#there's like too much to explain and not enough space to explain it

[yuh13lo]

Couldn’t sleep | chris sturniolo

It was nearly 2AM when she gave up on pretending sleep might come. Chris had left the house hours ago with Nick and Matt for some spontaneous late-night filming idea, and though she knew he’d be back soon, her body wouldn’t settle. She tossed once more under the weight of his comforter before sighing, stretching her limbs, and standing with purpose.

The bedroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge down the hall. The air still smelled like his cologne—warm, woodsy, familiar—and his hoodie hung over the desk chair like an invitation. She tugged it on, sleeves slipping over her hands, and glanced around the room.

It wasn’t messy, exactly. Just… Chris-style cluttered. Clothes he “was definitely going to wear again,” a pile of empty Gatorade bottles on his nightstand, and his sneakers lined up just a little too chaotically under his dresser. Her fingers twitched.

“If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something,” she mumbled, brushing hair behind her ear.

She started with the desk—stacking notebooks, rearranging the pile of polaroids he kept of her and his brothers, wiping down the surface with a tissue and a splash of water. Then she moved to the dresser, folding a hoodie, fixing the way his hat hung off the side, finally tackling the nightstand, which was an ode to midnight snacks and half-finished waters.

By the time she tucked the last sock into his drawer, she was smiling to herself. Something about the routine of tidying his space felt grounding. Like leaving little “I love you” notes he might not notice at first, but would feel anyway.

The door creaked behind her and she turned around, caught red-handed mid-reach toward a hoodie on the back of the door.

“Hey,” Chris’s voice was scratchy from laughing too much. His curls were wild from the wind, cheeks flushed, and he blinked in surprise when he saw her. “What are you—”

But before she could even explain, he crossed the room in three long strides and tackled her gently onto the bed, making her shriek-laugh as they landed in a tangle of limbs and flannel.

“Christopher!” she giggled, squirming under his weight as he buried his face in her neck.

“I knew you couldn’t sleep without me,” he muttered, voice muffled and tired. “But cleaning my room? You really are in love with me.”

She laughed again, breathless this time, arms wrapping around his shoulders instinctively as he melted into her.

“You left it a disaster zone,” she teased, fingers carding through his hair.

“It was organized chaos.”

“It was a war zone.”

Chris grinned against her collarbone. “And now it’s a war zone that smells like lavender and looks suspiciously folded. I love it.”

They laid like that for a while, his weight pressed comfortably over her, her fingers tracing the curve of his shoulder through his hoodie. The room was dark again, quiet but peaceful this time.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at her, eyes soft and sleepy.

“You really couldn’t sleep without me?”

“Nope,” she whispered, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand. “But I feel better now.”

Chris nuzzled back into her chest with a content sigh.

“Me too.”

And in his freshly cleaned room, wrapped in his arms, she finally fell asleep.

Taglist @xsturnkay @sturnsobsessed21 @bugs-tags @edu4rd0ss @ellsxxoxo @nessaisabelartemas333 @mattspillowprincess @oopsiedaisydeer

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 2

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: liora, a quiet student at westburn college, becomes increasingly drawn to her enigmatic professor, billie, after billie reads her writing aloud in class. subtle glances and intimate conversations blur boundaries, leaving liora shaken and longing. by night, she writes about the feelings she can’t name—haunted by billie’s presence, and unsure if what’s growing between them is safe, or inevitable.

masterlist

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thursday came like fog. slow, quiet, cold at the edges.

liora stood outside the classroom door for a second longer than she needed to, pretending to check her phone, pretending her palms weren't a little sweaty. it was silly. it was just class. just a room. just a woman who had only said her name once.

still, her fingers tingled as she pushed the door open.

billie was already there.

this time, she sat on the edge of the desk, one foot resting on the seat of the chair in front of her, her elbow on her knee. she wore a dark crewneck and soft gray trousers cuffed at the ankle. her hair was loose today—longer than it looked when tied back, falling in lazy waves across her shoulders.

she looked up when liora walked in. didn't smile, didn't speak—just watched her.

liora swallowed and took her seat in the same row as before. second from the front. close, but not too close. not enough to be obvious.

a few more students trickled in. someone bumped into liora's desk and muttered sorry. she didn't answer. her attention stayed locked on the front, even though billie wasn't doing anything except... existing. which somehow still managed to occupy all the space in the room.

"okay," billie said finally, pushing off the desk and stretching her arms slightly. her voice cracked the silence like warm water on cold glass. "anyone want to volunteer what they wrote?"

silence.

a few people shifted in their seats, avoiding her gaze. someone in the back coughed. billie gave it a beat, then raised an eyebrow.

"cowards."

soft laughter. liora smiled without meaning to.

billie glanced at her notebook, flipped it open, and scanned something with a faint nod.

"fine," she said. "i'll read one."

the class perked up slightly. she looked around the room, pausing for a beat before she said it:

"liora rai."

liora blinked. she felt her stomach drop in the way it does when the rollercoaster starts moving and it's too late to get off.

"you mind if i read yours?" billie asked. "you didn't mark it private."

liora didn't remember marking anything. didn't even remember breathing properly when she turned it in.

but now billie was waiting. so was the whole room.

"sure," she said quietly.

billie nodded once, then began to read. her voice low, unhurried, like she was reading a letter.

"some songs don't need lyrics. they're already saying too much. maybe that's why i like the sound of strings. they don't try to explain anything. they just feel. and sometimes, that's all you can do. feel. even when you're not ready to."

liora couldn't look up. she stared at the edge of her desk, tracing the grain of the fake wood with her fingertip. the room was too quiet. no one laughed. no one whispered. just silence.

billie cleared her throat.

"i liked this one," she said, voice softer now. "not because it was polished. it's not. but because it's honest. and you'd be surprised how rare that is."

liora finally looked up.

billie was looking directly at her.

and something in her expression—something small, something unreadable—shifted.

"thanks for letting me share it," she said.

liora nodded, barely. "yeah. sure."

but inside, her pulse was a wildfire. and she wasn't sure if she was relieved or terrified that billie had seen so much.

class let out five minutes early.

people took their time gathering their things, maybe because they were shaken by how personal everything felt. maybe because billie had read aloud from someone's soul like it was nothing. liora moved slowly, unsure if she felt exposed or seen—or if there was a difference.

her notebook was still open on her desk, the edges slightly curled from her grip. she reached for it, but stopped when she heard footsteps.

"liora."

she turned.

billie stood next to the front row, arms crossed loosely, voice quiet.

"can i talk to you for a sec?"

not a question, not really. but soft enough that it felt like one.

liora nodded. followed her instinctively toward the side of the room near the windows, out of earshot from the few students still packing up.

billie didn't speak right away. she leaned against the sill, looking out for a moment like she might say something else entirely. then her eyes flicked back to liora.

"i didn't mean to catch you off guard with that," she said. "i should've asked you first. properly."

liora shook her head quickly. "it's okay. i just wasn't expecting it."

"no one ever is," billie said, almost to herself. "but you handled it. people don't always."

liora looked down. "i just wrote what came out. i wasn't trying to be good."

"that's exactly why it worked."

a pause. long enough for liora to feel the silence stretch between them like thread. thin, taut.

billie shifted slightly. she wasn't looking at her like a professor would. not like someone older trying to teach or correct. it was something gentler. more curious. like she was trying to read her again, the way she had read her words.

"do you play?" billie asked suddenly.

liora blinked. "music?"

"yeah."

"a little. mostly violin. not well."

billie smiled, barely. "i doubt that."

liora felt something in her throat tighten. she looked at her feet, then back up. "why?"

billie met her gaze. "you write like someone who hears things deeply."

liora didn't know what to say to that. didn't know how to respond when someone saw through her so fast. she just nodded, heart stuttering.

someone called out a goodbye across the room. billie waved a hand in return, but her eyes stayed on liora.

"you ever want to talk music outside class," she said, softer now, "i'm usually here early. before nine. or in the practice rooms after hours."

liora's breath caught.

"okay," she said.

billie's mouth curved into something close to a smile—but only for a second. then she turned, walked back toward her desk, and picked up her bag like the moment hadn't just changed something.

liora stood there a second longer than she should have.

then left, carrying a silence that felt heavier than words. liora didn't go back to her dorm right away.

instead, she wandered. across campus, past the edge of the quad where someone was setting up folding chairs for a student film screening, past the old music building with its ivy-covered windows and faded paint. her boots scuffed softly over the stone path, every step somehow echoing.

everything billie said replayed in her head, not in order, not even clearly—just little shards of sound:

you write like someone who hears things deeply. if you ever want to talk music. before nine. after hours.

she didn't know why it stuck the way it did.

maybe it was nothing. maybe billie said that kind of thing to everyone. maybe it was just encouragement. professional. polite.

but it didn't feel like that.

it felt personal. not inappropriate. not obvious. but intimate, in a way liora couldn't explain without sounding ridiculous.

she ended up sitting in the music building stairwell, notebook in her lap, pen hovering.

the building was quiet. not silent—there was a soft hum of a cello from somewhere upstairs, distant and slow. but the air itself felt still. like the walls were waiting.

she opened to a blank page. started writing.

sometimes the words are fine. sometimes they say exactly what you mean. and still, it's not enough. not because they're wrong. but because they're too quiet. or maybe i am.

she paused, tapped the pen against her chin. then, lower down the page, she added:

i think she hears the quiet parts, too. i don't think that's fair.

her pen stopped moving. she closed the notebook. her fingers pressed into the worn cover.

on a whim she hadn't planned, she stood and walked quietly down the hall.

just to see.

the door to the faculty practice rooms was closed, locked as usual after hours—but the light under the door flickered faintly. someone was in there.

she didn't knock.

she stood there for a moment, just listening. waiting. hoping—for what, she wasn't sure.

then turned and left, the sound of a piano key lingering like a held breath behind her. friday morning came slow.

gray light filtered through liora's window as her alarm buzzed quietly at 7:43. she stared at the ceiling for a while, then sat up, heart already pulling toward something unnamed.

her roommate mumbled something in her sleep, still cocooned in blankets. liora didn't bother saying goodbye. she dressed in silence—black leggings, oversized hoodie, hair pulled into a soft, low braid that hung between her shoulder blades.

she didn't know why she was going in early.

she told herself it was to use the printer. or to revise her notes. or maybe to drop off something at the front office, even though she knew she wouldn't.

she just wanted to see her. maybe not even talk. just... see.

the classroom door creaked when she opened it, just before 8:50. she expected the room to be empty.

it wasn't.

billie was there. alone. sitting cross-legged on the floor by the whiteboard, back against the wall, earbuds in. her laptop rested beside her and a coffee cup balanced on a thick novel she clearly hadn't touched yet. her head was bowed, long hair falling around her face in a curtain, fingers scribbling in a composition notebook.

liora froze in the doorway.

billie looked up.

there was a second of recognition. then—

a soft, lopsided smile.

she pulled one earbud out. "morning."

liora swallowed. "hi. sorry. i didn't mean to interrupt."

