves. Bowls of steaming ramen, plates of crispy karaage, glistening gyoza, and enough side dishes to make the table creak. Everyone leaned in, elbows bumping, sleeves rolled, stealing bites and swapping side-eyes when someone went in for seconds.

Somewhere between noodle slurps and laughter, Changbin struck with zero warning.

“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning in like this was about to be classified information. “I’ve got tea.”

Everyone immediately went silent, heads snapping toward him. Even Chaeryeong lowered her chopsticks. “What level of tea?” she asked suspiciously.

Changbin looked around theatrically, despite no one in the restaurant paying them any attention. Then, in a voice so serious it could’ve passed for academic, he said, “You guys know Wooyoung, right? Works the front desk at the campus gym?”

Chaeryeong sat up straighter. “The Wooyoung? Trainer, flirts with everyone, weirdly good at dance?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Okay?” you said slowly. “What about him?”

Changbin exhaled, like this physically pained him to hold in. “Apparently, he got caught hooking up with one of the student coordinators. During a wellness event.”"

You choked on your water. “During?! Like, mid-yoga?!”

“Not in the class,” Changbin clarified, “but like, ten minutes before his scheduled shift. In the storage room.”

“No,” Chaeryeong whispered, scandalized. “The one with the mats?!”

“The very one,” Changbin said, solemn as ever.

Chan let out a sharp laugh. “Man really said mind, body, and soul.”

“And the worst part,” Changbin continued, lowering his voice even more, “is the student coordinator was already dating someone. Long-term. Like three-year relationship. Everyone thought they were going to graduate and move in together.”

“Nooooo,” Chaeryeong moaned, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was,” Changbin said, looking deeply pleased with himself.

“Who told you this?” you asked, stunned.

“I have sources,” he replied cryptically, sipping his water like it was wine.

“You’re the worst,” Chaeryeong said, practically vibrating. “But also, give me names.”

“I value my life too much.”

“Coward.”

Laughter crackled around the table again, louder this time, more unhinged. The kind that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest feel warmer than the soju ever could.

As the buzz settled back into the glow, the playlist shifted. Something breezy and sparkling, the kind of upbeat tempo that made your feet itch to move. You barely had time to register it before Chaeryeong turned to you with a gleam in her eye.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing your wrist. “Dance break.”

“Wait—what—no, no—”

But she was already pulling you from the booth, into the small open space near the front of the restaurant where a few other diners were casually swaying in their seats. The lights blurred slightly from the alcohol and warmth, and the air pulsed with synths and sugar-sweet vocals.

Chaeryeong twirled you clumsily, both of you laughing like kids at a sleepover. You stumbled over your own feet, tipsy and too full, dizzy from the sudden movement and everything that had led up to this moment.

From the table, Changbin whooped like a proud father filming his child’s recital. Chan banged his hand on the table like he was front row at a concert.

And Hyunjin—

He wasn’t laughing, but he was watching. Smiling, yes, but not like he was entertained. Like he was remembering. His chin rested in his hand, hair falling slightly into his eyes, and for a long, steady beat, his gaze never left you.

You felt your pulse stutter. You almost missed a step.

When the song faded and you and Chaeryeong stumbled back, breathless and flushed, Changbin immediately shoved his phone in your face. “Behold: cinema,” he said, showing you the wobbly video. “You’re welcome.”

You lunged for the phone. “Delete it right now or I will throw it into the broth.”

“Justice for the arts!” he cried, holding it out of reach.

“You’re both insane,” Chan said, but he was laughing too, his face crinkled with warmth.

More shots were poured. More toasts shouted—to surviving exams, to not texting your ex, to chaotic retail purchases that may or may not fix your life.

It was one of those rare, glowing nights. The kind that doesn’t become a memory so much as a feeling. Soft around the edges. Warm at the center. A small collection of golden hours folded into the corners of your chest.

As the night wound down, shoes were pulled back on with lazy groans and wobbly balance, receipts were stuffed into pockets, and the group spilled out of the restaurant in a loose, slightly tipsy drift.

The air outside was sharp with the bite of early nightfall. It kissed your cheeks, slipping into the spaces left behind by the restaurant’s warmth, making you pull your sleeves down again without thinking.

Chaeryeong and Changbin immediately launched into a half-serious argument about the nearest convenience store.

“I know it’s down this way,” she insisted, already marching in the wrong direction.

“I have the map app open right now,” Changbin groaned. “Trust the system!”

“You are the system, and I don’t trust you,” she replied without missing a beat.

They veered off down the sidewalk, still bickering. Chan lingered behind with you, hands in his pockets, exhaling slowly like he wasn’t ready to break the night apart just yet.

He leaned a little closer, not enough to invade your space, just enough to make it easier to hear his voice. “Hey,” he said, casual. “Let me get your number? Just in case. Group stuff. Or whatever else.”

You smiled, a little flushed from the drinks, a little warm from the moment, and handed him your phone. He typed his number in, then added a little star emoji next to his name, holding it up like it was official documentation. “There,” he said. “Now I sparkle.”

As you slid your phone back into your pocket, something caught your eye. A flicker of movement just past the soft glow of the restaurant window. Hyunjin.

He stood a few feet away, just near a small flower stand tucked between the ramen shop and a dimly lit store. The bouquets were cheap, wrapped in plastic, cellophane crinkling in the breeze, but his hand hovered over them gently. Fingertips brushing along the edge of a petal like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

He looked distant, untethered. Like someone replaying the night in his head before it had even ended.

You hesitated. Then, before you could second-guess it, you walked toward him. “Hey,” you said softly.

He turned, eyes widening slightly, like you’d pulled him back from somewhere else entirely. His hair shifted in the breeze, falling into his eyes before he pushed it away with a lazy flick.

You held up your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark. “Mind if I get your number too?”

For a second, he just stared at you. And then he smiled. Not the polite one. Not the cautious, halfway-there version he gave most people. This one was quiet, almost shy.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

You passed him your phone, and he typed in his number slowly, like he wanted to get it right. His hands were graceful, slightly cold when they brushed yours as he handed it back. You glanced down. A little black heart sat next to his name.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Chan watching, a barely-there smirk tugging at his mouth, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Couldn’t.

Hyunjin tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, half-looking at you, half-looking away. “See you in class?”

“Yeah,” you said, breath catching in your throat. “See you.”

And for the first time that night, maybe for the first time since you met, he looked at you like he wanted to. Not like he was trying to figure you out, or keep a distance.

But like the space between you didn’t feel so uncertain anymore.

The others were starting to regroup down the street, Chaeryeong shouting something about chocolate milk while Changbin protested dramatically in the background.

You turned to go, but paused—glancing back over your shoulder. Hyunjin hadn’t moved. But he was still watching.

You jogged back toward the group, where Chaeryeong immediately looped an arm around your shoulders like you hadn’t just had a moment that rearranged the molecules in your lungs.

“Let’s go get milk,” she mumbled, sleepy and satisfied. “And water. Lots of water. I feel like a raisin.”

You laughed, letting her lean into you. But the laughter didn’t erase it. That hum in your chest, that electric thread stretched taut in the space behind you.

Still tugging.

Waiting.

As you walked farther down the street, the sounds of your friends blending into background noise, you heard quiet footsteps behind you. Chan and Hyunjin had fallen into step together.

Chan bumped his shoulder gently into Hyunjin’s, voice low but amused. “You gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”

Hyunjin gave him a small, lopsided smile. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Chan nodded like he already knew. Then, softer, almost teasing. “She’s got bookstore energy, huh?”

Hyunjin looked ahead, expression unreadable, but the smile stayed.

“Yeah.”

゜・．・ hope you enjoyed! want to support?

part two • follow/reblog • leave a request • my other works

🏷️ ‎ @kkatsvy‎‎ ‎ ( ty for the support on starting this acc, love you sm )

[purrfectkarma]

✦ POWER AND CONTROL ✦

PAIRING — shadow the hedgehog x fem!reader

WARNINGS — MDNI 🔞

PROMPT — you tease him, ride him, and think you’ve won… until he flips you over and shows you who’s really in charge

WORD COUNT — ~3.5k

ART CREDIT — @ cutefish_16y on Instagram

AUTHOR’S NOTE — this was supposed to be a “little teasing moment” and instead it turned into couch-breaking smut + battle for control energy. I imagine mobian or human reader works, as long as she knows how to drive him wild.

🖤🔥 “You act like you’re in charge.”

“You just think you are.”

and that’s how the skirt came off.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

⛓️

You were in one of G.U.N’s remote safehouses, tucked away after a mission that left your adrenaline still humming. The lights were low, casting golden shadows on the walls as you perched on the arm of the couch, legs crossed in your short skirt, a half-read mission report resting in your lap. You hadn't even changed yet—your skirt clung to your thighs, scuffed boots still laced, and your shirt slightly untucked from the chaos earlier.

You flipped a page absentmindedly—until you heard the door creak open.

Shadow stepped in, his silhouette cutting sharply through the dim light. His chest was still rising and falling from the fight, a few strands of fur singed, gloves torn, and eyes glowing faintly beneath his furrowed brow. He looked like a storm held barely in check.

You glanced up, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Didn’t take you for the dramatic type,” you teased, eyes skimming his form. “You just had to flip over the explosion like that?”

He smirked back, walking slowly toward you.

“Admit it. You liked it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He stopped just in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“You’re always watching,” he said, voice low, velvet-wrapped danger. “I can feel it. Every time I’m near you… your heartbeat changes.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t back down. “That’s because you insist on standing in my space.”

Shadow leaned in, his breath ghosting over your ear.

“Funny. You never move away.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. His presence was like gravity—pulling you in, heavy and hot. And he knew it.

His gloved fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up gently.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

You met his gaze, steady. “Should I be?”

He chuckled low, rich and intimate.

“Maybe. But I think you like the danger.”

Then he kissed you—slow at first, a test. But the second your lips met his, restraint slipped. His hand tangled into your hair while the other wrapped tightly around your waist, dragging you into him with a need that had clearly been building for far too long.

You broke the kiss, breathless.

“I could get used to this side of you.”

Shadow grinned—real, unguarded, and somehow even more dangerous.

“Good. Because it only comes out for you.”

Still holding you close, his breath warm against your lips, his usual icy control was clearly slipping. You felt it in the tension of his grip, in the hunger darkening his crimson eyes.

You let your fingers trail up his chest, slow and teasing, stopping just under his jaw.

“You act like you’re in charge,” you whispered.

His brow arched. “And I’m not?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his—but not kissing him yet. Close enough to tempt. To test.

“No,” you purred. “You just think you are.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move. He let the heat grow, let the tension simmer, let you think you had the upper hand. That was the thing with Shadow—he didn’t rush. He stalked. He waited. Until he was ready.

You grazed your lips along his jaw, up toward his ear, voice barely a whisper.

“You like it when I push back… don’t deny it.”

In one swift move, his hand caught your wrist, firm but controlled. His face was mere inches from yours, his voice molten steel.

“Careful.”

You smirked. “What? Gonna punish me?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, his lips crashed against yours again, harder now, needier. His restraint dissolved as he pulled you down onto the couch beneath him, your back against the cushions, your legs still hooked around his waist.

His kiss stole the breath from your lungs, and when you gasped, his tongue found yours in a slow, claiming dance. His hand slid down your thigh, fingers grazing the edge of your skirt as he pressed himself closer, your bodies flushed and burning.

You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, your voice breathy.

“Still think you’re in charge?”

His grin was wicked.

“No. I think we both are. That’s what makes this fun.”

You grinned back, lacing your fingers behind his neck as you drew him even closer, wrapping your legs around his hips, grinding slightly just to feel the way he tensed.

“Why not take turns?” you whispered in his ear.

Shadow’s breath caught.

Then, slow and deliberate, he lifted your legs, one hand sliding beneath your skirt to grip your thigh. His other hand hooked around the edge of your panties, dragging them down with excruciating patience, his eyes locked on yours the whole time.

When the soft fabric hit the floor, flung somewhere into the dark, his lips found yours again—slower now, more deliberate. His gloved fingers teased lower, between your thighs, finding the warmth he was craving.

Shadow’s words sent a shiver through you—“You’re so wet”—and you could barely respond, your breath catching as his fingers teased you with slow, confident strokes.

Shadow was watching your every reaction, his eyes half-lidded, glowing with hunger and control.

You shifted slightly under him, your thighs still wrapped around his waist, and that’s when you felt it—him, hard and ready against you.

You let out a low, teasing laugh, your hand slipping between your bodies to cup him.

“And you’re happy to see me.”

He groaned, hips jerking slightly into your touch. Your hand wrapped around him and began to stroke—slow, steady, and purposeful.

He let out a deep, guttural moan that sent heat straight to your core.

“You might be more dangerous than I am,” he growled against your neck, voice rough and reverent. Then, smirking against your skin—

“I love it.”

His lips found your throat, kissing, nipping, and tasting every inch of your skin as he slid the head of his length against your entrance, pausing—just long enough to feel your breath hitch.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed into you, inch by inch.

You gasped, your back arching, nails pressing into his shoulders.

“Shadow…”

He groaned your name like it was something sacred, his hips moving with careful control as he filled you completely, the warmth, the stretch, the sensation of him overwhelming and perfect.

Your bodies moved together in perfect sync, each thrust deepening the fire that was already consuming you both.

Shadow’s breath was ragged now, his grip tight on your waist as he buried himself inside you again and again, each movement laced with unspoken desire and raw intensity.

But then, with a glint of mischief in your eye, you placed your hands on his chest and gave him a light push.

He blinked up at you, momentarily stunned as you eased him back against the couch cushions, your hips lifting just enough to make him slip out.

“My turn,” you said, voice low and dripping with seduction.

Shadow let out a quiet curse under his breath, his eyes locked onto you as you straddled him, taking control with a slow, fluid motion. You gripped his chest, your skirt bunched up at your hips, your bare thighs framing him perfectly.

You hovered just above him, teasing, letting the head of his cock brush your entrance before you began to lower yourself—agonizingly slow.

Your eyes stayed locked on his face, watching the way it contorted in pleasure, the way his lips parted with a quiet, broken sound he didn’t try to hide.

Finally, he was all the way inside you again, and you rolled your hips forward, grounding yourself against him, feeling every inch, every pulse.

You leaned forward, your hands sliding up his chest until your fingers tangled into the thick fur there. You gave it a playful tug, smirking down at him as you began to grind your hips in slow, deliberate circles.

He groaned—deep and raw—his hands flying to your hips to steady you, but not stop you.

“You’re going to drive me insane,” he breathed.

You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw.

“Good. You can lose your mind with me.”

You rolled your hips in slow, delicious circles, grinding against him with purpose, loving the way his breath caught, the way his grip on your waist faltered ever so slightly with each motion. You leaned forward again, lips grazing his, whispering just above them:

“Still think you’re in control?”

That did it.

With a low growl, Shadow’s hands suddenly gripped your thighs. Before you could tease him again, he moved—swift and commanding.

He flipped you over effortlessly, pressing your chest down against the couch cushions, your skirt hiked up, panties long forgotten. His hand gripped your hip firmly as he lifted your ass high into the air, lining himself up behind you.

“Let me show you how much I can lose it,” he snarled.

And with one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you again, deeper than before. You cried out, arching as he set a punishing pace—each thrust driving into your most sensitive spot with near-perfect precision.

Your fingers dug into the cushions, your body trembling from the intensity. Every movement sent waves of heat crashing through you, your moans spilling freely into the room. Shadow's grip on your hips tightened, his claws just grazing your skin as he growled with each thrust, fully lost in the rhythm of your body, in you.

“So tight,” he rasped, voice thick with need. “So perfect…”

Your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth falling open as pleasure surged through you.

“Shadow—ah—Shadow!”

You could feel yourself spiraling, your climax building fast and hot and uncontrollable. Your walls clenched around him, your whole body tensing as the orgasm overtook you, crashing over you like a tidal wave.

You screamed his name, voice breaking from the intensity.

That was all it took.

With a final deep thrust, Shadow groaned loudly, his hips jerking as he spilled into you, the sensation overwhelming. His body trembled slightly as he held you there, his breath ragged against your back, his grip still tight—like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

-

The air was thick with heat, both your bodies still tangled and trembling from the intensity of what had just happened. Shadow stayed there for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back, breath warm against your skin. You could feel his heartbeat still racing through him.

Then, slowly, he pulled back and flopped beside you on the couch, one arm draped across his forehead, the other still loosely wrapped around your waist.

You turned to face him, completely wrecked and grinning.

“So,” you said, breathless, brushing some hair from your face. “That’s you ‘losing it,’ huh?”

Shadow glanced over, lips twitching into a half-smirk.

“You provoked it.”

You nudged his side. “You liked it.”

He let out a soft scoff, closing his eyes. “I tolerated it.”

You laughed. “Right. Is that why you were moaning my name like you forgot how to speak?”

His eyes opened slowly, glowing with that familiar, dangerous gleam. He turned toward you, raising an eyebrow.

“And is that why you were screaming mine like the world was ending?”

You bit your bottom lip, heat rising to your cheeks—but you didn’t back down.

“I was doing you a favor. Boosting your ego.”

Shadow rolled on top of you again, pinning your wrists gently but firmly above your head, his grin now fully formed, dark and amused.

“You think this ego needs help?” he whispered, nose brushing yours.

You arched a brow, pretending to consider it.

“Maybe just a little.”

He kissed you hard—quick and possessive—before pulling back just enough to murmur:

“Careful. I’ve still got energy to prove you wrong.”

You gasped dramatically. “What happened to recovery time?”

Shadow smirked.

“I recover fast.”

Your legs curled around his waist again, playful, daring.

“Then I guess we’re not done yet.”

He growled in delight.

“Not even close.”

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 4

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 2.0k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension, quiet/shy reader

summary: tension tension and moreee tension

————————————————————————————

saturday morning came with too much sun and not enough sleep.

liora blinked at the ceiling for a while, arms folded over her chest like she could hold herself together physically. her roommate had gone home for the weekend — something about a cousin's birthday, or maybe a dentist appointment. she didn't remember. didn't ask.

the room was quiet. too quiet.

she made tea she didn't drink. scrolled through messages she didn't answer. opened a book she didn't read.

by noon, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her notebook open in front of her, pen in hand. the page was already half-filled — not with anything polished, just fragments. phrases. half-rhymes.

the ink bled slightly from how hard she pressed:

i want to ask if you meant it.

but i don't want to hear no.

i want to walk into silence

and come out with a song.

she stared at it.

then flipped the page and wrote more:

your voice stayed with me

like light under my skin.

like thunder

waiting for somewhere to land.

she stopped.

closed the notebook.

opened it again.

flipped back.

by evening, the pages were full of the same person in different disguises.

sunday, she went for a walk.

campus was mostly empty — a soft kind of quiet, like everyone else had left the volume down. she wandered the edge of the quad, passed the student center, the old library, the admin building.

and then — like a chord struck out of nowhere — she saw her.

billie.

across the green.

walking slowly, head down, earbuds in. her bag slung over one shoulder, sweater loose at the sleeves. the same boots. the same expression — unreadable.

liora stopped moving.

billie looked up.

their eyes met.

only for a second.

but it held longer than it should've.

liora didn't wave. didn't smile.

neither did billie.

just a look.

just that.

then billie looked away. kept walking.

liora stood there until her fingers went cold.

she didn't write that night.

she just lay on her bed in the dark, one arm folded under her head, notebook still open beside her like it might finish the page for her.

but it didn't.

only the quiet answered.

and it didn't say enough.

monday came without warning.

the morning moved like fog again — soft, pale, slow. liora didn't feel ready, but she went anyway. her bag was heavier than usual, not because of the books. because of everything else.

music room four was already lit when she arrived.

billie sat at the piano this time. not playing. just sitting there, spine straight, fingers laced loosely in her lap. she didn't look up until liora stepped through the door and closed it quietly behind her.

"hey," billie said. neutral. like static.

"hi," liora answered.

she crossed the room, sat in her usual spot on the floor, unzipped her bag and pulled out her notebook. the silence wasn't cruel. but it was tight. stretched thin between them like a rope no one wanted to pull.

"i thought we could try structuring it out today," billie said, opening her own notebook. "just something basic — verse, chorus, refrain. nothing complicated."

liora nodded. "okay."

they worked like that for a while — trading ideas, writing lines, adjusting phrasing. billie kept it focused. all her notes were about the work. all her glances were quick. professional. guarded.

liora played along.

but under the surface, the air felt different.

like someone had left a door open and wasn't saying anything about it.

after half an hour, billie sat back from the piano and said, "do you want to try singing it?"

liora froze slightly. "out loud?"

"yeah."

liora hesitated. she'd sung before, sure — in the dorm, in the shower, once during a high school open mic where her hands had shaken so badly she couldn't unplug the mic cable afterward. but not like this. not here.

still — billie waited.

so she nodded. cleared her throat. found the melody again in her head. closed her eyes.

and started.

her voice was soft. unsure at first. a little breathy on the edges.

but then it steadied.

not strong. not perfect.

but raw.

i'm not the center of anything,

but i reflect like i am.

you look and i shimmer —

not because i'm full.

because i'm empty

and still standing.

her voice cracked slightly on standing.

but she finished.

silence followed.

when she opened her eyes, billie wasn't looking at her.

she was looking through her.

like something in her had shifted and didn't know how to shift back.

liora's voice felt caught in her throat. she swallowed.

"too much?" she asked, quiet.

billie shook her head. didn't speak.

then finally: "no. not enough people write like that."

liora's heart skipped once. "like what?"

billie blinked slowly. "like it hurts."

the silence between them thickened.

liora looked down. "i think i'm just tired of hiding in metaphor."

"good," billie said. voice softer now. "leave it behind."

she stood up then. stretched her back. walked toward her coffee, took a long sip. turned back.

and her eyes held something new.

not warmth. not yet.

but recognition.

and maybe, just maybe — forgiveness.

"same time wednesday?" she asked.

liora nodded. "yeah."

billie gave a small nod back. not quite a smile.

but close.

and when liora left the room, she felt it again —

that ache behind her ribs.

the one that sounded too much like a song.

wednesday came with gray skies and cold air, the kind that slipped under sleeves and collarbones. liora pulled her hoodie tighter as she crossed campus. every step felt louder than it should've. every thought heavier.

music room four smelled the same — old carpet and pencil shavings and something faintly like bergamot, maybe from billie's tea.

billie was already there, barefoot on the rug, her boots in the corner, one socked foot tapping a quiet rhythm against the floor. she looked up when liora entered.

this time — she smiled.

not big. not wide.

but soft.

real.

"hey."

"hey," liora said back, trying not to sound like her ribs had just collapsed inward.

they didn't start right away.

billie sat back down at the piano. liora dropped onto the rug across from her, pulling out her notes, flipping pages she already knew by heart.

"you've been writing more," billie said, watching her hands.

"yeah," liora said. "can't stop."

billie nodded like she understood something deeper than that. like she didn't need the rest of the sentence.

they worked.

the new verse was better — stronger, clearer. liora's voice didn't shake this time when she sang it. the harmony they shaped together was delicate but full — a kind of ache that lingered even after the sound had faded.

they didn't say much while working.

but the silence didn't feel like it had before.

this time, it buzzed.

like static. like tension. like electricity that hadn't found a surface to spark against.

after an hour, liora leaned back on her hands and said, without planning to:

"why do you always pull away right when things get close?"

billie stilled.

the question hung in the air like smoke from a candle just blown out — soft, warm, slightly bitter.

"i don't know what you mean," billie said carefully.

"you do."

billie looked at her. not defensive. not angry.

just... tired.

"because it's not supposed to happen," she said. voice low. steady. "because you're a student. and i'm not."

liora's breath hitched. "that's not all of it."

billie didn't answer.

"you're scared," liora said.

"so are you."

they stared at each other for a beat too long.

something pulled at the edges of the moment — something thin and sharp, a thread drawn tight between two bodies that didn't know which way to bend.

billie stood slowly. crossed the space between them without speaking.

she knelt down.

close.

closer.

liora's breath caught.

billie lifted a hand — slowly — and tucked a loose strand of hair behind liora's ear.

her fingers lingered. just barely.

liora didn't move.

their faces were inches apart.

everything else fell away — the piano, the notes, the rain against the window.

just that space.

just her.

and then —

billie pulled back.

stood.

"i can't," she said. softly. firmly. like it hurt.

liora's throat tightened. "okay."

billie didn't look at her.