"you're not," billie said. she set her pen down, eyes soft but unreadable. "just journaling. i do it before class, otherwise my brain doesn't shut up."

liora nodded. "same."

billie quirked a brow. "what time does yours usually stop talking?"

liora gave a quiet laugh. "hasn't yet."

"mm. dangerous."

liora's heart stuttered at that. not the word. the way she said it—low and casual, but weighted, like it meant something more.

she walked to her usual desk and dropped her bag slowly. billie watched her the whole time. not staring. just... noticing.

"you're early," billie said.

liora shrugged, fingers fidgeting with her sleeve. "couldn't sleep."

billie leaned her head back against the wall, looking at her upside-down. "you write anything last night?"

liora hesitated. "some."

"was it honest?"

liora nodded. "too honest."

a beat of silence passed. billie tapped her pen against her knee.

"that's the best kind," she said again, softer this time.

liora's fingers tightened around the edge of her desk.

billie sat up straighter, stretched her legs out, and glanced toward the clock. "we've got ten minutes."

liora blinked. "until what?"

billie met her eyes, and something in her expression was quieter now. more careful.

"until the room stops being just ours."

liora couldn't answer. not really. not with words.

so she just sat there. breathing, listening to the clock tick, watching billie lower her gaze back to her journal like nothing about that moment was dangerous.

but it was. and she knew they both felt it. the rest of the day passed in pieces.

liora moved through it, but not in it. she answered questions when people spoke to her. nodded at professors. ate half a sandwich she barely remembered ordering. but everything felt a little off, like her body was two steps behind her thoughts.

her mind kept circling back to that morning. to billie. to the way she'd said: until the room stops being just ours.

she had meant it as a joke, maybe. or maybe not. maybe that was the whole problem — it was impossible to tell where the edges were with her. nothing about billie felt standard. nothing about her felt safe.

and liora wasn't sure if that scared her, or made her want more.

she spent that night curled up at her desk, the soft hum of music playing from her speaker — something instrumental, no lyrics. she couldn't handle words right now. hers were already too loud.

her notebook lay open beside her laptop. blank page. staring back.

she didn't know what she was trying to write. she just knew it was there, somewhere under her skin, and it needed out.

after a while, she started, slow:

i'm not trying to want this. i'm not even sure what this is. but i know how it feels. like walking toward thunder. like the space between two notes where silence is too loud.

she said it like it was nothing. but i think she felt it too.

her hand stilled.

she didn't finish the page. didn't close the notebook, either.

instead, she leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, the soft glow of her desk lamp casting blurred shadows on the wall. outside, it was raining — the kind of quiet, steady rain that made everything feel further away.

except her.

billie.

she was still too close. in her thoughts. under her skin. and now, there was no unfeeling that.

[heylittleriotact]

but hidden in his coat is an orange right hand

Here it is. The most unserious thing I've ever written: Emmrich has the day off and Rook is at work. He decides to tidy her apartment for her, but gets distracted by the laundry. He borrows her lotion, and chaos ensues.

@aldisobey - I dedicate this to you with all of my love. This is in every way, in every fucked up word, for You <3

Read below or on ao3

It had all started out so innocently: Rook left for work, and he had the day off. He might have gone home, but with the automatic feeder for Manfred set up to be controlled with an app on his phone, Emmrich decided that loitering around Rook’s small apartment for the day would be a nice change of pace.

By noon he’d washed and put away the sink full of dishes, watered her houseplants, and made a trip to the grocery store to replenish her cupboards.

After vacuuming the carpet in the living room (how was there so much cat fur? She didn’t even own a cat), he changed the record on her turntable (the Velvet Underground and Nico was swapped for Cohen’s ‘I’m Your Man’), and decided to start on her bedroom: there was nothing like coming home to a tidy house, and there was no denying Rook’s well-lived in space was in need of tending.

He’d been partway through picking up the not insignificant amount of clothing on the floor, and depositing it into the duct-taped plastic laundry basket he fully intended to take down to the communal laundry room in the basement, when he found himself staring at the dark blue panties sitting atop a Motörhead t-shirt that he’d just placed in the basket.

They were just panties. They weren’t even her most alluring pair: these were plain modal fabric, free of lace or cut-outs or suggestive designs.

Yet he stared — and for a good deal longer than he had any reason to.

These were what she had worn to bed the night before after she’d emerged from the shower. She had cuddled up against him, fingers scratching lazily through his chest hair, falling into a deep easy sleep at least a full hour before sleep found him too.

It had been a long day for both of them, and neither had the energy to make love the night before. He liked that about this particular place in their relationship: it wasn’t that he didn’t relish every single opportunity he had to make her legs shake, but there was an ease about their day-to-day interactions after so many months of being together that was effortless and simple. No longer was every spare moment spent wrapped around each other as if it may be their last, but instead their lust had established mature roots until it became a comfortable - but ever-present - option instead of a necessity.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, however, Rook’s worn panties balled up innocently in the laundry basket had his heart racing and blood rushing below his waistline faster than he could say ‘pervert.’

How they’d ended up in his hand was a mystery to him, even as he swallowed hard and brought them to his nose, feeling sinful as he inhaled. His cock throbbed receptively as the familiar scent of her mingled with her body wash and laundry detergent flooded his olfactory receptors.

He moaned softly into the mid-afternoon silence of Rook’s bedroom, and surrendered himself with surprisingly little shame to what his body was implying it should do: it was only natural to feel called to see to oneself from time to time, after all.

Undoing his belt with one hand, he dropped onto his side of Rook’s bed, pushing up his cashmere pullover and unzipping his pants in one efficient motion.

He realized then that the bottle of lube was still in its most recently utilized location, which was the bathroom. Did he really want to hold his pants up and shuffle all that way to get it?

Deciding he’d rather not, his eyes landed on a nondescript bottle of lotion perched on Rook’s bedside table behind the ashtray. Figuring that plain old Jergens was good enough for him when he was a young man, it would most certainly do in a pinch now.

Setting the panties down atop the bulge in his underwear, he reached over the bed and pumped a generous palmful of lotion into his left hand and leaned back into his pillow, careful not to get any on his clothes or the sheets.

The panties were picked up again, and he fished his cock out of his briefs as he savoured the softness of her intimates under his thumb.

Rook… oh… even when he could have her whenever he liked, the thrill never wore off — never diminished to anything less than absolute…

His cock throbbed under his fingers and he let out a low groan as he worked the room-temperature lotion over his hot length. He dragged his teeth over his lower lip, uttering another indulgent moan through them as he lifted the hand gripping the panties again so he could steal another lungful of all that was her.

Everything. She was everything. His life could be defined as little more than banal purgatory before she’d graced it: elevator music and beige everything - endlessly waiting for something, though no one could tell him what.

Oh how he loved her… craved her… needed her…

He set a well-practiced pace, confident in his understanding of his body as his slick hand glided up and down his cock, the lewd sounds of his pleasure accompanying his deep, heavy breaths.

If only she could see: if only she could witness for herself the monumental effect that she had on him, reducing him - an accomplished and successful man of his age - to little more than a horny adolescent, unable to make it through a single afternoon without a furious and passionate wank...

He whined into the cotton against his face, completely lost in the ghostly sweetness of her mesmerizing cunt that had been in contact with the scant clothing only hours earlier.

Maker how lovely it would be if it was actually her cunt against his lips instead…

He’d spread her open like the pages of a lurid book, taking his time - as one should in a beautiful garden - to bury his nose within her perfect bloom; graze upon her with all the gentle innocence of a new fawn nibbling upon the delicate meadow flax of springtime…

She’d whisper his name first: a breathy, flattered little exclamation that would give way to rich moans from deep within the very core of her as her thighs shuddered against his ears and her hips arced upwards…

‘Ohhhh…’ she would sigh, deliriously, deliciously undone. ‘Oh Emmrich - I’m going to cum…’

‘Come for me, darling,’ he would say then. ‘Wash over me like a wave on a cruel summer day, and I shall be the happiest man who ever was - with your dew upon my lips, and the dream that I might yet savour your sweetness, even with my very last breath...’

His hips jerked and he fucked into his clenched hand, his breaths falling from his lips in frenzied bursts as his toes curled into the bedsheets.

He came with a ragged groan, feeling his hot spend pulse out of him and drip steadily down his greasy fingers, pooling on his exposed belly and pubic hair.

Reposed on the bed, he waited until the lightheadedness subsided and his vision cleared, the hand holding the navy blue panties that had been his undoing falling to his side as he swallowed thickly and took stock of the situation: he was laying in his girlfriend’s bed at three o’clock on a Tuesday, covered in lotion and his own cum while she was at work and a half-full laundry basket of clothes sat forgotten on the floor.

She very well may be the death of me…

Confident again in his ability to stand, Emmrich hastily cleaned himself up with the panties, feeling somewhat guilty about soiling them so vulgarly despite their impending date with the washing machine. They were dropped in the laundry basket and he tucked himself back into his pants and refastened his belt before making his way to the bathroom to wash the remnants of cum and lotion off his hand.

Certain he had his wits about him once more, he deposited a few more pieces of clothing into the basket, then hoisted it under his arm, grabbing the laundry detergent and a handful of quarters from the bowl by the front door and whistling a jaunty tune as he descended to the laundry room.

It was about an hour or so later when he was dusting Rook’s dresser that it first occurred to him that something was amiss.

Initially he thought the strange hue of his left palm might be merely a late afternoon shadow filtering in the nicotine-tinted window, but when he set down the Swiffer duster in his right hand and the rabbit shaped piggy bank he’d been dusting underneath, it became abundantly clear that was not the case.

“Uhhh…”

He inspected his left hand — the palm of which was now a vivid copper-orange. Aggressive brown stains lingered on the sides of his fingers and the skin between them, collecting gaudily at the edges of his many rings.

“Oh,” he whimpered, horrible, damning realization settling upon him. “Oh no.”

He cleared the distance to Rook’s nightstand in two long steps, stumbling over her vanity chair in his fervour, and snatched the bottle of duplicitous lotion from its innocent place, holding it up to read the label.

The words ‘natural glow’ imprinted themselves upon his brain in cruel confirmation, and he made a sound like a pelican gargling a bowling ball, fingers tightening around the damnable bottle.

Self-tanner. Why in the name of all that is precious and sane does Rook have a bottle of self-tanner next to her bed? She’s as white as the freshly driven snow! She gets sunburn if she stands close to a window at mid-day for too long!

Why? — WHY?!—

— Horrified and already knowing what awaited him, Emmrich slammed the bottle of lotion down and hooked his thumb into the waistband of his pants, pulling them away from his body far enough to dimly make out his mortifyingly ‘sun-kissed’ dick, nestled in his underwear.

Time. He needed time to figure this out.

He looked at his watch: 4:17. Rook was finished work at 5:00 if no last minute First Calls wandered into the chapel, and Pemberly was a twelve minute drive from her apartment…

He forced himself to take a deep breath.

I have time. I can sort this out with time to spare, surely. Perhaps it hasn’t really had time to develop fully. A shower — yes, a shower is in order…

He was already halfway to the bathroom — sweater yanked off and discarded on the floor, his pants undone for the second time that afternoon — though this time for a much different reason.

This wasn’t as simple as correcting the colouring of a jaundiced cadaver with a few ounces of extra red colourant added to the embalming fluid and some clever cosmetics: this chemical was sunk into the outer layers of his skin, and cosmetizing a penis was no small feat: hiding this from Rook was not going to be an option — he needed to scour the tanner from his person before she got home.

Hopping into the bathtub like a startled doe, Emmrich cranked the faucet, not waiting for the water to heat up (which took no less than forty seconds in Rook’s shower) before standing directly under the frigid water and squirting a full palmful of her grapefruit and neroli body wash into his hand and working it into the briefest of lathers before applying it directly to his nethers.

He coated himself liberally, sudsy fingers slipping over his soft cock, panic mounting as every swath of skin revealed as he worked the soap around was still stubbornly orange.

“Nnnngh!”

He lifted his left hand and held it inches from his face, scrubbing his palm and fingers with his right.

I have to go to work tomorrow… what will people think of a supposedly ‘dignified’ mortician with only one hand suspiciously orange? Ohhhhhh—

“Please!” He begged the obstinate beauty product, as if it would do him any good.

Something else, perhaps…

He glanced around the shower: Rook didn’t use shower poufs or loofahs or anything he could solidly scrub himself with, but…

The pot of body scrub in the corner practically waved at him and he dropped the lid on the floor of the bathtub in his haste to access the contents within.

Three minutes and as much ‘gentle’ exfoliation as his cock could handle later, Emmrich abandoned the idea: it hadn’t helped - perhaps smoothed out some of the patchiness and the brown borders on his fingers, but it had done depressingly little to actually purge the stain from his skin.  

He turned the water off and got out of the shower, parsing his remaining options, settling finally upon the communal knowledge of the internet to hopefully get him out of this predicament.

Vinegar, baking soda, lemon juice - even toothpaste. He tried them all, and with time running out, nothing helped. In fact, the lemon juice might have even made it worse, and now he smelled like a middle-school science project to boot.

It wasn’t that he thought Rook would be disturbed or upset - quite the opposite: she would be delighted. She might never stop laughing.

She might never take him seriously again.

Who could take a man with an orange cock seriously?

He could just leave, he supposed. Text her and tell her that he forgot that he had plans that evening and he wouldn’t be able to see her until tomorrow when hopefully he could figure a way out of this mess…

“What 'plans?'” He asked himself sardonically: Rook knew better. He did too.

All he could do was act as normally as possible and hope that she wouldn't notice. It wouldn't be too difficult, would it? He was right-handed, and could conceal his left easily enough, and there was no real reason she would need to see him naked at any point in the evening. Even if they found themselves in an amorous mood, waiting until the lights were off before undressing would be easy enough. Indeed... with some cunning and carefully controlled lighting, he very well could get away with this without Rook being any the wiser... 

The folly of his plan became apparent a short time later when Rook walked in the door to her pristinely clean apartment and looked around from the entryway, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, before whispering, "Y-you cleaned my apartment for me?"  

He had barely opened his mouth to respond by the time Rook had dumped her backpack on the doormat and shed her jacket in a pile behind her, clearing distance between them with baffling ease and all but tackling him onto the worn couch, her weight - familiar and warm settling against him as her lips met his in an enthusiastic - and deep - kiss.  

"You spent your day off cleaning my apartment?" She breathed, straddling his thigh, her breasts pressing against him, "Why did you do that?"

Knowing where this was going as she nuzzled into his neck and slipped a hand past the hem of his sweater and up over his abdomen, he scrambled to redirect her.

"I-it was nothing, darling - I thought it might be a good way to pass the ti– TIME!"

He yelped when her hand redirected itself instead - directly into his pants, her fingers cool against his flaccid cock.

"I love you," she purred against his neck, her silken palm curving around his softness in a way his own hand never could. "I love you, I love you, I love you – you didn't have to..."

"No, but I wanted to – you know how I operate, dear."

If only he hadn't been enchanted by her panties...

She placed a sucking kiss against his neck, slowly moving her hand within his pants, "Thank you..."

"You're welcome, darling, b-but you needn't..." he swallowed and debated extracting her hand. "Reciprocate."

"But what if I want to?" She breathed against his ear, and he could hear her smile and smell her lipstick: a shiver stroked up his spine – he twitched in her hand.

Oh... the things she did... the way she did them...

His head hit the arm of the couch with a resigned 'thud' as she continued to lick and nibble his earlobe.

“Are you hungry?” He inquired, searching for a way out of this despite his conviction that waned with each stroke of her perfect hand. “L-let me — ohh… let me take you out for dinner — we can go anywhere you’d like.”

Yes — if he could get her out of the apartment…

"Sure..." she murmured, though to his dismay she continued her business within his trousers, grinding herself lazily against his thigh. "But first, an amuse-bouche."

He felt her hand leave his cock and flip the tongue of his belt free from the buckle.

"Wouldn't you rather wait?!" Emmrich half-screeched, catching her wrist before she could undress him further.

Rook sat up, hand still on his belt, his cock straining visibly against the front of his pants. Her eyes left his, wandering pointedly to the bulge between them. "Would you?"

"N-no of course not–" he babbled. "– it's only that, you see – I simply think that – if we only–"

She took advantage of his scramble for an explanation and batted his hand away from hers, easily undoing the rest of his buckle and fly, with a coquettish laugh. "You're being weird, babe. You never turn down a blow– oh!" His cock was in her hand again, bronze tint contrasting garishly with her pale, pale fingers.

Frowning, she studied him, then said, all business: "Emmrich, why is your dick orange?"

Blood rushed to his ears and cheeks. "Why do you have self-tanning lotion on your bedside table?!"

The frown wavered, twitched, then gave way to a disbelieving grin as Rook clearly put the pieces together in her mind.

"Did... did you...? No way..." an amused titter slipped past her lips. "Did you jerk off with self-tanner?"

"I fail to see the humour in this," Emmrich muttered reproachfully.

"Maker's tits, you did!" She was laughing properly now: just like he knew she would... now she was unlikely to ever stop.

"Well why would you leave it next to your bed?" He snapped, trying to sit up, but Rook had him pinned. "You don't even use tanning lotion!"

"No–-" she gasped, "– but at one point I thought I might, so I bought a bottle. That was years ago though. I used it maybe twice."

He wanted to grab her arms and shake her: it was all so funny now, but after a week of this, the novelty of a boyfriend with orange genitals might wear thin.

"I look ridiculous!"

"Yeah," she agreed, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. She slipped down the couch, resting on her belly and putting her face close to the offending reproductive organ, "But you know what, handsome?"

He sighed, wishing for nothing more than to be enveloped by a black hole. "What?"

"I still love you anyway." The words washed over him, body and soul: hot, breathy, and utterly honest.

How had he found himself so fortunate? So blessed?

His breath caught when her tongue dragged up the underside of his length, flicking against the crown of his cock.

"Why does it taste like peppermint?" She inquired in a soft whisper from between his legs, licking him again, stroking him in tandem.

He chanced a look down – saw her looking up at him, the lust in her grey eyes tempered by that benign curiosity he loved so much.

"T-toothpaste..." he confided. "The... the Google suggested it might uh... lighten it. As you can see, it didn't work..."

She didn't call him an idiot for thinking it would. Didn't laugh at his foolish desperation.

Instead, she pressed her lips ever-so-sweetly against the tip of his cock, and they parted in a breathtaking smile.

He loved her. He loved her more than life itself. He would truly give anything to see that smile every day for the rest of their lives...

His Rook. His kind, enchanting, joyful Rook. Non-judgemental and compassionate – a marvelous woman by all definitions.

How foolish he was to think that she would be anything but understanding about this silly faux pas...

He had been just about to tell her that when she placed his cock against the corner of her mouth, and said in the nasally imitation of a beloved cartoon character, "Ehhh... what's up, Doc?" –

– and then proceeded to give him the best blowjob of his life.

[krystalsturns]

the rehearsal - m.s.

chapter 1: no reason to feel weird

-

grace’s apartment looked like a wedding planner exploded inside it.

fabric swatches were draped over the back of her couch, half-filled folders were stacked on the coffee table, and someone had taped a massive to-do list on the fridge in neon pink marker. you stepped over a pile of centerpiece catalogs just as grace popped her head out of the kitchen, a wide grin on her face.

“you came!” she beamed, rushing over to give you a hug. “i was starting to worry.”

“yeah, sorry,” you said, laughing. “it took me ten minutes to find parking and another ten to convince myself this isn’t going to be a total disaster.”

grace rolled her eyes and pulled you in anyway. “you’re dramatic. it’s going to be fine.”

“you’re getting married in twenty-nine days, grace.”

“twenty-eight,” she corrected, holding up a finger. “and i already have the dress, the venue, the officiant, and the menu. tonight is just about organizing the bridal party stuff.”

“just?” you echoed, raising a brow.

you weren’t being negative. you were thrilled for her. grace and chris had been inseparable since sophomore year. their love was the kind that made people believe in forever. but planning a full wedding in four weeks? it was ambitious. and chaotic. and very, very grace.