"you should go."

the words weren't cruel.

but they cut anyway.

liora stood. gathered her things with shaking hands. nodded once. walked out.

the door clicked shut behind her.

and the silence that followed rang louder than any chord.

liora didn't remember the walk back to her dorm.

the air outside was cold, but she didn't feel it. her hands were too warm, her chest too tight. her pulse pounded in her ears, each step echoing like a skipped beat.

her fingers still felt the ghost of billie's touch. not her lips — not quite. just the space where her lips could've been.

and the way she'd said i can't like it wasn't a refusal.

like it was a wound.

back in her room, she dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed without turning on the light. her roommate wouldn't be back until morning. the silence felt heavier now — like it was pressing against her ribs, asking to be broken.

she didn't cry.

not really.

but her eyes burned.

and she was shaking.

not from sadness.

from too much feeling.

she sat up around midnight. turned on the lamp. pulled her notebook close.

and wrote.

not carefully. not poetically.

just raw.

you look at me like a mirror

but won't let me see you.

you touched my face like a maybe

and said it like a goodbye.

you say "not supposed to" like it's a door,

but you're the one holding the key.

her handwriting slanted. some of the ink smudged.

she kept going.

even when her hand cramped.

even when the page started to ripple from where her wrist had sweated through it.

she didn't stop until the sun started bleeding into the sky outside.

the next day was a blur — lectures, emails, too much noise and not enough breath. she floated through it.

until lunch.

when she stopped by the english department to check the workshop board — and found something waiting.

an envelope.

tucked into her cubby. unmarked. no name. no seal. just cream paper, folded once.

she looked around. the hallway was empty.

her heart stumbled once.

she opened it.

one sheet of lined paper. handwritten. ink slightly faded like it had been written with a pen that was about to die.

no greeting.

just this:

you weren't wrong.

i do pull away.

not because i don't feel it.

because i do.

and i don't trust myself

to want the right things

in the right way

at the right time.

but you make the quiet louder.

and that scares the hell out of me.

she read it once.

then again.

then a third time.

her hands were trembling.

no signature.

no instructions.

just that.

but it was enough to unravel something she thought she'd already tucked away.

and for the first time in two days —

she exhaled.

liora sat on a bench behind the humanities building, the envelope still clutched in her hand like it might disappear if she let go.

wind tugged at the corners of the note where it rested in her lap. sunlight filtered through the trees in faint, flickering patterns. the campus buzzed faintly in the background — footsteps, laughter, someone on a skateboard, the rustle of paper in someone's bag — but it all felt far away.

she read the note again.

but you make the quiet louder.

and that scares the hell out of me.

it was unmistakably billie's voice. not just in handwriting, or phrasing. in the rhythm of it. the restraint. the emotional math of someone trying not to say something — and saying it anyway.

liora traced the edge of the paper with her thumb.

there was no request. no ask. no "let's talk" or "meet me" or even her name. just a confession folded into careful lines.

and it did something to her.

not relief. not closure.

just... movement.

like the stillness inside her had cracked. like her heart, which had been holding its breath for two days, had finally exhaled just a little.

she folded the note. slid it into her notebook between two pages she hadn't shown anyone yet. pages she might never show.

but now—

maybe.

maybe she would.

later that night, she lay on her bed with the lights off, headphones in. no lyrics. just sound. ambient, soft, all low tones and long spaces.

and she didn't try to write.

she didn't have to.

because she knew this wasn't over.

whatever this was.

it had a heartbeat now.

and it was still finding its rhythm.

————————————————————————————

tags; @bxlIxebxtch @stOnerlesb0 @dousleepanymore @mxmsuki @billiescation

[twowaywardorphansjournal]

Xerox

Summary: Sam's well intentioned idea leads to a minor disaster.

Content: Sam x Reader, a bit of swearing, Sam being a dork, Reader being a little sassy, really don't think there's too much to warn about

Notes: Got the idea from this post and decided it was a bit Sam-coded. Just a funny little drabble that I hope you enjoy.

****************************************************************

You know it wasn’t intended.

You know Sam meant well.

But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t an absolute disaster.

Leaving Dean to work through everything that came with the Mark of Cain, you and Sam had found yourselves in Alabama on a hunt. Although you were pretty sure it was your basic haunting, you never settled on an answer until it was practically smacking you in the face. You’d had too many close calls to get cocky and certain in this line of work, which was something Sam appreciated about you. After interviewing the 19-year-old employee at the xerox store, you stumbled upon something else you hadn’t expected: a conversation about hunting in the modern age.

“Do you know how revolutionary it would be to have a hunter journal in the cloud?” Sam asked, his voice loud and passionate in the confines of the car. He had practically swooned when the store clerk had started his spiel about software that converted everything to a digital file.

“In the words of your brother, you are geeking out about this, Sam.”

“No, I’m not.” Sam answered automatically. He must have felt the look you gave him, because he glanced at you from the driver’s seat. “Look, all I’m saying is there’s a new generation of hunters out there who aren’t gonna bother sitting around reading books. If we can share our knowledge, get it to them in a version they will read, think about how many more people we could save.”

Despite your teasing, you agreed that he had a point. You’d run across a handful of “Gen-Z” hunters who were more interested in their social media page than the back story of what they were hunting. If someone could impress upon them the importance of research that they would actually read, you could help strengthen the chances of them surviving their next hunt.

It turned out you were right about the haunting. The ghost of a troubled young man was haunting a record player that had been recently donated to the suite next door to the copy shop. Both of your sharp hunting skills was met with a rare gesture of gratitude; the teen employee convinced his manager to let you have access to the digital conversion software. You tried to offer some kind of payment, but Sam poked you hard in the side to shut you up. As you were getting ready to leave town, Sam considered letting you drive for about five seconds, the possibility of getting to mess around on his computer glittering in his eyes.

When you got home, Sam set to work digging through the collection of books for some basic hunting notes. Vampires, werewolves, and some of the other basic creatures that amateur hunters tended to gravitate towards. Dean even assisted with finding some of their dad’s first notes about ghosts. Everyone agreed that it was better to start off small and see if this idea even worked before delving into the entire library in the bunker.

Two nights in, while you were helping Sam put away some of the books, you happened to see a crumpled set of papers tucked in between the pages. Curious, you cracked open the spine to take a better look. After three seconds of reading, you blushed. Then you panicked.

“Sam?” You asked, your voice wavering.

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up from his computer.

“Please tell me that you didn’t scan these loose pages.”

“I, uh…” He blinked, processing what you were saying. “Loose pages? What?”

“In this book,” you repeated slowly, “the pages here. Did you scan them?”

“I dunno.” Sam replied, giving you a blank stare.

“Sam, these are letters I wrote to you.” You held them out to him. “Private, sensual letters.”

Sam met your eyes for a moment, then quickly grabbed the papers out of your hand and started to read. He cleared his throat as he got further down the page.  

“Fuck.” He whispered to himself.

Setting the paper down forcefully, he hunched over his computer. You stepped up behind him, chastising yourself for not listening to his full explanation of how everything worked. Then you noticed all the names on the page.  

“Wait, did you…” You trailed off, your stomach twisting in on itself at the horror of this getting worse.

“An hour ago.” Sam said curtly.

“Oh my god. Sam!” Gripping his arm, you leaned closer to the computer. “There are 10 people who have already viewed this! Did you scan the pages?”

“I don’t know!” Sam roared. He was scrolling furiously through the electronic pages, and you didn’t know how he was even differentiating them. He stilled suddenly. “Shit.”

“No,” You groaned, flopping your head down on his shoulder.

“It’s only ten people.” Sam clicked a few times and then let out a heavy breath. “It’s only ten people!”

You sat up, visually confirming that the pages had been deleted. “Just pray that one of them wasn’t…” You paused when you heard footsteps.

“Don’t you lose that girl, Samuel.” Dean called as he entered the room. “She’s a spicy one!”

[headfullof-ideas]

In regards to the fan fiction I was debating whether to keep in bullet-point form, I have decided to write it in a normal manner. Mostly because all of the meat I’ve been adding to it in the revision stage looked a little clunky in bullet point form. It might be a little tricky for some scenes, but I think I’ve figured it out. Won’t be posting anything about it until I’ve revised and edited the half I’ve already written, so it may take a while, but look to the tags if you want to know what kind of crossover fan fiction it’s going to be

[loafbud]

(⁠＾◕⁠ ‿⁠‿⁠ ◕＾)?

[heftmanrhamm]

Heeeeyyyyyyyyy @brezideje :) !!!! Thank you for tagging me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :D <3 <3 💖<3

hardcover or paperback // bookstore or library // bookmark or receipt // stand alone or series // nonfiction or fiction // thriller or fantasy // under 300 pages or over 300 pages or the exact number of pages needed and no more or less // children's or ya // friends to lovers or enemies to lovers // read in bed or read on the couch or anywhere // read at night or in the morning or anytime // keep pristine or markup // cracked spine or dog ear

Tagging: (this is like, if you're wanting to do it. No pressure. Apologies if you've already been tagged or something :) ) @miniaturestarlightdelight @five-potatoes-high @iiep-wop @streetjack

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

[mcrdvcks]

— love language

summary: You and Matt are now dating, but you haven't told anyone. How long will it take your friends to notice?

word count: 3.4k+

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

notes: i had this idea after writing goodnight n go (which is technically the first part, but you don't need to read it to understand this). anyways, here's a bunch of fluff

warnings/tags: after endgame but date is not specified, best friends to lovers, reader works at stark industries, matt is a cocky little shit, making out

Things moved on normally, the only thing that had changed in the past month was that you two weren’t just friends but dating.

You didn’t realize it, but you were already quite close to Matt.

Matt chuckled, his arm hooked around yours as the two of you waited in line for coffee. “Really?” He asked sarcastically.

“Ugh.” You elbowed him. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m just saying, what kinda friends have a toothbrush at their place?” He tapped his cane against the floor lightly.

You tilted your head. “Uhhh… pretty sure at one point Foggy had a toothbrush at your place.”

“That he never used other than one time.”

You scoffed, nudging his side again. "Still counts."

Matt smirked. "Does it?"

"Yes, because that means I’m not the weird one here. You just have a habit of letting people leave their stuff at your place."

Matt tilted his head slightly, feigning thoughtfulness. "Interesting theory. Except you’re the only person whose toothbrush has stayed."

You opened your mouth to argue, then paused, realizing he was right. "Okay, fine, but that’s only because—"

"You stay over all the time?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are," he teased, squeezing your arm lightly before stepping forward to order.

---

Foggy opened the door to Matt’s office. “Hey, did you ever finish the deposition for the Martin case?”

Matt put down the fork to his Pad Thai, leaving it in the Styrofoam container. “Yeah, I did.”

You took the opportunity, snatching the fork from his container and stealing a bite of his Pad Thai. Matt huffed, but you could hear the amusement in it.

"Really?" he murmured.

"You put it down," you said, chewing. "That means it's fair game."

Foggy barely glanced up from the papers in his hand. "She’s got a point, Matt. You know the rules."

Matt exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he blindly reached for the fork still in your grip. You dodged, keeping it out of his reach as you took another bite.

Foggy flipped a page. "Anyway, judge pushed the hearing back a week, which is good because it gives us time to go over the new witness statement. Karen’s taking a look at it now."

Matt hummed in acknowledgment, still trying to reclaim his fork. You smirked, shifting slightly in his lap. He retaliated by sliding an arm around your waist, pinning you in place.

"You gonna give that back?" he murmured.

"Maybe," you teased, holding it just out of reach.

Foggy sighed, still not looking up. "If you two devolve into a full-on fork battle, at least take it outside. I don’t need Pad Thai in the depositions."

Matt smirked, finally managing to grab the utensil from your grip. "Noted."

You huffed but didn’t move, resting your elbow on his shoulder instead. "Fine. I got what I wanted anyway."

Matt chuckled, shaking his head as he twirled the fork back into his food.

Foggy snapped the folder shut. "Alright, well, since you two seem busy, I’ll go see if Karen needs help."

"Let us know if you need anything," Matt said easily.

"Yeah, yeah," Foggy muttered, already halfway out the door.

---

Josie’s was loud and crowded as always, but at this point it was like a second home. You were telling Karen about an incident in the lab. “—Levi somehow hooks the string around the sprinkler and pulls. I get an alert on my tablet and rush over to the lab. Turns out, when he pulled the sprinkler, he also pulled part of the main water line. All for a tiny qubit that got stuck on the ceiling.”

Karen snorted, shaking her head. "Please tell me this guy got fired."

"Nope," you said, sipping your drink. "Because technically, it worked. The qubit came loose. He just, y’know… flooded half the floor in the process."

Karen groaned. "God, Stark Industries sounds like a nightmare sometimes."

"You have no idea," you muttered, setting your glass down.

As you kept talking, you felt your shirt strap slide down your shoulder. It wasn’t anything major, just a slight shift, but before you could adjust it yourself, Matt did it for you.

His hand found your shoulder with ease, fingers brushing your skin as he hooked the strap with two fingers and guided it back into place. It was quick, thoughtless, something he’d probably done a hundred times before without even realizing.

Karen barely blinked.

You didn’t think much of it either, continuing on. "Anyway, Levi tried to convince me it was an 'engineering breakthrough' and that 'technically' he proved a new method of remote retrieval—"

"You’re kidding," Karen deadpanned.

"Oh, I wish."

Matt smirked beside you, listening quietly. His arm was resting along the back of your chair, close but not overbearing.

Karen leaned forward, taking another sip of her drink. "So what’d you do?"

You grinned. "Told him if he ever did that again, I’d make sure the next thing he got stuck was his own head in the centrifuge."

Karen burst out laughing. "And let me guess—he immediately backed down."

"Pretty much," you said smugly.

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. "You really are terrifying sometimes."

"And yet, here you are," you teased, echoing the same words you’d said to him earlier that morning.

Matt tilted his head slightly, smirk deepening. "Guess I have a thing for danger."

Karen rolled her eyes but didn’t comment. She was too used to the way you two interacted, and nothing about tonight seemed different from any other night.

---

“You didn’t have to come.” Matt murmured, as your hands combed through his hair. “It’s just a mugging case.”

“And yet,” you pulled your hands away. “You were goin’ to walk in there with hair like that.” You gave him a grin. “I helped you devil boy. Oh, wait.”

You pulled his red-lensed glasses off before cleaning them with your shirt. Matt huffed, tilting his head slightly. "You know, most people don’t manhandle my things without permission."

"Most people aren’t me," you shot back, flipping the glasses open and sliding them back onto his face.

Matt’s lips twitched, but he didn’t argue.

Foggy sighed from beside you. "How do you two have time for this while standing outside a courtroom?"

Karen smirked, arms crossed. "Multitasking."

You grinned. "Exactly. I’m helping him and annoying him at the same time."

Matt let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You really do take your job seriously."

"Obviously."

Before Foggy could reply, the courtroom doors opened, and the previous case let out, lawyers and reporters filing into the hallway. The four of you straightened slightly as Matt rolled his shoulders, settling into courtroom mode.

"Alright," Matt murmured, adjusting his tie. "Let’s get this over with."

You reached out instinctively, running a hand down the front of his suit, smoothing the fabric. "You’re good."

Matt caught your wrist before you could pull away, his thumb brushing over your pulse for just a second longer than necessary. “You going to stay?”

“Yep. I’ll be sittin’ in the front row looking pretty.”

Foggy snorted. "Sittin’ pretty? That’s your plan?"

"Someone’s gotta balance out Matt’s whole intimidating blind lawyer thing," you teased, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.

Matt smirked. "Intimidating, huh?"

"You know what you do," you muttered, patting his chest once before stepping back.

Karen chuckled, shaking her head. "Alright, let’s get in there before we miss the good part."

The courtroom was already filling up when you and Karen slipped into the front row, Matt and Foggy making their way to the bench. You crossed one leg over the other, leaning back slightly as you pulled your phone from your bag, muting notifications.

"You know, sometimes I forget you don’t actually work for them," Karen mused, watching as you settled in.

You glanced at her. "Why?"

Karen shrugged. "You’re here so often, always involved in their cases, bringing them food, making sure Matt doesn’t walk into court looking like he just crawled out of a dumpster—"

"Hey," you cut in. "I don’t make him look good. He just listens to me when I tell him to fix his tie."

Karen smirked, tilting her head. "Mhm."

You rolled your eyes, looking toward the front of the courtroom. Matt and Foggy were talking in hushed tones, Foggy flipping through a stack of papers while Matt leaned slightly toward him, nodding at something he said.

Karen was still watching you, but you ignored her.

The judge entered, and the room settled as the proceedings began.

---

The hearing wasn’t long, but it was long enough for you to notice Karen sneaking glances at you every so often. You didn’t say anything, keeping your focus on the case.

Matt and Foggy handled it well, as expected. You knew Matt’s confidence in the courtroom was unmatched, and even though you couldn’t see his eyes behind the red lenses, you knew he was completely locked in, analyzing every shift in the judge’s tone, every heartbeat in the room.

By the time the judge adjourned the hearing, you were stretching slightly, rolling your shoulders as you stood.

Matt and Foggy approached, gathering their things. "Well," Foggy said, stuffing papers into his briefcase. "That went about as well as it could’ve."

Matt hummed in agreement. "We should have a decision in a few days."

Karen exhaled. "That was exhausting to watch, so I can’t imagine how you two feel."

Matt smiled. "Used to it."

You reached out, fixing the fold of his pocket square before he could tuck his cane under his arm. "You did good."

Matt turned his head toward you slightly, smirk playing at his lips. "Yeah?"

You huffed. "Yeah, Murdock. Try not to look so smug about it."

Foggy raised a brow, gaze flickering between the two of you for a second. Karen, too, was watching, something unreadable in her expression.

Neither of them said anything.

"Alright," Foggy finally broke the silence, snapping his briefcase shut. "Lunch? Please? I need food after all that legal jargon."

"Agreed," Karen said.

You nodded. "Sounds good to me."

Matt tapped his cane against the floor once, falling into step beside you. Karen shot one last glance between the two of you but still said nothing.

---

You pulled out an expired container of milk. “Matty, I seriously don’t know how you, of all people, didn’t notice you had 2-week expired milk in your fridge.”

Matt smirked from where he was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "You think I make a habit of sniffing my milk cartons?"

You made a face, waving the expired container in his direction. "Considering you should be able to smell the rotting dairy in your fridge? Yeah, actually, I do."

Matt huffed a quiet laugh, stepping forward as you popped the lid open and took an experimental sniff—only to gag immediately.

"Jesus Christ," you muttered, shoving the carton at him. "Smell it. I dare you."

Matt wrinkled his nose, taking a slight step back. "I’ll pass."

"Uh-huh, that’s what I thought." You shut the carton and tossed it in the trash before opening the fridge again. "When’s the last time you actually bought groceries?"

Matt leaned against the counter, lips twitching. "Don’t know. You usually do it for me."

You shot him a look over your shoulder. "That’s not the win you think it is, Murdock."

"I don’t know," he murmured, stepping behind you, hands settling at your waist. "Feels like a win to me."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in slightly, lips brushing just behind your ear. You huffed, pushing him back lightly with your elbow. "No, you don’t get to distract me. Your fridge is a disaster."

Matt let out a quiet chuckle but didn’t let go entirely. "I’ve survived this long."

"Yeah, because I keep you alive," you muttered, pulling out a sad-looking bag of spinach and holding it up for him. "This? This is a crime."

Matt smirked. "Pretty sure I deal with actual crimes for a living."

"You’re so lucky you’re cute." You tossed the bag onto the counter with a sigh. "Alright, that’s it. We’re going grocery shopping."

"You say that like I have a choice."

"You don’t," you said, shutting the fridge and turning in his arms.

Matt smiled, fingers brushing over your hip before he dropped his hands. "At least let me buy you dinner after."

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Bribing me with food?"

"Wouldn’t be the first time."

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk you tried to suppress still made its way onto your lips. "Fine. But you’re carrying all the bags."

"Deal," Matt murmured, reaching for his cane.

You grabbed your coat, glancing at him as he adjusted his watch. "And I’m making sure you don’t buy anything that will expire in two days."

Matt chuckled. "Now that’s just cruel."

---

The grocery store was relatively quiet for a Friday night, the kind of late-evening lull where the only customers were people grabbing last-minute dinner ingredients or, in Matt’s case, replacing an entire fridge’s worth of expired food.

You pushed the cart while Matt walked beside you, his hand resting lightly at the crook of your elbow. "Alright, first things first," you said, steering the cart toward the produce section. "You’re getting actual vegetables. Not just things that used to be vegetables before they died a slow, tragic death in your fridge."

Matt smirked. "I resent that."

"You resent having to eat vegetables," you shot back, picking up a head of lettuce and tossing it into the cart.

Matt tilted his head slightly, like he was considering. "That might be true."

You sighed dramatically. "It’s like taking a toddler shopping."

"You did sign up for this," Matt pointed out, casually trailing his fingers over the display of apples as he passed.

You side-eyed him. "Did I? I don’t remember agreeing to supervise you."

"You knew what you were getting into," he teased, reaching past you to grab an apple and setting it in the cart.

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, adding a few more. "What else do you need? Other than everything."

Matt hummed, fingers tapping lightly against the handle of the cart. "Bread. Eggs. Coffee."

"Obviously," you muttered, already steering the cart in that direction.

As you walked, Matt’s hand slid from your elbow to your wrist, fingers idly tracing over your pulse before his hand found yours, linking your fingers together like it was nothing.

You squeezed his hand slightly. "If you think holding my hand is gonna distract me from making you buy actual groceries, you’re wrong."

Matt huffed a quiet laugh, thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "Worth a shot."

"Mm-hmm," you mused, scanning the shelves as you walked. You paused near the coffee aisle, reaching for a bag of Matt’s usual blend.

"That one’s good," Matt said, nodding toward it.

You smirked, holding up a different one just to mess with him. "What about this one?"

Matt tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "That one’s decaf."

Your lips parted in mock surprise. "Wow. Look at that. Guess you do pay attention to your groceries."

Matt exhaled a laugh, leaning in slightly. "I pay attention to you."

Your stomach flipped, but you covered it with an eye roll, tossing his usual coffee into the cart before dragging him toward the next aisle.

---

By the time you made it to the checkout, the cart was full. Probably more food than Matt had ever willingly bought for himself.

"You’re never gonna finish all this," he mused as you unloaded onto the conveyor belt.

"You will if you actually cook," you shot back. "And don’t tell me you can’t. I’ve seen you do it."

Matt smirked, handing the cashier his card before you could stop him. "Guess I have no choice now."

You squinted at him. "That sounds suspiciously like a challenge."

Matt tilted his head. "Maybe it is."

You grinned. "Alright, Murdock. Guess I’ll be the judge of whether or not you can actually cook."

Matt chuckled, grabbing the grocery bags as the cashier finished bagging them. "I did offer to buy you dinner."

You crossed your arms. "I thought we were talking restaurant dinner, not Murdock’s Mystery Kitchen dinner."

Matt smirked, shifting the bags in his hands. "I never specified."

You rolled your eyes but reached out, grabbing a couple of bags from him. "Fine. But if you burn anything, I’m taking over."

"Noted," Matt said, leaning in just slightly. "But I wouldn’t underestimate me, sweetheart."

You huffed, shoving a bag at him before walking toward the door. "We’ll see about that, devil boy."

---

“Where’s my shirt? You know, the soft blue one with a star embroidered on it?”

Matt, who was sitting on the couch, fingers tracing a braille legal document, tilted his head. “…Where are your clothes?”

“My—that’s what I’m asking you.” You replied, hands on your hips, leaning against his bedroom door.

Matt’s lips twitched, setting the braille document down on the coffee table. He turned his head slightly, his attention fully on you now. "You’re asking me where your clothes are?"

"Yes, Matty." You sighed, crossing your arms. "I took a shower, and now I can’t find my damn shirt. The soft blue one? The one with the star embroidered on it?"

Matt hummed, pushing himself up from the couch, his movements slow, deliberate. "And you think I did something with it?"

"You have a habit of stealing my clothes," you pointed out. "So yes, you’re my prime suspect."

Matt smirked, stepping toward you. "Interesting accusation, sweetheart."

You didn’t flinch as he closed the distance, his fingers barely brushing along your forearm, trailing up to your shoulder before settling against your jaw.

"You’re not wearing any clothes."

You rolled your eyes. "I am wearing clothes. Just not the ones I want."

Matt exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head slightly. "Bra and underwear don’t count."

"Tell that to every guy who’s ever seen a Victoria’s Secret ad," you muttered.

Matt grinned. "Is that what this is? A show?"

You huffed, lightly swatting at his chest. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are," he teased, echoing your words from earlier, his fingers still lazily tracing the edge of your jaw.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t pull away. "Are you gonna help me find my shirt or not?"

Matt’s lips twitched. "I’m starting to think you just wanted an excuse to walk around like this."

You scoffed. "Matty, if I wanted to walk around half-naked in your apartment, I would. I don’t need an excuse."

Matt grinned. "Good to know."

You rolled your eyes, stepping back. "So are you gonna help or—"

Before you could finish, Matt turned toward his dresser, fingers trailing over the top before he grabbed something and held it out.

Your missing shirt.

Your jaw dropped. "You knew where it was this whole time?"

Matt shrugged. "You left it here last week. I thought it was mine."

You squinted at him. "Since when do you own a soft blue shirt with a star embroidered on it?"

Matt smirked. "I don’t, but you leave your stuff here so often, I figured it was fair game."

You snatched it from his hands. "Unbelievable."

Matt huffed a laugh, crossing his arms. "You gonna put it on, or do I get to keep enjoying the view?"

You shot him a look, but the heat in his voice sent something warm curling in your stomach. You turned away, slipping the shirt over your head, and when you glanced back, Matt was still smirking.

"Happy now?" you muttered.

Matt hummed, stepping closer again. "Not yet."

Before you could respond, he leaned in, catching your chin between his fingers before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

When he pulled back, his smirk deepened. "Now I’m happy."

You scoffed, trying to ignore the way your heart was hammering in your chest. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you love it."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

---

It was late at night when Matt convinced you to stay. Foggy and Karen were out of the office for the night, leaving just you and Matt doing your separate work.

The office was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of paper and the distant hum of the city outside.

You were perched on Matt’s couch, cross-legged, a set of blueprints spread across your lap while he sat at his desk, reading over a case file. Neither of you spoke, lost in your own work, but there was a comfortable ease to it.

"Are you even getting anything done over there?" Matt asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn’t look up. "Are you?"

He hummed. "I was. Until I realized how unfair this is."

You sighed, already knowing where this was going. "What’s unfair, Matty?"

"You get to sit all comfy on my couch, while I’m stuck here, hard at work."

You snorted. "Hard at work, huh? I didn’t realize whining counted as work."