“everyone’s in the living room,” she said, tugging your arm. “come meet the full crew.”

you followed her down the hallway and into the cozy space, where snacks had been set out on every surface and the group had already claimed their spots. the living room buzzed with warm, low chatter and the soft hum of a playlist playing in the background. something acoustic and romantic.

you recognized a few faces. her sister hope, lily and raigan from college, kennedy from work. they all smiled and waved like they’d known you forever.

the guys were mostly new to you. chris’s brother justin, his friends nate and sam.

and then there was him.

you almost didn’t recognize him at first. matt.

he looked… different. broader. sharper jawline. longer hair that curled slightly at the ends. still wore all black, still had that unreadable look in his eyes, but there was something quieter about him now. more settled. confident, even.

back in high school, he was the one who drifted through the halls like he was somewhere else. moody and mysterious, scribbling lyrics in the margins of his notebooks, keeping to himself and his small group of friends, skipping pep rallies and whispering smartass comments under his breath in class. you’d never had a real conversation with him, not really. just enough passing interactions to leave you wondering what made him tick.

“everyone, this is my maid of honor,” grace announced, nudging you forward with way too much enthusiasm. “she’s my best friend, so be nice.”

you gave a little wave, smiling awkwardly. “hi. sorry in advance if i stress eat all the snacks.”

the group laughed, a few offering up plates like peace offerings. matt, from where he sat on the edge of the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, gave you a small nod and a quiet, “hey.”

his voice was deeper than you remembered.

you nodded back, offering a polite smile, but your stomach twisted slightly. it wasn’t that he’d done anything. it wasn’t even that he looked that good (although, he really did). it was more the strange energy. the kind that settled right between your ribs and just sat there.

grace clapped her hands, oblivious. “okay! down to business. pairings.”

she handed out little notecards like it was some kind of wedding themed class project.

“the bridal party walk-ins, dances, seating arrangements. it’s easier to plan if we lock this down now,” she explained. “some of it’s already decided, like nick and kennedy. because, well, nick has a whole situation there.”

everyone laughed knowingly. you flipped over your card.

y/n (maid of honor) – matt (best man #1)

of course.

you looked up on instinct. matt’s eyes met yours across the room, just for a second, and then flicked away like it was nothing. like he didn’t notice the way your heartbeat had picked up for no good reason. he scratched the back of his neck, looking mildly uncomfortable, but not surprised.

you took a slow sip of your drink, trying to play it cool.

the room around you stayed warm, buzzing with conversation and crinkling chip bags and overlapping questions about playlist themes and color palettes, but your attention kept drifting. back to the notecard. back to matt.

he hadn’t said anything else. hadn’t made a face. hadn’t made it weird.

so why did you feel weird?

he sat across from you, quiet, unreadable, looking like a grown-up version of someone you almost forgot existed. the shadows of who he used to be still clung to him, but something about him now felt more grounded. like he knew who he was. like he’d seen things you hadn’t.

and maybe it was none of your business. maybe it was nothing.

but still, you couldn’t shake it.

you told yourself it was just wedding stress. just the surprise of being paired with someone you barely knew. but something told you this pairing was going to be a lot harder than just walking down an aisle together.

something told you that matt wasn’t going to be so easy to ignore.

and worse, part of you didn’t want to.

-

dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

taglist: @courta13 @mattsbunnyxx @evansturn @sturnboos @hesvoid34 @mattyblover07 @jenna0rtegaswife @anisturniolox @chrattn1fan @izzylovesmatt

[dissociativewriter]

OH MY! congrats on the 400 followers!!! and for the event can't you write some angst with sylus x nonmc, please??? don't know if you have listened to WILDFLOWER by Billie eilish, but i really wanna see what would be born out of that??? not pressure tho! (also sorry for my english but im not a native speaker haha)

thank you!! this was an amazing request! it took me a while to write it, but i really like this. i hope you do too!

request event

The base hadn’t been quiet in months.

It was nice, you thought. A welcome change. In all your years at Onychinus there was always a tense silence. Always something that seemed to say this was an operation, not a home.

That all changed when Miss Hunter arrived, though.

Everything seemed warmer, splashes of color dotted around and a constant hum of chatter echoed through the space.

You’d never seen Sylus like this. Even when he was laughing and messing around with Luke and Kieran, he hadn’t allowed himself to be this happy. It seemed like there was something holding him back, something expectant.

Now the air was lighter, his shoulders lost their tension, his laughs came more freely. Things seemed to be looking up.

That made the newfound silence all the more jarring.

Miss Hunter had left just as quickly as she’d came. It wasn’t a huge ordeal. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it. There was just an conversation, spoken in quiet tones behind closed doors. Next thing you knew, she was gone in a mess of tears and broken promises.

You’d let Sylus alone for a time after that. Taken up the responsibilities of Onychinus in his stead, the role practically second nature ever since he’d promoted you to second-in-command a few years ago.

It was quiet again. You didn’t see much of the Boss, and you never expected to see Miss Hunter again.

But she’d shown up at your doorstep one night within the first week of their separation. Tear tracks on her cheeks and a heart-wrenching sob asking for someone to talk to.

You’d obliged, of course. How could you turn her away when she was like this? Pulling her into you, rubbing her back as she sobbed into your shoulder. She blubbered that she didn’t have anyone to talk to, that none of her friends really knew Sylus enough to cry about him to.

She explained that even if they weren’t together, she didn’t want to expose him and his identity like that.

You nodded, holding her close as she seemed to cry herself dry. She did most of the talking that night. Talking about how it had been a mutual decision, how they both felt like they just weren’t right for each other.

Miss Hunter had said she never expected falling out of love to hurt so bad.

The next morning, Sylus emerged from his room for the first time in four days. Silvery hair messy, eyes bloodshot, usually steady hands now trembling at his sides.

You sat with him. Wordlessly offered him a cup of coffee. He took it with a nod of thanks, holding it close instead of drinking it, like he was willing its burning warmth to thaw the cold that had taken over.

It became a routine. You’d sit with him, allow the quiet that had been uncomfortable, that had had something missing, to settle until it became something resembling understanding.

Sylus tried to distract himself with the work of Onychinus. You limited his access and told him he needed to sit with his grief and understand it before it consumed him entirely, not avoid it with gunfights and business deals.

Sylus never was able to fight you when you got like this.

He let you take care of him in a way no one had in a long time. It was gentle, quiet. A cup of tea here, a gentle reminder there. Never asking too many questions, never pushing for something more. He didn’t mention how much he appreciated it. He knew he didn’t have to.

You should have seen it coming, you thought. He was vulnerable. You were there. You should have expected it when the touches began to linger, when he began reaching for you.

You always thought of her when he did that.

Maybe you brushed it off because you thought you’d never compare to her. After all, what was the worry, when she was so bright and outgoing when you just seemed to fade into the background.

“No one knows me as well as you do,” Sylus muttered one night, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve always been there for me. I think— no, I know…”

Your breathing felt like it stopped. All you could think of, all you could see in the back of your mind was Miss Hunter. Should you feel this guilty? This hurt?

Were you just a replacement, something to fill the void, that fresh wound that kept bleeding?

“I love you,” Sylus whispered, low and reverent.

You didn’t move your hand from his. You didn’t say how all you could think about was how Miss Hunter must have felt.

Sylus didn’t mean to hurt you. You knew that.

Maybe being quiet was for the best.

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open! <3

masterlist

@dolledbunnytail @sleepykittyenergy @orbitraiden @coffeedragonhobbyist

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

almost something

summary: everyone assumes you and dominic are together, but you are both too scared to ruin the friendship.

word count: 2k words

⸻

You never remembered exactly when it started.

There wasn’t one definitive moment no dramatic spark, no big, cinematic kiss. It was quieter than that. Slower. A steady build, like the way dusk turns to night without anyone noticing.

Maybe it was that one night you showed up at his door, tears smudging your mascara, voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. Just pulled you into his arms and wrapped you in his hoodie the one that always smelled faintly like his cologne and spearmint gum and let you fall apart against his chest. You’d fallen asleep to the hum of his playlist, the soft pulse of music weaving through the room like a heartbeat, the city lights painting flickers of gold on the ceiling above you.

Or maybe it was after that. After the comfort started to feel like ritual when he kept your favorite snacks stocked in his cabinet, started using “we” when talking about plans, and instinctively reached for your hand when crowds got too loud. Like your body was home base.

It was in the way he remembered little things you forgot about yourself.

How you took your coffee when you were tired vs. when you were anxious.

How you always played with the drawstring of your hoodie when you were trying not to cry.

How you hated goodbyes so he stopped saying them.

And then there was how he never called you his friend anymore. Not even in passing. Not to other people.

He’d say things like, “I’ll check with her,” or “She’s coming with me,” like there was no need to explain who you were like you were already assumed, already understood.

Once, at a bar, someone asked if he was there alone. He just said, “Nah, she’s around here somewhere,” and glanced around the room like you were gravity itself like wherever he was, you wouldn’t be far.

It was never labeled.

But it didn’t have to be.

Because in his world, you were already claimed not with words, but with presence. With familiarity. With every effortless way he made space for you.

Everyone else saw it.

Your sister side eyed you constantly. Your friends teased you. Even his bandmates rolled their eyes when the two of you claimed you were just close.

And then there was your boss who, without missing a beat, asked if you needed time off for “you and your boyfriend’s trip.”

You just smiled and nodded.

You never corrected them.

And neither did Dom.

Because pretending was easier. Safer. There was no risk in staying on the edge of something.

And deep down, you weren’t sure if Dom stayed close because he wanted you, or because he was just afraid of losing you, too.

That night felt like every other night.

You were wrapped in his blanket, curled into your usual spot on the corner of his couch, your socked feet tucked under his thigh like always. Some old movie played in the background, half watched, mostly ignored. You could feel the low heat of his body next to yours not quite touching, but close enough that it ached.

Until he broke the silence.

“I told my manager you were my girlfriend today.”

Your head turned slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged, still looking at the TV.

“Felt easier than explaining whatever this is.”

Your heart stammered in your chest, but you kept your voice calm.

“And what is this?”

He turned to you slowly, his expression unreadable a little tired, a little vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I think about kissing you every time you laugh. And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend like we’re just friends.”

You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.