Matt pushed his chair back, standing slowly. "I think I deserve a break."

You barely glanced up. "Then take one. I’m actually doing something productive."

Matt made his way toward you, hands in his pockets. "Are you?"

You narrowed your eyes, lifting a brow. "Yes. Unlike some people, I have deadlines to meet."

Matt hummed, stepping in front of you. "And yet, you’re still here. With me."

"Because you asked me to stay," you reminded him, flipping a page. "You coerced me."

Matt smirked. "Did I?"

"Yes, you—hey!"

In one swift motion, Matt plucked the blueprints from your lap and set them aside. Before you could protest, he leaned down, hands bracketing your sides as he caged you against the couch.

"Take a break with me, angel," he murmured.

You exhaled, glaring up at him. "You are so—"

Whatever insult you had lined up died in your throat as Matt leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw. His lips brushed over your pulse, deliberate, teasing.

"Annoying?" he murmured.

You swallowed hard. "Distracting."

Matt grinned against your skin. "Mm. I’ll take that."

Your fingers curled around his tie, tugging slightly. "You are so lucky I like you."

Matt chuckled, dipping his head until his lips were just barely grazing yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You closed the distance, kissing him properly.

Matt exhaled against your lips, deepening it immediately. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping your waist as he pulled you flush against him. You barely noticed when he guided you backward, until the edge of his desk dug into your lower back.

"Matty," you murmured between kisses.

"Mm?"

"I thought we were taking a break."

"This is my break," he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your throat.

You huffed a quiet laugh, threading your fingers into his hair. "Productive."

Matt grinned against your skin, hands slipping under the hem of your shirt. "You’re the one distracting me, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. His lips trailed back up, capturing yours again in a kiss that left your head spinning.

Neither of you noticed the sound of the front door opening.

At least, you didn’t.

Matt either didn’t hear it, or—more likely—just didn’t care.

"Hey, Matt, I left my phone—"

Foggy’s voice cut through the air like a record scratch.

You froze.

Matt, however, barely reacted. His lips left yours just enough for him to let out a quiet sigh—like he was annoyed—before pressing one last kiss to your jaw.

"Should’ve knocked, Fog," he murmured.

Your entire body was on fire. You didn’t dare turn around. Foggy, for his part, just stood there. Silent. Karen was the one to break it. "Uh."

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back against the desk. "Jesus Christ."

Matt still didn’t move. He just turned his head slightly in their direction. "You left your phone?"

Foggy blinked. "Yeah." A beat. "But now I kinda wanna leave it here forever."

Karen coughed, her voice tight with suppressed laughter. "Should we leave?"

You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

Matt just smirked. "You could, but I doubt you will."

Karen cleared her throat. "Y’know what? I suddenly really need a drink."

"Yeah, me too," Foggy muttered, grabbing his phone off the desk and speed walking toward the door.

Karen cast one last glance between the two of you, shaking her head before following. The second the door shut behind them, you finally shoved Matt away.

"You knew they were coming, didn’t you!?"

Matt grinned, shrugging. "You said it yourself—I have a habit of coercing you."

You gaped at him. "Murdock."

He just leaned in again, lips ghosting over your ear. "You gonna finish what you started, angel?"

Your face burned. "I started!?"

Matt chuckled, nudging his nose against yours.

"You’re impossible," you muttered, still flustered.

"And yet," Matt murmured, smirking, "here you are."

[chososcutie]

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ─── BOUND BY VOWS, TORN BY DESIRE ─── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

pairing ── satoru gojo x reader

teaser ── your kingdoms have been at war for what seems the longest time, ancient ancestors dating back bloodlines never ceasing in their feud. but now, with the upcoming of a new age, and a desperate need for heirs with an old, dying king on the throne, you are forced to resolve and seal the peace by marrying prince satoru, of an opposing nation.

content ── fluff, slow burn, heavy angst, eventual smut, royal!au, forced proximity, arranged marriage, one bed troupe, mommy issues, jealousy, historic!au, language, mention of drinking, kissing

count ── 5k

author’s note ── thank you to everyone who voted for this series!! this is going to be a multi part story, and i hope to continue if it does well, also i think i’m going to make more series’ down the line because this was fun :)

in two days you were to marry prince satoru.

it was at the crux of the two kingdoms' warring, and father was weak and desperate in those times.

your mother had grown unusually cruel, even more so than usual, her voice sharp and reprimanding, put under pressure by the ongoing conflict that never seemed to be getting better.

you were heartbroken when they told you, but not surprised. you had hoped you would get to choose your own partner to spend the rest of your life with, but it seems cruel fate had other plans.

you had tried to reason with your mother to get out of it, that there were other ways to resolve a war other than sending off your daughter to be married to an unknown man from another kingdom, but she was having none of it.

it was really a matter of convenience. a way to set up a peace treaty, arrange a marriage, and combine two impossibly rich kingdoms? you had known your parents long enough to know they never loved in the way they were supposed to, always king and queen before mother and father, and that they’d take this opportunity in a heartbeat, no matter the cost.

you hadn’t however, known how soon everything would progress, until days later when you received an invitation in the mail, unsigned, and enclosed in a thick brown envelope, complete with the royal seal stamped pristinely on the front.

we hereby invite you to the royal marriage of… it read in rich gold lettering, looping cursive filling the page. little illustrations litter the margins, and a single grainy folded-up picture flutters out upon its opening.

when you unfurl it, it reveals the man you were to marry.

prince satoru gojo, in all his glory, wearing a pristine white and gold suit, a coy smile curving his lips, and soft, cloudy white hair fluffed up, a sword at his hip and azure blue eyes boring into yours.

for a second all you can do is stare, taken aback by his beauty.

you had heard of how gorgeous the prince was, being the talk of almost every woman in the kingdom for his good looks and charm, but you had never seen him up until now.

he was drop-dead ravishing. the kind of beauty one saw only in dreams.

“i see you’ve received the invitation.”

your mother’s calculated voice.

you quickly wheel around, her eyes fixed on you coolly. “we’ve gotten word to head to the gojo clan estate now. they will receive you there.”

“but..” you start, hoping against hope that maybe you could get through to her, and beg her not to send you off.

“please don’t disappoint us.” she eyes you disdainfully. “this arrangement means a lot for our kingdom, and it’d do you well to start thinking about what’s best for your disciples rather than your own wants.”

you stare at her. was she calling you selfish for not wanting to wed a man you had never met?

suddenly, the heavy hoofbeats of a horse-drawn carriage breaks the silent tension stretching between you two, a graceful steady gait of horses coming toward you causing you to quickly turn back to your mom, eyes pleading.

“please.. don’t make me.”

in your wildest dreams, her eyes soften and she looks at you with something different then, something resembling love, before scooping you up into her arms and kissing you on the forehead like a mother would, calling you her precious only daughter, and promising to never send you off, and what was she thinking, before calling off the wedding completely.

but instead, she stares at you, detached as if you were nothing more than a pawn in her intricate chessboard of royalty, your worth determined only by what you could provide for the kingdom.

the carriage comes to a halt in front of you, horses snorting and whinnying as you stare back at the face that looks so much like your own, only lacking the empathy you had always longed for.

“get in the carriage.” she says simply.

and realizing she’s not going to change her mind, you study her face for the last time, as if committing it to memory, that same stony unchanging expression that had been with you all through your childhood, before opening the door, and looking ahead, eyes hollow.

maybe this new husband wouldn’t be that bad, after all.

after a few hours of the carriage lurching and bumping along cobblestone trodden pathways, your head craning to look out from the slightly drawn curtains, you make it.

and just as you imagined, prince satoru's estate is big.

in fact, big didn’t even begin to describe it, with towering iron-wrought gates, and a winding driveway all leading up to a fairy-tale like palace.

statues of noble figures stand tall, outlined against its magnificence, and the castle itself is a rich ivory color, accented with shimmers of golden turrets reaching up into the sky, their tips brushing the clouds themselves.

quickly, you are ushered out, the carriage door held open for you by the coachman, and before you get a chance to take in the elegant grounds of the estate, royal servants are already waiting to greet you, all polite smiles as they advise you to follow them inside.

on the way, they tell you that you were to be properly welcomed to the gojo clan before tomorrow's highly anticipated ceremony, in the form of meeting the king and queen in charge, along with your husband to-be.

you take the chance to glance around, taking in all your surroundings, everything ancient and wooden, with small adornings of mythological figures decorating the walls along with paintings dating back to centuries-old wars, history written all across the panelling prominently.

finally, the royal attendants come to a stop in front of a long-winding corridor, leading all the way down toward an ornate wooden door, its magnificent size amongst the others causing it to stand out notably.

"this is master gojo's suite, and where you will be staying with him for the rest of your time here." says the servant nearest to you, beginning to back up slowly, the others in tow. "the king has asked that you meet with him beforehand, so you two can become acquainted. we shall leave you to it."

and with a final bow of his head, he's gone, leaving you to stand in front of the intimidating mahogany door, its broad outline almost menacing in the dimness of the passageway.

as you make your way to it, you push on it hesitantly, only to be met with resistance as it groans in protest, unwilling to budge.

you try the door handle. locked.

you look up again. you know this is the right door. so why isn't it..?

it opens so suddenly, you with all your weight resting on its frame can't stop yourself. you immediately topple over, letting out a soft oof! of surprise as you crash into something warm yet solid, your body pressing hard against it.

budging.

regaining yourself, you can't help but feel the flexing muscle under your palms, looking down to see a man's chest, his quick exhale of breath making you retract immediately.

and looking up, you're met with the sight of none other than soft white hair and blue eyes coming to blink hazily at you.

a vaguely familiar smirk curving his lips as he sets sights on you.

the man in the picture.

your husband to-be.

satoru.

"hello wifey.." he drawls out, tone almost mocking as he stares down at you, dressed in traditional heavy white robes. "i take it you're excited for the marriage?"

pointedly, his eyes fix on where your other hand is dangerously close to gripping his... lower half, so to speak.

flustered, you instantly step back, face blushing immensely. "m-my apologies my lord, i didn't mean to be so forward. i was sent here to meet you before the meeting, and.."

you notice his teasing grin seems to drop for a moment, eyes searching the halls for signs of life. once he knows you two are the only ones, his expression hardens, blue eyes becoming unreadable.

you were alone together.

"lets get one thing straight, princess. you're here to fulfill your role, nothing more, nothing less. i don't care for pleasantries. there's no reason for us to pretend we're anything other than strangers bound by a marriage of convenience."

you try to back away, eyes wide as you make a small involuntary noise in the back of your throat, but he doesn’t let you, coming closer.

"we'll carry out the duties expected of us, and that's all." he continues. "do what is necessary, but don't make the mistake of thinking i'm interested in anything beyond that."

you bristle slightly at his words. "oh, you think i want this? you think i want to be married to you? in a foreign enemy kingdom i don’t even know? because i don't! but there's no way of getting out of it, so why can't you at least afford to be nice?"

he scoffs. "nice? you and your kingdom have ruined my life! you've robbed me of any chance i had at making my own life choices, and i'm supposed to be "nice?"

"why are you acting like i made this marriage? it's not my fault! that's the whole point of an arranged marriage, it's arranged for you!" you don't even realize you're raising your voice until your words begin to echo off the vast walls, bouncing around you tersely. "and if i had, i certainly wouldn't have picked an asshole such as yourself.”

he steps closer, tilting his head at you. “careful what you say about your husband, sweetheart. or you just might get yourself in trouble.”

you know you should stop before you escalate things, but you can’t help it, jutting your lip out at him in a mocking pout. “yeah? make me then.”

in a heartbeat, he has you pinned against the wall behind you, one thigh holding up your weight as the warmth of his bulky frame surrounds you, cerulean blue eyes raking across your face steadily.

you let out a small gasp of surprise, but quickly recover, eyes narrowing on him fiercely.

he leans ever so slightly closer, crowding your space completely as his loud, sultry patchouli cologne surrounds you, alluring and familiar all at once.

his breath ghosting over your lips, is warm and cinnamon-y, as he stares down at you, eyes lidded and just daring you to defy him again.

"excuse me, mister and mistress gojo? your presence is requested now."

immediately, satoru jumps back as if stung, eyes lingering on you a moment longer, before stalking away in temporary surrender.

you push off the wall, feeling the servant's eyes on you questioningly, but not bothering to indulge him, simply brushing yourself off before rapidly following suit.

“your majesties, it is truly an honor to meet you both.” you take a small curtsy to the king and queen you were standing before, lifting your dress to show respect.

satoru rolls his eyes subtly, shifting beside you.

his father shoots him a look, all graying hair and wise crinkling eyes. “the pleasure is all mine, my dear. it’s nice to meet someone with proper mannerisms and respect for the crown.”

you smile. “yes, well i was raised in a kingdom, after all.”

beside him, satoru’s mother, the queen, grants you a kind smile, long white hair flowing around her mirroring her son's. “that you were.” she agrees. “which is why we are so honored to have you here at our own, and to finally resolve the peace that has been fleeting for so long. you have no idea how much this marriage means to both us and the kingdom.”

satoru sighs.

instantly, the queen’s eyes bore into him. “i’m sure you’ve been acquainted with your husband, prince satoru. he is just as pleased as the rest of us for this opportunity you and your kingdom have bestowed upon us, it was rather benevolent of them, and we are eternally in their debt.”

you get the feeling that they've been having disagreements with the arranged marriage, judging by their body language, and instantly the air grows thicker, more tense.

before the situation can progress however, the queen clears her throat, smiling politely at you. "why, it's been a long day, and i'm sure you're tired, sweetheart."

her attention turns toward her son, her voice holding a warning to it that you can't ignore. "satoru. walk with her to your rooms please, and accommodate her."

he nods, and doesn't even wait to see if you're following before retreating hastily, leaving you to chase after him.

finally, you find yourself back in front of the long-winding hallway leading to his─your─ bedroom, and he pauses, as if remembering something.

"we're going to have to share a bed."

your heart skips a beat, breath catching in your throat as he opens the door to reveal a mahogany bed, draped with quilted covers and over-extravagant silk pillows slightly rumpled by sleep. you had forgotten that as a married couple, it would be custom for you two to sleep together, just the thought of being in such a close, intimate space with him causing your pulse to race, whether with anger or.. something else, you can’t tell.

"no we're not." you move toward the bed, grabbing spare pillows and blankets to make your own on the plush carpet, vowing to stay as far as possible from that stuck-up prince.

you hear him sigh from where he's leaning against the doorway watching you.

footsteps pad across the floor toward you, before coming to a stop. "listen. i know this isn't ideal, but it is part of our arrangement to sleep in the same bed, as a married couple."

you gaze up at him coolly. "i'm sleeping here."

he runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "this is part of what is expected of us, and we need to fulfill our duties as a royal couple. just.. get on the bed, and face the other direction, if you must."

you ignore him, tucking yourself into the blankets you had set up with a small yawn, turning to face away from him pointedly.

all is silent for a single, peaceful moment, but then, two unfairly muscular arms are wrapping around your frame, and lifting, scooping you up into him as with a squeal, you kick, trying to get away.

one of your feet makes contact with his side, and he lets out a low grunt before throwing you roughly onto his stupidly huge bed.

"keep fighting all you want, sweetheart. i can do this all night."

for some reason, his words come off more provocative than anything, and you can't help the fact that the stern sultry purr of his coupled with it tinges your cheeks pink ever so subtly.

"i'll tell you one thing about this arranged marriage. as my wife, you are going to listen, and you are going to obey what i tell you, okay? i will not put up with attitude and immaturity.”

your cheeks warm at being scolded like a child, and all you can do is scoff in disbelief before turning over, resigned to your spot on the bed, vowing to stay as far away from him as possible.

you scoot all the way to the edge, squeezing your eyes shut angrily as tears of frustration prick at you.

just who was he to boss you around?

a few terse minutes tick by, with both of you silent, facing away from each other, the only sound being satoru's soft puffs of breath, sleep eluding you further.

you’re trying your best not to let your skin make contact with his in the slightest, but it’s proving difficult with the way his weight makes the bed dip in the middle, trying to draw you toward himself.

this was going to be a looong night.

you figure you eventually fall asleep at some point, because when you open your eyes again, sunlight is peeking through the windows, and something hard and hot is pressed stiffly against your back, insistent with its prodding.

you reach down, half-asleep, to move it away, but your hand connects with something pulsing and.. large. you trail your hand further up, eyes scrunching in confusion only to feel a small shudder under your palm, someone breathing fast and loud right next to you.

satoru.

you instantly scramble away, eyes wide, in your haste falling off and hitting the floor with a low thud.

this wakes him up, half-lidded eyes opening to take in your tangled form on the ground. “what are you doing?”

“y-you..!” you sputter out, frozen as you stare at him in disbelief.

he follows your gaze to his pants, a straining bulge printed on the front clearly.

his cheeks warm, and he looks down, mumbling under his breath. "mornin' wood.."

before you can bring yourself to speak however, two sharp knocks against the door break the awkward silence, followed by the voice of a servant outside.

"madame and master, it’s time to prepare you both for the wedding ceremony."

“ow!”

you scrunch your eyes tightly, pain washing over you in waves.

the stylist pauses, taking in your expression sympathetically before resuming to tug at your poor hair, putting it up into an intricate updo, a plaited bun with face-framing hairs and bangs, hot curlers and bobbypins attacking you left and right.

"just sit still, dear." one pushes your head back, while another tilts your face to the side to furiously blend foundation on your cheeks.

this day would only come once, in your lifetime at least, and being a royal wedding, of course, everything had to be perfect.

you and satoru were being relied on as human peace treaties to prove to the world that for the first time, your kingdoms were united, marking the official end of the war.

which is why, not only were appearances important, but also your actions towards satoru had to be convincing enough for the clan to wholeheartedly believe you two were in love, and effectively stop the fighting at hand.

so today was more important than ever that you look fully and maddeningly in love with satoru gojo.

you sigh to yourself, but suddenly your thoughts are cut off by the proud voice of your main stylist taking a step back to admire her handiwork.

"perfect. absolutely perfect." the rest nod in agreement, and with a few last touches, you're ready.

and as you all head to where the ceremony would be held, to describe how you're feeling right now as overwhelmed would be an understatement.

currently, there's about two thousand people waiting for you, all elegantly dressed, their heads held high with self-importance.

even the palace is decorated for the occasion, banners and emblems of the gojo clan stamp hanging proudly over the room, while decorative flowers in vases cover every available surface.

you shift your feet nervously, waiting for your signal to walk the aisle, praying that you wouldn't trip or embarrass yourself, fidgeting with your dress anxiously.

the wedding dress in question, was a classic take on a vintage ball gown look, with a too tight-fitting cream-colored corset billowing out dramatically from the waist into a poofy, tulle skirt, and currently it was killing you as you tried to take deep breaths, its taut stiffness practically constricting your lungs.

to make matters worse, it pushed your breasts obnoxiously up, and showed off your outline far too much to be comfortable, contouring every curve distinctively.

before you can try and pull it down however for what seems the hundredth time, the renowned quality of a simple elegant instrumental begins playing, signifying your entrance, and time seems to stop.

your heels click softly on the marbled stone, each step seeming to magnify in the large room spread out before you.

highly prestigious people, who had dismissed you before as nothing but a simple child princess living in her daddy’s kingdom were now all craning their heads to get a better look at you, hushed gasps and chatter sweeping through the crowd as you pass.

slowly, you begin to make your way down the dramatically decorated aisle, and as you get closer to the altar, you spot satoru, leaning slightly, cerulean eyes focused solely on you.

he’s dressed elegantly, in a frilly suit that matches the color of his eyes, all extravagant buttons and poofy sleeves, with crisscrossing gold lace, and a white overspilling cravat on the front.

he tilts his head as if to study the dress you're in, intense blue gaze raking up and down to ravish your clearly outlined figure.

your cheeks flush, his effect on you instantaneous as unbearable though he is.

slowly, you come to stand at your spot beside him, nervous as you look around at the crowd.

what happens next, you hadn't been expecting at all.

as one, they get up, and shower you both in applause, claps as precise and unified as their owners, the sound heard all the way around the entire palace, as they all give a standing ovation to their new king and queen of a new era.

the blush creeps up your neck, and you look around at your new subjects, all of them cheering for you.

after a minute or so of this, they begin to gradually quiet, sitting back down while both you and satoru turn to face each other.

the royal priest clears his throat for attention, and begins his long winding speech, garbled words slurring together as you stare at satoru.

he was so beautiful, breathtakingly so. his white hair is fluffed up, showing his high cheekbones, and he even has a bit of makeup on him, contour and powder.

in fact you’re staring at him so intensely, so swept up in him, you don’t even realize the priest is talking to you until he’s raising an eyebrow at you expectantly, the crowd hushed.

“huh?” you hear yourself say, embarrassment pinking your cheeks.

he clears his throat, speaking a little louder. “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better..”

when you glance back at satoru, he’s looking at the priest, but there’s a curve to his mouth, amusement glinting in his eyes.

insufferable.

you take a second to let your eyes roam the audience, and happen to land on a particular face, one you hadn’t seen before.

she's wearing a knee-length navy blue dress, one that highlights her chubby figure and pudgy stomach, and a hat which covers most of her face. her head, though covered, is bowed low, as if in shame, which stands out to you as most of the audience is gazing up, at you and satoru, heads perked for a better look.

before you have time to further analyze however, you’re snapped back to the priest who is finishing up his speech.

“..till death do thy part. do you pledge your faithfulness and devotion, and promise to be thy loving wife, forevermore?”

your head starts to spin, the weight of his words sinking into you fully. you were to be with this man, whom you hadn’t even met before yesterday, for the rest of your life. all your hopes and dreams outside of the kingdom may as well come crashing down on your head once you were to speak those forsaken words.

after today, you would be queen, alongside your husband, the king.

at the very thought of being so responsible, the words stick in your throat, face paling. you have the urge to say no, to call the whole thing off, to truly disappoint your parents and disgrace satoru’s family for eternity, because this was your life. your life, and nobody got to take that from you.

you force a smile. “i do.”

the ring-bearer comes up to you, a ring on a fluffed pillow for you to take, its band gold and cool in your palm as you pick it up, a baby blue gem encrusted with the gojo symbol across it staring back.

you had never chose, nor seen this ring in your life.

he turns to satoru. “and do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to..”

you turn to satoru, expecting to see that same playful smirk, but something else has replaced it, more open and raw.

maybe he was feeling the implications too?

“..promise to be thy loving husband, forevermore?”

he swallows, pauses for a second too long, before speaking, the words cool and strangely detached. “i do.”

his ring comes, silver and chiseled with symbols of royalty, all sleek metal and polished, shining pristinely in the light. it has diamonds encrusted all over it, each worth more than a house, along with his precious initials, s.g, carved into it.

he takes it without looking at it.

“then by the power vested in me, i now pronounce you man and wife.” he turns toward satoru. "you may now kiss the bride."

your mouth goes dry, and for a second, all you can do is gape at satoru while the priest's words register in your head.

shit. how could you have forgotten you would be expected to kiss him? it was a wedding after all.

satoru's mouth curves up as he leans in slightly toward your ear, his hair brushing you. “c’mon princess, kiss your husband for the audience, yeah?”

you blush, and oblivious to all the people and the priest standing less than a foot away, he goes on, “although, don't be too good of a kisser, or i might get used to..."

before he can continue, you grab his face in your hands, pressing your lips hard against his, if just to make him shut up, and he pauses, taken aback, before slowly his hand creeps up to cup your cheeks gingerly, hesitantly leaning in to it.

the crowd all cheers around you, but you can’t even hear them anymore, all of it fading around you.

he's your first kiss.

he tastes like cinnamon and clove, like something spicy and reckless, his tongue already coming to meet yours in a brash tangle.

as quickly as he had been on you however, he draws away, wiping his mouth with that same lopsided smirk tilting his lips upward, leaving you practically dizzy.

and as the rest of the ceremony drones on, you can't help yourself from wanting more.

it wasn't enough to leave you satisfied, and now that you've gotten a taste, you fear you might not ever get enough.

after the wedding ceremony, there was to be a reception where only the most prestigious and important of people would attend.

it was held in the palace ballroom, lavishly decorated for the occasion with crystal chandeliers, and silk draped tables filled with shiny silverware, everything overly classy and elegant.

when you enter beside satoru, they're already serving flutes of champagne, people milling about amiably and making pleasant conversation.

and if you thought you were popular before as a princess, you had no idea the kind of attention being a hot topic like you were now would bring.

before you're even two steps inside, there's already people surrounding you to congratulate you on your marriage, kiss you on the cheek in greeting, and welcome you as newfound queen to the throne.

after a few minutes of this, with no sign of the crowd of people easing up, you begin to get nervous.

there's just no way you can see to get out of it, and as you start to feel claustrophobic, your body being pushed and jostled by all these people wanting to meet, you feel a warm hand on the small of your back, guiding you away from the crowd.

satoru.