He wasn’t being flirty. He wasn’t teasing.

He meant it.

And suddenly, the weight of everything you hadn’t said felt like a wave crashing over you.

You did feel it.

You felt it in the way your body leaned toward him without meaning to. In the way you’d memorize his laugh like it was your favorite song. In the way you’d never once imagined a future that didn’t have him in it until the thought of him with someone else made you physically ill.

But fear?

Fear was a funny thing.

It made even the truest feelings feel like landmines.

And the idea of losing what you had with him the safety, the closeness, the quiet knowing that terrified you more than anything.

So you said nothing.

Just gently leaned your head on his shoulder later, your hand resting lightly over his, fingers brushing but not lacing.

Trying to say what your mouth couldn’t.

But even then, even in the silence, you knew.

This tension wasn’t sustainable.

Something had to give.

And soon?

It did.

⸻

He was already feeling off that night.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t slept his thoughts too loud lately, looping your laugh, your eyes, the way you curled up on his couch like it belonged to you. Or maybe it was the way you hadn’t really looked at him all night. Not the way you usually did. Not the way that made his chest tighten and his brain short circuit for a second.

Or maybe and he hated to admit it, it was the way that guy had looked at you.

You hadn’t noticed.

Of course you hadn’t.

But Dom did. He noticed everything when it came to you.

You were across the rooftop, framed in string lights and city haze, standing way too close to some guy with a haircut too clean and a shirt too tight. Dom didn’t catch his name. Ryan? Tyler? Something douchey.

Didn’t matter.

Because what mattered was that you were laughing.

Not a fake laugh. Not the polite one you gave fans or old coworkers.

The real one. The one Dom knew by heart. The one that tugged at something deep in him every damn time.

And then you touched the guy’s arm.

Just for a second. Just a brush.

But it was enough.

Enough to make something cold and possessive crawl into Dom’s chest and settle there.

He wasn’t usually jealous. He hated that shit. Found it messy. Petty. Useless.

But watching someone else make you laugh when he had spent months memorizing your smile, biting his tongue, burying every feeling just to keep from wrecking what you had?

That wasn’t petty.

That was agony.

You walked back toward him a few minutes later, cheeks flushed from the wine and the wind, still holding your half empty glass, like nothing had shifted.

“He asked for my number,” you said casually, like you were talking about the weather or a new song on the radio.

Dom’s jaw clenched.

“Did you give it to him?”

His voice came out sharper than he meant. He could feel it the edge, the heat behind the words. But he didn’t pull it back.

You blinked, taken aback. “No. Why would I—?”

“You seemed into it.”

He said it with a shrug, trying to play it cool, even though his insides were burning. Even though it absolutely mattered.

“Dom” you said his name like a warning. Like you knew something was cracking. “What’s going on with you?”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking, eyes darting away from yours.

Then he laughed.

Not the real kind.

The bitter kind. The kind that tried to disguise pain with sarcasm.

“I don’t get it,” he said, voice low now, almost a growl. “You let me hold your hand. You sleep in my bed. You steal my hoodies and wear them like they mean something. And then you flirt with some guy like none of it matters.”

“I didn’t flirt—”

“It’s driving me insane,” he snapped, cutting you off. “Because everyone thinks we’re together. Everyone. And I’ve let them think that. Because it felt better than hearing you say we’re not.”

He hadn’t meant to say all of that.

He hadn’t meant to lose it not like this.

But it was out now. Laid bare between you in the night air, thick and heavy and irreversible.

The rooftop buzz fell away. The party noise faded. It was just the two of you hearts pounding, breathing uneven, something fragile and electric crackling in the silence.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

You just stepped closer slow, steady like you were crossing a wire, like you weren’t sure if he’d catch you.

“You think this hasn’t been killing me too?” you whispered, your voice breaking around the edges.

His breath hitched.

You looked like you meant it.

Like the words hurt to say.

Like you were scared too.

And for the first time, he believed it.

You reached for him finally and kissed him.

And Dom froze.

Not because he didn’t want it.

But because his heart had been aching for this moment for so long, he almost didn’t believe it was real.

It wasn’t cautious.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate and messy and real months of buried feelings crashing into each other like a storm neither of you could outrun.

And when you pulled back, just barely, your eyes searching his face for some kind of answer

He didn’t hesitate.

He cupped your jaw gently, leaned in again, and kissed you like it was the first breath after drowning.

Because maybe it was.

⸻

You pulled away first.

Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak.

Your forehead rested gently against his, your lips still tingling from the kiss that had unraveled everything all the pretending, all the silence, all the almosts.

“I was scared,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady. “Because if we screw this up… I don’t know how to lose you.”

And that was the truth. The whole truth.

Because for all the months you’d tiptoed around the feelings, convinced yourself the friendship was safer this was always the fear. That loving him out loud might mean breaking the thing that had meant the most.

His fingers brushed lightly along your jaw, settling at the corner of your mouth, his thumb tracing where his kiss still lingered like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

“Then don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t lose me.”

Your chest tightened.

“Okay,” you breathed. “But only if you stay.”

He didn’t even blink.

“I’ve always stayed,” he murmured. “Even when you didn’t ask me to. Even when it hurt.”

And you knew he was right.

He’d been the constant. The hand always reaching for yours in a crowd. The arms you ran to when everything else fell apart. The voice in your voicemail when you couldn’t sleep. The one who never once walked away even when you kept the door half-closed.

He stayed.

Even when you didn’t know how to let him all the way in.

So that night, for the first time, you didn’t leave.

You stayed too.

You followed him quietly into his apartment, past the half clean dishes and kicked off sneakers and the guitar still propped on the couch. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t candlelit or planned. But it felt more honest than anything you’d ever known.

He handed you a hoodie the same one you always stole anyway and you slipped it on like muscle memory. He didn’t try to kiss you again right away. He didn’t even touch you.

He just watched you with that soft, steady gaze the one that always saw right through the version of yourself you tried to be.

When you finally climbed into his bed, he slid in next to you, hesitating for a second.

And then, quietly, his arm wrapped around your waist.

Not possessive. Not desperate.

Just there. Like he always was.

You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiarity soap, skin, safety. His fingers drew gentle patterns on your back, grounding you, soothing you. And even though neither of you said much after that, it didn’t feel unfinished.

It felt understood.

It wasn’t perfect.

You were still scared. So was he. There was so much left to figure out, so many walls still standing between where you were and where you could be.

But the tension that once held you apart?

It cracked. It shattered.

And in the quiet that followed, something softer began to bloom.

Not just attraction. Not just comfort.

Real love.

The kind that doesn’t need to be loud to be strong.

The kind that stays.

⸻

a/n: thank you for reading, check my masterlist for more!

[wawataka]

I'M BEING PLAGUED WITH VISIONS (got an idea for a fic)

[collgeruledzebra]

been a while since ive had a spell of anxiety bad enough i genuinely can't tell how much im overreacting

[simcardiac-arrested]

zavijava info PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!! PLEASEEEEE ZAVIJAVA COME HOME ... PLEASE .... umm um um ill tell you about umm . tma au im making for nastya if u tell me about her .PLEASE!!!!!!!

so she is definitely a star of some kind. i mean she is an angel but in that story in particular The Stars are kind of angels. like they’re otherworldly beings and they jus kinda hang out. cosmically. it’s a different dimension separated from the human one but like, obviously stars still exist for humans, they just don’t do anything crazy because the rules of the world dictate that their realities shouldn’t interact. angels can observe the other world from far up above yet they still exist on a different level. But tbh zavijava had never enjoyed the otherworldly ethereal whatever lifestyle—she just didn’t feel like she fit in there. she is a #1 humans fan though so she knows that’s where she’d fit in. so she does just that. she fits in perfectly :) and normally :) yay :)

[vampireradiation]

Man, I would find so much solace and comfort in the obsessive love related tags if they weren’t all just like kinda unwell teenagers roleplaying anime characters. I’m not one to shit on what mentally ill young people do to cope so whatever but like… girl you’re not a yandere it’s just your first crush please stop.

[minglana]

considering kinda coming out(ish) as nb to this week's dorm worker........

[im-still-a-robot]

Sailor Merope!!!

[eaterofdust]

this. This. This is why I refuse to watch rise of the guardians or any clips from it. It sounds cool, looks alright, but the irrational rage the appears within my very soul at the sight of Jack frost could convince someone that Heather is my favorite character.

"they're not canon!"

girl idc you wouldn't have survived in the rise of the brave tangled dragon era like come on

[cosmossystem]

also btw i had a discovery recently

[arpicityandneed]

The King's Man

18+ f!reader. King!Bucky. Head Knight!Steve. dirty talk. bi!Bucky. bi!Steve. sequel to You, Me, and the King. Sir kink. switch!Steve. switch!Bucky.

You'd received word from your maid that the King and his Knight were waiting for you in the King's chambers but still, you didn't expect to walk in on this when you passed the royal guard on the way in.

Steve was fucking your husbands throat like he'd done so countless of times before. His sword was resting on the table and he was shirtless, his creamy flushed skin on display as he threw his head back- and expression of rapt pleasure on his handsome features as he found his release. James' lashes were wet as he swallowed every drop, but he was looking up at his Steven with such adoration you almost wanted to be jealous.

Only when the door clicked behind you did Steve acknowledge you. James finally let Steve's shaft go, nuzzling the vee of his hip and catching his breath.

"I won a wager." Steve explained with a grin, "He thought I wouldn't be able to wait until the physician's officially declared the pregnancy."

"But you did.. so this was your reward?" You murmured, your mouth dry and your cunt throbbing. Your heart pounded in your chest realizing you'd finally have them both the way you wanted for months now. What was once a strange kingdom full of enemies was made bearable by the love you'd found in your two men.

"No, the reward was you. I'm just helping him last long enough to thoroughly enjoy his reward." Your husband's voice was hoarse, but as he stood you saw just how much he'd enjoyed being used by Steve. His breeches did little to hide the large bulge of his arousal.

"Come here my sweet," Steve held his hand out for you, and you took it shyly but stepped into his space without fear. "I'll take good care of you, I promise." He murmured as he lifted your hand to his lips kissing your knuckles gently.

"I know." And you did, you trusted him with your life, and to finally be able to see him in all his glory was a treat in and of itself. His cock was thick even when soft and his body was covered in scars and marks of battle that made him all the more attractive to you.