“i think it’s time for a dance.” he says before grabbing your warm, gloved hands in his, and twirling you out to the center of the dance floor, where a few couples were already swaying to a slow tune.

satoru takes his hands, placing them on either side of your waist, just above your hips, a lazy smirk curling his mouth up as his touch seems casual, natural almost.

it seems almost genuine, the way he flirts with you in the public eye only to blatantly disregard you in private.

well, two could play at that game.

you wrap your arms around his neck, and draw yourself closer, lips hovering above his, your front rubbing against him dangerously.

he inhales sharply, eyes flickering with heat for a second but before you get the chance to revel in the fact you could draw a reaction from him, he starts spinning you.

you gasp as he whirls you around, before starting to glide back and forth with you across the dance floor, a smug grin on his face as you try and keep up.

luckily for you, as royalty you were expected to know how to dance, and your parents had enrolled you in private lessons weekly, your feet falling into familiar steps as you swept along the floor with him.

he takes notice, hands gripping your waist tighter as he sways with you, quickening the pace. “who taught you to dance, princess?”

you can't tell if he's teasing, or being genuine so rather than answer, you glance down, pretending to focus on your steps as you try to ignore the fluttering in your chest.

and finally with one last dramatic twirl, your hands tracing delicate arcs in the air, the music crescendoes and satoru catches you in a perfect dip, your head tilting back with a flourish.

instantly, cheering erupts, the room absolutely filled with clapping and whistling as your chest heaves up and down, still in his arms.

you had been so caught up you hadn't even realized everyone had stopped to watch you two, and with your finish, you were now the center of attention.

and as you seat yourself in a chair across from satoru, the formal banquet about to begin, you finally answer his question, seemingly out of nowhere, making him come to a start as he looks at you.

"my mother put me in dance classes from a young age." you smile bitterly as the memory washes over you. "you know it's funny, she was always the most beautiful dancer in the ballroom at my kingdom, but she wouldn't teach me. said i was "too slow", "had two left feet", "didn't pick up quickly", and i was nothing like her. she had someone else instruct me, and every day i would go and practice as much as i could, in hopes of getting better and pleasing her."

"did you?" satoru presses.

you sigh sadly. "i did, but it was never enough for her. nothing was. i remember thinking when i was younger, that maybe there was something wrong with me, and that's why she couldn't love me. why anyone couldn't love me, really. i've always felt like just a mere decoration in my palace, just another step on my mother's agenda."

what he says next surprises you. "i get what you mean. ever since i was little, my parents have been telling me, "you're going to be king" "one day you're going to overtake the throne" and "think of your future kingdom", when all I ever wanted was to be a child."

he draws nearer to you. "but, that gets taken from you once you're born into a monarchy, right?"

you nod. "that, and everything else down to your way of life, your interests, your dreams.." you break off, eyes flickering down to his lips for a moment. "..your husband."

the conversation between you becomes more intimate as he leans in too, lips above yours, and just as you start to close the distance..

the distinct sound of a fork clinking against a glass.

the royal toasts were starting.

it was from satoru's father, the king, his wise, crinkled smile looking around at all his subjects. "hello everyone. we thank you for coming out tonight to celebrate the birth of a new age, as my son and the daughter of a rival kingdom have come together in marriage, forever binding our palaces as one. this marks the start to a new era."

he pauses, letting the people around break out into clapping, some cheering, before going on.

"as you are aware, i will be stepping back from my role as king, knowing our future is in capable hands, by your new king and queen.."

at that, he lifts a glass toward your table, winking solemnly.

"to satoru, my successor, my pride, and the future of this kingdom. may your reign be long, your rule wise, and may you bring many heirs to this kingdom."

wait.

heirs?

you turn to look at satoru, his face paling.

"to the future, to the kingdom, and to the continuation of our legacy!"

"long live the king!"

[hyunjinsmuze]

Paint me naked

warnings: Unprotected sex, humping, grinding, nipple play,creampie, slightly subby Hyunjin (at first)

contains: ⛔️smut, slight fluff, soft dom!hyunjin

summary: When Hyunjin asks you to model for a painting, a teasing joke turns into something much deeper—and much filthier.

pairing: hyunjin x reader

words: 4.8k

You met Hyunjin on a random afternoon backstage at one of Stray Kids’ early shows before the lights, before the world knew him as more than a trainee with a pretty face and a body full of nervous energy. You weren’t part of the industry, not really. You were there tagging along with your cousin, a stylist-in-training who forgot her phone charger and begged you to bring it to the venue. You remember bumping into him—literally, shoulder against chest, awkward apologies exchanged in a cramped hallway.

He laughed, soft and polite, tucking his hair behind one ear. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

Neither were you. But after that, you couldn’t stop.

It was the beginning of a slow, easy friendship. The kind that unfolds like pages in a well-worn book, comfortable, familiar, occasionally surprising. You ended up in the same coffee shops, the same late-night ramen joints, the same cramped dorm rooms where he and the other members laughed over horror movies and convenience store snacks.

What made you and Hyunjin different was the silence. Not awkward silence—never that. But the kind of quiet that hung between two people who didn’t need to fill the space with anything but presence. You understood his introverted spells, the way he disappeared into notebooks and sketchpads for days. He understood your tendency to overthink, your hesitancy to open up to new people.

He became your person. The one who texted at 2AM just to ask what the stars looked like from your window. The one who bought you hot packs in winter and made playlists for your bus rides. You never had to label it, but he was yours in a way no one else was.

He painted you once. Just your hands. He never told you he was doing it, just asked you to hold a piece of fruit one afternoon while he adjusted the lighting in his room. Weeks later, he texted you a photo of the finished piece, captioned with a single word: ‘yours.’

You didn’t ask what it meant. You didn’t have to.

Through the years, you watched him become Hyunjin—Hwang Hyunjin—idol, artist, fantasy. But he always came back to you, in small ways. A voice note here. A sketch of your favorite flower there. Movie nights, even when he was dead tired. He always had time for you, and you never questioned it.

He had other friends, of course. You weren’t delusional. But the intimacy you shared with him felt untouched, sacred. You knew what made him laugh until he cried, what song made him tear up in silence, the scent of the oil paint he used late at night.

Somewhere along the way, things shifted. You don’t know when exactly it happened, but one day you realized that your skin burned when he brushed your arm. That his gaze lingered too long when you wore off-the-shoulder tops. That when he hugged you, he held on a fraction of a second too long. That you liked it. That you craved it.

But you never crossed that line. You didn’t dare.

Hyunjin was flirtatious by nature, teasing, coy, all pouty lips and sparkly eyes—but there was something else in the way he looked at you. A softness. A depth. A quiet hunger he never acted on.

He wasn’t just pretty. He was breathtaking. Tall and lean with that graceful dancer’s body, lips made for sin, eyes that carried galaxies. And yet, he only ever seemed to look at you like you were the masterpiece.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was the fact that you were so close, so intertwined, that the thought of losing him kept your desires locked behind your teeth.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It started with a text.

hyunjin:

‘hey’

‘weird ask maybe, can i paint you?’

You were in bed when it came through. Face half-buried in your pillow, doom-scrolling past fan edits of him—shirtless, smirking, in that sheer black stage outfit you pretended not to zoom in on. You sat up, reread the message five times, then typed and deleted three different replies before finally settling on:

‘you’ve painted me before?’

He replied almost immediately.

‘not like this’

Your heart gave one of those annoying little skips. You could feel the heat pooling in your cheeks even though it was probably innocent. Probably. You waited, thumb hovering, then typed:

‘what’s “not like this” mean?’

It took him a minute. Long enough for you to overthink it, to imagine him staring at his screen, debating what to say. When the next message came through, your stomach flipped.

‘i wanna do a full portrait’

‘not just your hands or your back or whatever’

‘just you, sitting for me’

There was something about the way he said just you that made your skin tingle. Maybe it was the bluntness. Maybe it was the fact that he trusted you with this—something intimate, something artistic, something that sounded like it was more than just about a painting.

You stared at the message until your brain caught up with your body, until your fingers stopped fidgeting and your breath leveled out. Then:

‘okay. when?’

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

His studio wasn’t what you expected.

It was just a spare room in his apartment, walls splattered with dried paint, a couple of canvases leaning against the corners, a stool in the center with a single warm light trained on it. Music played softly in the background, something instrumental and moody.

He met you at the door, hair tied back in a loose bun, oversized shirt smudged with black paint. He smelled like that cologne you always associated with him, clean, sharp, with a hint of something woodsy.

“You came,” he said, smiling like he didn’t quite believe it.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah, but you say a lot of things you don’t mean.” He wasn’t teasing. Not really. There was something searching in his eyes, like he was checking to see if you felt it too, whatever it was.

You stepped inside, took in the space. “This is nice. Very you. Chaotic.”

He laughed. “It’s better when the light hits right. You’ll see.”

You dropped your bag by the door, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “So… what do you want me to do?”

“Just sit,” he said, already turning to grab his sketchpad. “I’m gonna start with some quick lines, get the posture right. You can relax. We’ll talk.”

You moved to the stool, adjusting your position a few times until he gave a little hum of approval. He stood a few feet away, flipping the pad open, pencil already in hand.

“Is this for a project or…?”

“Nah.” His eyes flicked up to yours, then down again. “Just for me.”

That shouldn’t have made your breath hitch. But it did.

“So,” he said, voice casual, like he hadn’t just casually short-circuited your brain, “the comeback’s almost done. Title track’s crazy. Felix has this deep part that’s gonna blow people’s minds.”

You leaned back slightly, letting yourself settle into the rhythm of it. “Is it the angry sexy kind of comeback? Or the emotional sexy kind?”

Hyunjin laughed, head still down, wrist moving in soft strokes. “Definitely angry sexy. We’re in our fuck you era.”

You grinned. “Hot.”

There was a pause. You could feel his gaze on you again, flickering between your posture and your face.

“You look good tonight.”

Your stomach did a weird, slow turn. You didn’t reply right away, just tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and shrugged. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He said it so easily. So simply. Like he didn’t realize the way his words sank into you, slow and warm and deep.

You glanced around, needing something to focus on. “How many people have you painted?”

He paused, pencil stalling mid-sketch. “Like… properly? Not many. You’re the only one I’ve asked to pose like this.”

You looked back at him. “Why me?”

His eyes lifted. He didn’t smile. Didn’t deflect.

“Because I know how to look at you.”

You should’ve said something clever. Should’ve laughed it off or rolled your eyes or made a joke. But the way he said it—quiet, sure, honest, left no room for anything else.

So you just breathed. Slowly. Carefully.

Then you said, “You’re flirting with me.”

He gave a soft little smirk. “Am I?”

“You are.”

“Is it working?”

You blinked. Heat surged through you in a sudden wave, hot cheeks, warm chest, pulsing low in your stomach. You opened your mouth to reply, and instead said:

“You should paint me naked.”

It came out before you could stop it. You didn’t even really mean it. It was a joke. A flirty little comment, the kind you’d made a dozen times before in less charged settings. But the second the words left your mouth, you knew they landed differently.

Hyunjin’s pencil stopped. Dead still.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable. There was a beat. Then:

“…Okay.”

Your breath caught.

“I—what?”

“I’ll paint you naked,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “If you want.”

You stared at him, frozen. “Hyunjin, I was joking.”

“I’m not.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with tension. The kind of silence that made your skin prickle. You could feel something shift in the air, something new and heavy and inevitable.

You wanted to laugh it off. But part of you didn’t.

Part of you wondered what it would feel like to let him see all of you. Not just your face or your posture or your hands—but you. Bare and unguarded and real.

And part of you, maybe a bigger part than you were ready to admit, wanted to see what he would do.

He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at you, waiting.

And before you could second-guess yourself, you reached for the hem of your shirt.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You don’t even realize what you’re doing until your shirt is halfway over your head.

You pause for a second, arms tangled in fabric, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. You want to say something, maybe still turn it into a joke, make it light, make it easy, but when you finally pull the shirt off and toss it onto the floor, the look on Hyunjin’s face shuts your brain down completely.

His mouth is slightly open. Eyes wide. Hands still clutching his sketchpad, but the pencil’s barely hanging on between his fingers.

You’re not even naked. Just in a bra, nothing fancy, black lace with a tiny bow in the center—but suddenly it feels like you’re wearing nothing.

“...Okay,” you say, voice way too breathless to sound normal. You try to smile. “You called my bluff. Happy?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just stares.

Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like you’re not just his friend anymore, you’re something else. Something he can’t quite believe is real.

“I can put it back on,” you offer, and your voice is smaller now, not teasing anymore. “I was just messing around.”

“Don’t,” he says, and it comes out fast. Sharp. Then softer, like he’s catching himself. “I mean… only if you want to. But don’t because of me.”

You sit back on the stool, your bare skin suddenly way too aware of the air in the room. The studio light casts soft gold across your collarbones, down the slope of your chest. You can feel his eyes on you—like heat, like weight.

You glance at him. “Are you gonna sketch or just stare?”

He laughs once, short and nervous. “Sorry. Yeah. Sketching. Sketching.”

He fumbles with his pencil, nearly drops it, then clears his throat and lowers his eyes to the pad. You catch the way his hand is shaking a little. How his jaw flexes, how his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip like his mouth’s gone dry.

You watch him. Watch the way his gaze keeps dragging back to your chest, your stomach, your thighs. How hard he’s trying to not look hungry. How he’s failing.

“So,” you say, like your voice isn’t a little shaky too, “what’s the, uh—what’s the vision here? Do I get a Greek goddess moment? Or are we going full Titanic?”

“Stop talking,” he mumbles, not looking up. His cheeks are flushed. “You’re making it worse.”

That makes you grin.

“Oh? What’s worse?”

“You know what.”

You tilt your head. “You’re getting turned on.”

He doesn’t answer, but the tips of his ears are red, and he shifts in his chair like he’s trying to discreetly adjust something in his lap.

You bite your lip. Your skin is tingling. Your thighs press together, involuntarily. It’s like the heat in the room has changed—like the air between you is full of static.

“I didn’t think this would actually do anything,” you admit. “I mean, we’re friends.”

“Exactly,” he says, finally looking up at you, and there’s a raw kind of intensity in his voice. “That’s why it is doing something.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re not just some model. You’re not just a body. You’re—” He breaks off, swallows. “You’re you. And you’re sitting there, all beautiful and confident and half-naked, and I’m supposed to just draw you like it’s nothing?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what you’re feeling.

You’d thought this would be a joke. That he’d laugh, roll his eyes, maybe throw a pillow at you. But instead you’re both buzzing. Breathing like you’ve been running. Hearts pounding. Every second that passes feels more and more dangerous.

You shift slightly on the stool, crossing one leg over the other, and you see the way his eyes drop. You see the subtle flex in his hands. The rise in his chest.

He’s hard. You’re sure of it now. There’s a subtle tension in the way he sits, a stiffness in his posture that has nothing to do with his sketch.

And the worst, or maybe best, part?

You’re getting there too.

You feel warm all over. Every time his eyes flick to you, you get this pulse between your legs—this low, throbbing ache that makes you want to move, to shift, to do something.

And suddenly you’re wondering what it would feel like if he touched you.

Not in some grand, dramatic way. Not all at once. But something small. The brush of his fingers along your thigh. The backs of his knuckles down your ribcage. His mouth on your neck.

You swallow hard.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice low and tight.

You nod. But then your voice betrays you. “Are you?”

His throat works. “No.”

And you don’t know what possesses you, maybe it’s the ache building low in your belly, maybe it’s the way his eyes look like he’s trying not to devour you—but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“Do you… want help?”

His entire body goes still.

You clarify, because you have to, because if you don’t you’ll explode. “With… with your hard-on.”

There. You said it.

And he looks at you like you just offered him something sacred. His lips part. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling fast.

He nods.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, frantic and desperate, like the words aren’t coming fast enough.

“Please.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The moment the word please leaves his mouth, something shifts.

Hyunjin—your shy, soft-spoken best friend who blushes when you compliment his jawline, is staring at you like he’s about to fall apart. And you’re not much better. Your body is buzzing. Throat dry. Every nerve alive and humming.

You stand slowly, moving off the stool. The silence is so heavy it feels like a third body in the room.

He doesn’t move.

You step closer.

He still doesn’t move—but his breath hitches when you reach for the sketchpad, gently pulling it out of his hands and setting it on the floor beside the chair. His fingers graze yours, barely, but it’s enough to make your stomach clench.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Your hand moves carefully to the waistband of his sweats. You don’t pull, not yet. You’re watching his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his mouth trembles with restraint. He’s letting you lead, nervous and desperate, completely open, like he’ll shatter if you stop.

You lean in, close enough that your breath fans against his ear.

“You’re so hard,” you murmur, almost a purr.

He whimpers.

Actually, whimpers.

You smile a little, heat pooling between your legs. “Thought you said you could handle it.”

“I can’t,” he breathes. “Not—not when it’s you.”

You kiss him.

There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing. Just mouths crashing together, all heat and hunger and months—years—of buried tension finally snapping loose. His lips are soft but eager, a little clumsy with how badly he wants you. He tilts his head, groaning into the kiss, hands gripping the arms of the chair like if he touches you too soon he’ll lose control.

You straddle him slowly, your knees on either side of his hips, settling into his lap.

And fuck, you can feel it now, his cock straining against the thin fabric of his sweats, pressing up against the soft part of your panties. It makes your hips jerk without meaning to.

He gasps.

“You feel that?” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “You’re so hard for me, Jinnie.”

“Fuck,” he moans, head falling back. His neck arches and you take your chance, leaning down to kiss down the column of his throat, sucking gently just below his ear.

His whole body trembles.

You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, grinding down against him. The friction sends a shock through you, your clit catching just right against the fabric. It’s not enough, but it’s so good.

He’s breathing hard now, little gasps leaving his parted lips. His hands are twitching at his sides, and when one finally lifts, shaky, hesitant—you guide it to your waist.

“Touch me,” you say. “You can.”

That’s all it takes. His hands slide up your sides, warm and wide, fingers splaying across your back like he needs to hold you in place. He looks up at you like he’s still not convinced this is real.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice cracking. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t even know what I’m doing—”

“You’re doing perfect.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. Deeper. Letting your tongue trace his, dragging your fingers into his hair and tugging just enough to make him moan. He bucks his hips up into you, instinctive, needy, and the pressure makes you both gasp.

You whisper against his lips, “You want me to take it off?”

His eyes flick down to your bra. He swallows hard. Nods.

You reach behind you, unhook it slowly, then let the straps slide down your arms. The second it hits the floor, his eyes go wide—hungry. Like he wants to memorize every inch of you, paint you again and again, frame you in gold.

He reaches up with both hands, cupping your breasts carefully, reverently.

“Can I?” he whispers, thumbs brushing your nipples.

You nod.

He leans in, mouth warm against your skin, kissing along the curve before flicking his tongue over one nipple. You arch, grinding into him harder, and he groans, low and filthy, all breath and heat.

“Jinnie…”

“I can’t take it,” he gasps. “I need—fuck, I need more.”

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight, guiding your movements now. The rhythm builds, your clothed cores grinding together, wet heat meeting hard desperation, the friction slick and perfect. Your breath stutters. You feel yourself clenching around nothing, aching for more.

“Do you feel how wet I am for you?” you whisper. “I’m soaking through my panties.”

His hands tremble.

“You can touch,” you say. “If you want.”

His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear so fast it’s almost funny, shaky and eager, like he’s scared you’ll change your mind. You help him slide them down, then press back into his lap, bare now, wet and swollen and hot.

The first touch is electric.

His fingers slip between your folds, slow and shaky, and when he finds your clit you both gasp.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re—fuck, you’re dripping.”

You bite your lip, rocking against his hand. “You make me like this.”

He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. His fingers rub tight little circles, then dip lower, teasing your entrance.

“I wanna be inside you,” he whispers. “But I don’t wanna rush. I wanna feel everything.”

“We will,” you promise, kissing him back. “But I wanna make you feel good first.”

He looks up at you, eyes wide. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing this.”

You grin. “That’s the point.”

You reach down, slipping your hand into his sweats. The second your fingers wrap around him, he shudders—eyes fluttering, hips jerking into your palm.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he moans. “Y/N—please—”

“You’re so big, Jinnie.”

He whimpers again, so pretty, and you stroke him slowly, matching the rhythm of your hips.

You’re both sweating now, breath ragged, moaning into each other’s mouths as you grind and stroke and kiss like you’re starving. You can feel your orgasm building—tight and hot and close.

“I wanna come on your cock,” you whisper. “I wanna feel you inside me.”

He nods like he’s possessed.

“I want that too,” he pants. “Please. Let me—let me fuck you—”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You pause at the sound of his voice.

Hyunjin’s face is flushed, eyes heavy and glazed with need, hair sticking to his damp forehead. His chest is rising and falling fast, lips parted as he stares up at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Say it again,” you whisper, fingers resting against his bare stomach.

His jaw flexes.

“I want to fuck you,” he says again, this time firmer, his voice low and strained, like it’s burning his throat on the way out. “Please. Let me.”

You lean in close, letting your forehead press against his, your noses brushing.

“Then do it.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t have a condom—”

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “And I trust you.”

That’s all it takes.

He moves fast—like something inside him just snaps. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping tight as he lifts you up placing you on one of his tables in the room with surprising strength, mouth crashing onto yours in a bruising kiss. He’s not shy anymore. His body presses into yours, fully, completely, like he’s trying to mold himself against you.

“Tell me if I do too much,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You nod, breathless. “I won’t want to stop.”

He kisses down your chest, licking over your nipples until you’re arching under him, legs falling open on instinct. His hands trail down your stomach, your thighs, until he’s slipping a finger between your folds again, and this time, it’s so much slicker. You’re soaked.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so wet for me.”

“For you,” you pant, gripping his shoulders. “Only you.”

He groans like he’s in pain, rocking his hips forward just once, grinding his cock against your entrance, dragging the thick head through your folds. The friction makes your whole body tense, hips lifting to chase the sensation.

“Please, Hyunjin,” you whimper. “I need you inside me.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Look at me,” he says, voice ragged. “I want to watch your face when I’m inside you.”

You do. You hold his gaze.

And then—slowly, carefully, he pushes inside.

The stretch is dizzying. He’s thick, long, and he goes slow, easing in inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight like he’s trying not to lose control. Your body clenches around him instinctively, and you gasp, your hands flying to his arms.

“F-fuck,” you stammer. “Hyunjin—you're so big—”

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice shaking. “I’ll stop. I’ll wait—”

“No,” you gasp. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He groans, deep and guttural, and finally sinks all the way in.

For a second, you both just breathe. Your bodies flush together, your chest pressed to his, every inch of him filling you perfectly. You feel split open, wrecked, full, but in the best way.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispers. “For so long.”

You cup his face, pull him into a kiss, and then he starts to move.

The first thrust is slow, testing, dragging his cock out almost all the way before pushing back in deep. You both moan, eyes fluttering shut. His hands are everywhere now, your hips, your waist, your face, like he can’t decide which part of you to hold onto.

The pace builds quickly.

Soft grunts spill from his lips as he fucks into you—deep and rhythmic, grinding with each thrust. He’s still gentle, still careful, but the desperation is bleeding through. His hips slap against yours, the sound obscene in the studio silence, and you can’t stop the way you’re clinging to him—fingers tangled in his hair, thighs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in harder.

“God, you feel—” he chokes on a breath, “you feel so fucking good.”

You tighten around him, intentionally this time, and he gasps.

“Fuck…don’t do that,” he groans. “I’m not gonna last.”

“Then come,” you whisper. “I want you to. Come inside me, Hyunjin.”

He growls, actually growls, and pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip tight as he starts fucking you harder. Not rough, exactly, but deep, urgent, hungry. Like he needs to bury himself in you and never leave.

Your orgasm builds like a tidal wave, tight and sharp, curling through your spine.

“I’m-fuck…I’m gonna~” you cry out, legs shaking.

“Come,” he gasps. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

And when you do, it rips through you like fire, your whole body seizing, walls fluttering around him as you scream his name. He’s right behind you, cursing under his breath as he thrusts deep one last time, spilling inside you with a loud, broken moan.

You stay like that, panting, trembling, pressed together, for a long moment.

Then he lowers himself gently onto your chest, still inside you, kissing your collarbone.

“...Holy shit,” he whispers.

You laugh, breathy, dazed. “That’s one way to end a sketch session.”

He huffs a laugh too, then kisses your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“I’m never gonna be able to paint you the same again,” he says softly.

You smile.

“Good.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The studio is quiet now.

No more breathless gasps, no desperate sounds of skin on skin, just the slow hum of the fan in the corner and the afterglow settling between your bodies like a blanket. You’re lying on the floor with him, tangled together on a half-unrolled canvas drop cloth, skin sticking slightly where your legs are wrapped around his.

Your chest rises and falls slowly. He’s beside you, arm slung around your waist, cheek resting on your shoulder. Still catching his breath.

He hasn’t said much since.

But he hasn’t let go of you, either.

You glance down at him, brushing your fingers through his messy, sweaty hair. “Hey.”

He lifts his head a little, just enough to meet your eyes.

“You okay?” you ask, and the softness in your voice surprises even you. You’re still breathless, still flushed, but the concern is real. You care. Maybe too much.

Hyunjin nods immediately. “Yeah. Yeah—I’m okay. Just…”

He pauses, lips parting, eyes searching yours.

“I don’t want this to mess anything up.”

Your heart clenches.

“Me neither,” you whisper. “But… it doesn’t feel like a mistake, right?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not even close.”

A pause.

Then he reaches beside him and grabs one of his oversized hoodies from the floor, black, soft, probably worn to death. He helps you pull it over your head, careful and gentle like he’s afraid of hurting you. It’s warm, smells like him, and falls way past your thighs.

You watch him quietly as he tugs his own shirt back on.

There’s a faint pink flush still on his cheeks, but his eyes are softer now. Sweeter. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m glad it was you,” he says. “If it was ever gonna be anyone, I wanted it to be you.”

Your heart twists, full and aching. You nod.

He walks you to the door like a gentleman, hand at the small of your back. When you step outside into the cool night air, he hesitates.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.

You grin. “You better.”

And when you walk away, his hoodie hanging off your body, your thighs still tingling from the hours before,you realize this isn’t just a shift.

It’s a beginning.

@hwangjoanna @penguins-in-space @sammhisphere

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