James came to stand behind you, trapping you between them as he kissed your shoulder. You shivered remembering vividly how wide they'd been stretched over Steve's cock.

"My wife." James worked at untying the laces of your dress, Steve's possessive gaze keeping you locked in place.

When the dress fell down your body James sighed at your beauty before stepping back. That’s when you noticed the chair placed in direct viewing of the bed. A shiver went down your spine as you realized your King would be watching everything.

“Pants off James, I want to see you too.” Steve commanded with an ease that made your knees buckle, and your King obeyed with a pretty flush on his cheeks. You wanted to devour him and the new shyness you saw in his eyes.

“He’s so pretty..” the words slipped out before you could help it and Steve laughed, warm and rich. Your husband however didn’t say a word. He looked to Steve instead for guidance.

“James, what do you say?” Steve wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer, his naked body all hard lines and raw strength that made you melt against him.

“Thank you, love. You two—you’re beautiful together.” His voice was hushed and awed.

“Sit.” Steve murmured as he trailed his lips over your neck, his blue eyes clashing with James’ grey ones. When James obeyed, sitting with his thighs spread showing off just how eager he was, Steve smiled against your skin. “Good boy.”  James’ cock was leaking and flushed an angry red. But he made no move to touch himself without Steve’s permission.

“Now, I think I’ve waited long enough for this.” Steve led you to the bed and urged you to lay down, drinking in the sight of you bared for him with hungry eyes. “Let’s see if you’re ready for me, my queen.” Steve’s hand trailed up your thigh slow and possessive and you squeaked. Instantly he stopped and returned his gaze to yours.

“Just—just, y/n.” You mumbled shyly as you reached out to cup his jaw, not wanting to be anything but his lover in this moment.

“Y/n then.” Steve’s voice was thick with emotion as he kissed your palm. His hand resumed its path until he could cup your sex, his fingers growing slick as he played with your clit and fed one thick finger into you. You moaned softly and spread your thighs wider, eager and aching for your Knight.

“Not quite, think you need to give me one orgasm first.” Steve mused to himself as he lowered his mouth, hovering over where you needed him most. “Missed tasting you.”

“You spent two hours with her sitting on your face yesterday.” James snorted, unable to help himself as Steve glared at his King over his shoulder.

“Let’s say no cumming for a day since you want to be smart mouthed.” Steve smiled as James immediately flushed bright red and mumbled,

“Sorry, Sir.”

You whined for attention, squirming under Steve’s hold. “Shh, love. I’ve got you. I shouldn’t make you wait anymore should I?” Steve murmured gently with a crooked smile before latching onto your clit with single minded focus.

His fingers made a come hither motion, practiced and easy as he worked your body. It took everything you had not to scream—he always touched you just right.

“Jesus, James, she still tastes like you.” James made a strangled sound but wisely kept quiet, stretching you further and pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

All it took was one hard suck and you were flying, a million pieces of stardust as he groaned into your folds. You soaked his chin and fingers shamelessly. By the time you were back to the land of the living he was over you, gliding his cock through your slick folds and lubing up his shaft in your juices. Just tasting you was enough to make his cock hard as steel once more.

“You’re going to scream for me, and I don’t give a fuck who hears. Do you understand?” Steve was usually a gentle man, soft spoken with you and always so considerate. But the Steve on top of you was a barely contained animal. Wild eyed with a will strong enough to subdue even your King.

“Yes, Sir.” You knew it was the right answer when his pupils dilated, and he lined up his cock against your entrance that clenched around nothing—aching more than anything to be filled.

“That’s a good girl.” He kissed you as he pushed in, inch by inch. Steve’s shaft was thicker than your husbands and you cried out your legs wrapping around his waist as you pulled him deeper into you.

Greedy, that’s how Steve’s cock made you feel as it split you open.

“Fuck, James, you shouldn’t have let me have her.” Steve growled, his girth safely tucked inside your gummy walls so deep he could feel his cock when he pressed his hand into the softness of your belly. “I’m never going to get enough of her.” You were whimpering at every word. Just a prize to be passed back and forth between the only two men worthy of you, the thought made you clench down on Steve’s cock even tighter.

“You can speak, James.” Steve’s smug voice, his cock throbbing inside you as the leaking tip pressed a loving wet kiss to your cervix, it was all too much and he’d barely started moving yet.

“Can—" you’d never heard your husband’s voice so wrecked. “Can I come closer, Sir? I want to see.”

“You may. Hold her hand like a good little husband.” Steve ordered and within a few seconds you felt a warm hand slip into yours, James’ gaze heavy as a touch as he stared where you and Steve were joined.

“She’s barely able to take you.” Why did he sound so pleased? Why wasn’t Steve fucking you yet?

“Shh, pretty thing. I got you.” Steve cooed at you, cupping your breast in one hand and pinching your nipple lightly—groaning when it made your pussy flutter around his cock hungrily. “Just making sure there’s no pain.”

“None, promise, promise, just please!” You begged shamelessly, having waiting as long as he had to feel him.

“Please what?” That’s when you realized the game, he wanted you to say it. Scream your intentions like you had with your husband.

“I want you to fuck me!” You cried, tears gathering on your lashes in frustration.

“Not your husband?” Steve taunted as he gave your breast a squeeze.

You shook your head frantically, your bottom lip jutting out as you looked up at Steve. “Want you now,” you admitted honestly. James’ hands tightened in yours but he didn’t need to say a word as his cock leaked. “Waited, I was good, so good, want your cock Sir, please.”

“Good girl, my good girl.” Steve groaned and started fucking you slow and filthy, rolling his hips and staying mostly buried inside you as his fat cock hit every pleasurable spot with ease.

“You’re doing so good sweetheart, taking his cock isn’t easy.” You moaned at your husbands words, realizing exactly what he’d meant. He’d taken Steve’s cock before. But you couldn’t focus on anything other than Steve’s controlled thrusts. You knew he was holding back but it was already so much, your pussy gushing on his cock and making each thrust a little easier.

“More!” You begged, barely able to keep your eyes open as you tightened your legs around his waist. Steve grinned, feral and sharp.

“As you wish.”

Then all coherent thought was lost, Steve starting to fuck you in earnest until he was splitting you in two ruthlessly. James never let go of your hand and you were drowning in the pleasure you were given.

Steve’s cock squelched through your juices, your arousal coating his heavy balls as he fucked you hard and deep. He was a hurricane and all you could do was hold on for the ride. You free arm was thrown around his neck holding him close as you screamed out,

“Sir! Please, please, more!” You couldn’t stop yourself. Every thrust of his cock was melting your brain, and James’ encouraging words in your ear was only fanning the flames.

“You can take it can’t you my love? So good for us, you’ll have his baby next won’t you? I want to see it, our children playing together. Just gotta do what you did for me. Take all his cum right in your pretty little pussy again and again.” James was rambling, aching to touch his cock but too obedient to disobey Steve’s order not to cum.

“Fuck,” Steve was lost in your pussy. Couldn’t look away from your pussy sucking him in, like you couldn’t wait to milk him for his load.

“Want his babies, need it!” You squealed as Steve shifted the angle of his hips, hitting that perfect spot that made you see stars. If you’d been coherent you’d be able to see the toothy grin on Steve’s face.

“That’s it, make all your prettiest noises for me y/n. Feel so fucking tight love,” Steve groaned as he got close, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust aching to fill you up. His thumb found your clit with practiced ease and with quick tight circles you were thrown off the edge without warning.

“’m not pulling out. You’re gonna take what I give you, when I want to give it.” It wasn’t a question and yet you nodded immediately, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you squirted, your arousal splashing out of you—Steve fucking you through your orgasm without mercy.

Only when he started to cum did he slow down, grinding in every spurt of seed into your pussy like he could force your body to accept his seed into your womb.

“Beautiful.” James murmured as he kissed your forehead, squeezing your hand and checking over your face. You were drifting—so safe and full of light you felt like you were floating.

Steve had to gently pry your legs off his waist before he could slowly separate himself from you, his copious amount of cum leaking out of your gaping hole in a lewd display that made Steve wish he had the stamina to fuck you again immediately.

“She’s still feeling it,” James murmured above your head as he looked to Steve, and if you strained you could focus on Steve’s reply.

“That’s alright, let her rest.” Steve whispered back, his thick fingers spreading your pussy lips wide so he could stare directly at your hole as it gushed and twitched.

But then he turned to his friend and grinned.

“Would you like sloppy seconds, my King?”

[wooyoungiewritings]

Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: Your husband of 8 years suggests an open marriage, and while he's out finding a new girlfriend, you feel like it's wrong to even glance in another man's direction. But it all changes when you download Tinder and match with Seonghwa. The man who's about to turn your world upside down. And he even happens to be your husband's boss.

Word count: 11.7K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, some angst, slow burn, a little smut (something almost happens, that's all I'm saying)

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), crying, betrayal, dry-humping, lmk if I missed anything!

PART 2

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

It’s been four months. Four months since you had the conversation with your husband about having an open marriage, because he wanted to try something new. The conversation is still taking up space in your mind like it was yesterday he sat you down on the couch in the house you share.

“Honey, you know I still love you,” He kept repeating after saying the possibly most shocking things you’ve ever heard. “I’m just afraid we’ll get tired of each other if we don’t try this.. We promised to be together forever, but aren’t you wondering what else is waiting for you out in the world?”

“No,” Is all you could say. A million questions run through your mind as he sits in front of you, kneeled down on his knee with your hands in his as you sit on the couch. “I married you because I want to be with you. And only you.” Your voice is shaky, trying to hold back the tears.

He notices the way you react and squeezes your hands in his.

“And I want to be with you, baby. I wanna be with you for the rest of my life, which is why I feel like this is the best we can do for now.” He tried explaining, but it didn’t help. 

“I just don’t understand? Are you not happy with me? Am I not satisfying you enough? Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?” The questions fly out of your mouth before you’re able to hold back. He quickly shakes his head, holding your hands even tighter. 

“No, no not at all. Look, I was just thinking we could do this for a year, maybe? A year where we are still married, but see other people in the meantime. When the year ends, we’ll be back to just us, and because we promised to stay together for the rest of our lives, a year won’t seem as much. This will be the only time we get to see other people for the rest of our lives, baby. It’s not a bad thing, it's only gonna strengthen our marriage in the end.” 

For some twisted reason, you saw his point. If you agreed to this, he would have a year to be with whoever he wanted, to get everything out of his system. So you agreed. You told him you agreed to do this for a year, but there had to be rules.

You had to tell the other person when you started seeing someone. No sleeping with a bunch of people, you have to tell the other person who you’re sleeping with (mostly for safety reasons). And NO one is allowed into the bedroom besides husband and wife.

And so this has been going on for four months now, and your husband is out with his girlfriend. Since this wasn’t against your deal, you couldn’t say much against it, so you just nodded and pretended to be okay. He started seeing her a week after the deal was made, a woman from his office, and the news broke your heart. He was barely home anymore, spending all of his time at her place.

The pain of hearing your husband of 8 years loving someone else was unbearable, and yet you couldn’t even get yourself to see someone else. It felt so wrong. 

It was a friday night and you’re sitting on your couch in your shared home, and your husband just left to have a weekend getaway with his girlfriend. You’re staring at the TV that has been going for hours with some bad reality TV-show, when you finally realize how sick you are of sitting home alone while your husband is out. You grab your phone and without thinking too much, you download Tinder. 

It wasn’t an app you’ve ever tried before, since your husband and you have been dating since you were teens and got married at an early age. But you quickly figured out the app and set up your profile. 

Swiping left and right on guys was more fun than you imagined, getting a few matches here and there. There were all different types of profiles on this app. Guys looking for serious relationships, guys looking for hookups, couples looking for a woman to add to their threesome. Men who opened with “hey sexy” or bios that included “I’m not looking for anything serious unless it’s with Sabrina Carpenter.”

So when his profile popped up, you hesitated.

His picture captures you immediately, and you’re taken back with his beauty. He was… breathtaking. But not in that overly filtered, red flag kind of way. There was warmth in his eyes, even in photos. A calm kind of confidence. One picture had him sitting at a piano, another laughing in the passenger seat of a car, sunlight washing over his face like it knew exactly where to land.

No shirtless mirror pics. No awkward drunk group-pictures. No fish.

“Park Seonghwa.” You read his name out loud. His bio was short. “Looking for something good. And maybe someone to watch bad TV with.”

You stared at his profile for a full two minutes before swiping right, mostly convinced it wouldn’t be a match anyway.

But then-

It’s a match!

Suddenly your heart starts to beat faster and you sit up straight on the couch while looking at your phone.

Did you just match him? Probably the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?

Your stomach did a weird little flip. You waited. Twenty minutes. An hour. Maybe he wasn’t the type to message first. Maybe he matched by accident. Or maybe-...

Park Seonghwa Are you watching something awful right now? Be honest.

You look at your screen for a few seconds before reacting. A smile spreads across your lips as you open his message and type back.

Me Love Mansion: Season 6. There’s a guy crying because no one likes his magic tricks.

You quickly see the dots that indicate he’s typing.

Park Seonghwa That sounds deeply tragic. And also like something I’d binge while pretending I hate it

Me You’re one of those people? “This show is terrible” but suddenly you’ve watched 8 episodes and you know everyone’s star sign.

While you wait for his answer, you enter his profile once again. You can’t help looking at his pictures, mesmerized by how beautiful this man is. You almost get a feeling of recognition while looking at him, like you’ve seen him on a poster or in an ad or something. His profile doesn’t inform about his occupation, but you’re sure he must be showing that face off somewhere. 

A new message pops up.

Park Seonghwa: I have a spreadsheet

You laughed out loud for the first time that night.

You: So what’s your favorite actually-good movie then?

Park Seonghwa: You’re asking a very serious question to someone who owns a full set of replica lightsabers

You: Oh, so you’re very serious about it

Park Seonghwa: Yes. Star Wars. All of it. Even the prequels. Especially the prequels. I said what I said

I’m at my third Star Wars movie of the day. The movies are over two hours each, so you can imagine how eventful my day is so far

You can’t help but smile while you type out your answer. 

Me As a person who doesn’t know much about the franchise, I can’t tell you whether I’m impressed or slightly worried. Maybe I should put on a Star Wars movie and give it a chance?

An answer ticks in a few seconds later.

Park Seonghwa If you do, watch “The Last Jedi”. I just started mine, we can watch it together but separately

You don’t know how a guy you’re only a few messages deep with has you convinced this is the best way to spend your night. You decide to play the movie and message him you’re watching it too. This is the most action you’ve gotten in months, but somehow it's the perfect way to start this journey of an open-relationship. 

Maybe.

The movie begins and Seonghwa introduces some of the characters as they show up on screen. You find yourself laughing at his messages, smiling and waiting for him to text you the next thing. A feeling you haven’t felt in years, despite being married to who you’re convinced is the love of your life. But you can already tell that Seonghwa is a completely different type of guy, and for once, you actually don’t feel alone in the house you share with your husband. 

The movie ends and you’re hundreds of messages deep.

Park Seonghwa Now that we’ve concluded that “The Last Jedi” is part of an amazing franchise but not at all the best movie, I wanna admit that I’ve never looked so much at my phone during a Star Wars movie. I feel like I’m cheating on my favorite series

The text makes you giggle and you’re quick to type your answer.

Me Despite enjoying the movie, I must admit that I didn’t see half of it because I was focused on my phone. But I’ll gladly give Star Wars another chance someday

You see the text bubble appear and then go away a few times, making you curious about what he’s about to say. 

Seonghwa: We could talk about the movie over dinner tomorrow?

You stare at your screen for what feels like forever, feeling like a teenager receiving a text from her crush. This overwhelming feeling Seonghwa leaves you is something completely new, but despite it being a new and slightly scary feeling, you can’t help but feel excited. And so your fingers start typing.

Me I’d love to! After arranging your upcoming date with Seonghwa, you decide to head to bed. You’re meeting him at a restaurant in the city tomorrow, Saturday. He offered to pick you up, but you’ve seen too many horror movies to give your address to a stranger before meeting them, so you came up with an excuse to meet him there. 

You get comfortable in bed before opening his profile once again to look at his pictures.

This man… wow.

But just like before, a feeling of recognition hits you and you study his pictures a bit more. You’re sure you would remember him if you had met him, because who would forget a face like that? But it doesn’t ring a bell.. 

You open a new tab on your phone and search for his name. Perhaps he has been in a show you’ve seen on tv, maybe on a poster somewhere. There’s no way this man isn’t showing off his looks somehow. 

His name pops up on your screen.

A gasp leaves your lips and you stare at him in awe. 

It can’t be him! No no no no no… 

The name, the face, him in a suit. Everything washes over you. You throw your phone away from you and bury your face in your pillow. 

In your mind, you’re getting transported to a specific night, one year ago. Your husband has your arm in his and you’re walking side by side in your finest attire. You’re laughing at something your husband's co-worker said, when you sense a powerful presence enter the circle at the company dinner at your husband’s job.

“Oh, I want to introduce you to someone,” Your husband says as he turns you towards the newest member of the group. “My boss, Park Seonghwa.”

You stare up at him, Seonghwa slightly taller than your husband. His gaze adverts to you as he reaches out his hand. But as you give him your hand, he doesn’t do a normal handshake. He gently takes your hand in his and sends you a warm smile. Something in his eyes makes you lose all concentration, as you’re lost in his beauty. 

And then it all made sense. You’ve thought these exact thoughts before. A year ago at the company dinner and again tonight. 

Everything in your mind is going 100 m/ph and you suddenly feel confused. Does he know you’re married to his employee? Does he remember you? You’re pretty sure he doesn’t, or else he would have said something. And now you’ve arranged a date with him. 

You grab your phone again, considering if you should cancel the dinner, but something in you stops that from happening. The words don't appear in your head when you try to get out of the situation, so you delete the nonsense you’ve written so far, and decide to take things as they come. You place your phone on your night stand and get comfortable under the covers, trying your best to fall asleep.

On a couch across town, Seonghwa is still looking at his phone, looking at the text-bubbles come and go. When it doesn’t result in a text from the woman he has been texting all night, he goes to look at your profile for the 29th time tonight. 

He didn’t expect much from Tinder.

Honestly, it had been a joke. A dare, technically. His assistant downloaded it on his phone one night after too many glasses of wine at a company dinner and said, “You need to date someone who doesn’t know what your net worth is.”

So fine. He swiped. Occasionally. Mostly out of boredom, sometimes out of curiosity. Everyone started blending together. Bios full of yoga poses, forced “entrepreneur” energy, one woman who said she manifested her future husband every morning through herbal tea and moon rituals.

But then he saw you.

He found himself leaning back against the cushions, phone in hand, grinning like an idiot as your replies came in. You weren't trying to be impressive. You were just herself. And that was more magnetic than anything he’d seen in months. He didn’t even realize he’d been texting for two straight hours until his phone buzzed with a calendar notification:

Dinner with Executive Team – 9 AM monday.

He groaned. Whatever. He’d been in back-to-back meetings all week. He could allow himself one night to just… feel normal. Human.

“What’s a woman like you doing here?” he’s asking himself with a smirk, scrolling through your pictures. 

He had planned to go to bed early, have a peaceful night and get up early tomorrow, but he’s been too fascinated by the woman on the other side of the app. The tug on his lips doesn’t go away as he gets up from the couch and decides to head to bed, already accepting that he won’t get up early tomorrow. 

But one thing is for sure.

He’s very satisfied with the way his night went.

***

Saturday arrives, and you find yourself in front of the restaurant you agreed to meet Seonghwa at. You haven’t had any contact since you arranged the date, besides the check-in he made earlier today to ask if you were still down for dinner.

You feel the nerves in your body when you open the door, not having felt this feeling since you started dating your husband. The restaurant is in an area of town you usually didn’t visit - it is more expensive than you are used to. But not spending money on dates with your husband, and only cooking food for one for the past four months has resulted in you having a bit more money than you usually do, so you could go big for one night and spend some money on a good restaurant. 

The restaurant has a dark design with marble and wooden interior. The light is dimmed and you notice couples occupying tables throughout the restaurant. 

This is actually happening. You are going on a date with him.

With Seonghwa. 

It suddenly hit you and once again, you starting to doubt if this was a good idea. You have come to the point where you wanted to date, but dating your husband’s boss seems like the next level. Will your husband be okay with this? Will Seonghwa be okay with this?

Suddenly feeling like your legs are about to give out, you turn around to head outside but you are instead met with a human wall. A set of hands grab your waist to steady you, making sure you won’t fall by the sudden collision. 

“Running away already?” The voice asks, darker than you remember but also soft with a small tease. You look up to see Seonghwa’s soft eyes, slightly covered by some dark pieces of hair. Being a few inches from his face, you can’t help but freeze to study how absolutely amazing he looks up close. 

His almost black eyes, bushy brows, how his upper lip looks slightly bigger than the other, the most perfect nose you’ve ever seen.. Everything is too perfect, you don't know how to react. 

The sudden realization that his hands are on your waist wakes you up, and you stand back up straight to take a step away from him and his undeniably stunning face. 

“Uhm, no I.. I mean, I- no. I didn’t..” Your struggle with words makes him chuckle and he seems to brush off your awkward first meeting quicker than you. 

“How about we find our table?” He asks with a smile, placing his hand on your back to lead you further into the restaurant. 

“Mh-hmm.” Is all you manage to get out, wanting to kick yourself in the head for almost walking out on this man. 

The restaurant is a rooftop spot. Quiet, upscale, city lights spilling in through the glass walls. A jazz trio played somewhere in the background, subtle and elegant. The staff seem to know him, your table is ready immediately, tucked in a quiet corner with a view of the city lights. He orders a bottle of wine without looking at the menu, his tone smooth and confident, and then turn all his attention to you.

“Tell me something,” he says, resting his chin on his hand, “How have you lived your entire life and last night was the first time you watched a Star Wars movie?”

You blink at him. “You start with the hard questions?”

He smile. “I like to skip the small talk.”

You giggle. And from there, the conversation goes rather smoothly. Then easier as the wine warms your chest and his eyes never stop watching you like you were the most interesting person in the world. He asks thoughtful questions. He doesn’t talk about himself unless you ask. And when you do, he’s vague, says he works in business, likes privacy, that his life isn’t all that exciting.

Which is a lie, you are sure.

This man radiates luxury. His watch alone could pay for your college loans, and he never once checked it. And then somewhere between the wine and the main course, it starts to gnaw at you. The weight of the secret you’re keeping. Or at least… the one you thought is yours alone.

You clear your throat, reaching for your glass again even though you didn’t really want another sip.

“I should tell you something.”

He tilts his head. “Are you okay?” he senses the way your behavior changes and tries meeting your eyes.

“Yeah,” your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, too nervous to break the truth that you know this man in front of you. “Or.. I don’t know, no, yes-no..” Your heart is beating fast. “Look, I’m sorry, but I feel like I have to be honest with you. I don’t want you to waste your time sitting here, and if you don’t feel comfortable after receiving this information I totally understand, so if you’re freaked out we can pretend this never happened and I won’t-..”

“Look,” Seonghwa places his hand over yours, totally calm, meeting your eyes. “Did you kill someone?”

“No!” You try keeping your voice down. Try.

“Do you need me to hide a body?”

“No!?”

“... Are we related?”

You tilt your head “No? I hope not…?”

“Then we’re good. I won’t be freaked out.” He shrugs, leans slightly back in his seat and sends you a smile as he picks up his glass.

You look at him, really look, and then just say it.

“You’re my husband’s boss.”

A beat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just blinked once, slowly.

“Is that so?” he asked softly.

“I figured it out when I looked you up after we matched. I wasn’t… trying to snoop, I swear, I just got curious. And then I remembered you from the company dinner last year. Anyway, I wanted to say something in case it made this… weird for you.”

He smiles gently, setting down his glass. “It doesn’t.”

You blink. “Really?”

“I knew who you were the moment I saw your profile.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh.”

“But I still swiped right,” he adds, voice low, calm. “And I still wanted to meet you.”

“…Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you for a moment, and something in his gaze makes your skin heat. “Because I wanted the honor of inviting you out for dinner.” he says.

Your breath catches. You don’t know what to say to that, so you stay quiet, letting the words sit between you like warm embers.

“And now that we’re being honest,” he continues gently, “That little thing on your finger.” He points to the gold band with a small diamond around your finger, proving to everyone, including yourself, that you’re still in a marriage.

You give a small, helpless laugh. “Oh.. Yeah, it’s not what it looks like. Or maybe it is? I don’t think so, actually, I don’t know what this looks like, but I’m not doing anything I’m not supposed to do-...”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he says.

“No, I want to,” you reply, surprising yourself. “I need to.”

So you tell him. About the open marriage your husband suggested. About how you agreed, naively thinking it would be equal. About how he’d found someone in a matter of weeks while you’d sat at home, trying to convince yourself you weren’t just waiting. You watch Seonghwa carefully for a reaction. There is none, no judgment, no discomfort. Just a quiet focus that made you feel safer than you’d felt in months.

“But it’s actually a really good idea. I mean, we get the chance to see other people and do whatever we want, so we won’t cheat on each other later on,” you shrug, looking down at the wineglass instead of the piercing eyes in front of you. “It’s preventing us from hurting the other person in the end.” you say, finally. 

He sits quiet, just taking in your words. You can’t read his eyes, he just listens. But you don’t feel judged by the man in front of you. His eyes show too much warmth for you to be intimidated. 

“I don’t understand.” he finally says. 

“You know, if we date other people now, we won’t feel the need to do so in the future.” 

“No, I heard every word you said loud and clear,” he leaned forward in his chair, voice still soft. “I just don’t understand why he would need to.. you know.. date others when he has you.” 

Seonghwa was trying his best to not push. He could easily have said “I mean, if I was your husband, I wouldn’t want to see other people. I wouldn’t ever want another woman.” but he is still in the stage of getting to know you, doesn’t want to scare you away, and despite remembering you from the company dinner last year, he only remembers what impression you left him. A quick introduction and laughs shared in a circle of multiple people, but somehow his eyes kept drifting to you.

Your laugh, your dress, the way your eyes sparkled under the lights. It had stayed with Seonghwa for a year, so when he saw your profile on a dating app, he knew he had to shoot his shot. Unaware of what the circumstances are between you and your husband. 

But he doesn’t ask for more explanation. Instead, he shifts the conversation, just slightly, easing it toward lighter things, books, music, how you both secretly hate networking events.

And somehow, the night never felt heavy again. When dessert comes, some delicate French pastry you can’t pronounce, he insists you try the first bite. When your laugh returns, brighter this time, he smiles like that was the reward he’s been waiting for.

Later, as he walks you to your ride, you feel lighter. Like maybe it was okay to want something new. Someone new.

“I still want to see you again,” he says, standing beside the car door. His hand brushes your wrist, soft and brief. “If you want that too.”

You nod.

“I do.”

He opens the door for you, then leans down just enough to meet your eyes.

“Then let’s take our time.”

In the cab on the way home, you can’t stop smiling. You haven’t even finished closing the door behind you before your phone buzz.

Seonghwa: Text me when you’re home safe, yeah? No pressure, just want to know you’re good.

You smile into the hallway light. God, he’s that kind of man. You kick off your heels, phone still in hand, fingers already typing back.

You: Home. Warm. A little wine-dizzy but safe. Thank you for dinner.

Seonghwa: Thank you for giving me a chance. Sleep well xx

You sit on the edge of your bed for a moment longer than necessary, phone against your chest, still fully dressed. The night felt soft around the edges, like it wasn’t quite real. Like maybe you’d dreamed it. His smile, the way he listens to you like your words matter, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

And he knows. That was the wild part. He knows you’re married, to his employee, no less, and he still treats you with more care and curiosity than your own husband had in months. You let yourself fall back into bed, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling with the ghost of his cologne still caught in your hair.

***

On this incredibly boring Monday, the rain started halfway through your meeting, and by the time you stepped outside, it had gone from a gentle drizzle to a full-on, cinematic downpour. You stand beneath the awning outside your building, arms crossed, watching as the other employees disappeared into warm cars and dry seats.

Your husband was supposed to pick you up. You agreed to that last week, so you texted him before you left, but no response. Not a word. That was twenty-five minutes ago. 

Your fingers tightens around your phone as you glance down the street for the fifth time. Just water streaking down your coat sleeve and your phone screen lighting up.

Not from him.

But from Seonghwa.

Seonghwa I debated texting you for ten minutes. This is me giving in. Hi.

You smile immediately, shoulders relaxing under your scarf as you type back.

You Ten minutes? I’m flattered. 

Three dots. Then:

Seonghwa Are you still at work or did you escape?

You exhale slowly, already smiling before your fingers move to reply.

You Currently trying to escape. But I’m waterlogged and standing under a leaky bus shelter.

A pause.

Seonghwa Do I want to know why you’re waiting for a bus in a rainstorm?

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because you did. And that felt… a little dangerous. But you type anyway.

You Husband said he’d pick me up after work. Then forgot.

You don’t know the reason why your husband didn’t pick you up today. But it was not the first time this has happened. Last time he was busy hanging out with his girlfriend, having his phone on silent. 

Three dots danced at the bottom of the screen for a long moment before his reply came in:

Seonghwa Tell me where you are

You don’t answer right away. Another bus pass, wrong line again, and your fingers ache from the cold.

You Seonghwa. I’m fine. It’s just a little rain

Seonghwa Sure. And I’m a little meteorologist. Tell me where you are

You bite your lip, watching as a bus rumbled past - not yours. 

You Seventh and Willow. But you don’t have to, it’s okay

Seonghwa I’m already in my car. Don’t argue with me while you’re catching pneumonia

Your lips curve in spite of yourself. You pulled your scarf tighter.

Seonghwa On my way. Five minutes. Don’t wander off or find a mysterious love interest in a bookstore while I’m driving

You spotted his car before you saw him.

It turns the corner slowly, headlights washing across the slick pavement, wipers dragging across the windshield in a steady rhythm. The passenger window rolls down just enough for him to lean towards it.

“Hey, get in,” he says, his tone easy and unaffected by the weather. “You look like you’ve been here a while.” 

You step forward, your boots making soft splashes in the puddles, and slide into the passenger seat. The warmth of the car is immediate, and you exhale, feeling some of the tension leave your shoulders. The car hums quietly as Seonghwa drives through the rain-slicked streets. He’s keeping his eyes on the road, but every now and then, his gaze flickers over to you, the small, concerned crease in his brow visible in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice steady but soft. He’s not pushing, just checking in.

You nod, brushing your damp hair back and glancing out the window. The cold air from the rain has soaked through your coat, and your clothes cling to you uncomfortably. The heater in the car is doing its best, but you can still feel the chill.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice sounds a little too quiet. “Just... a little wet. Didn’t expect next time you’d see me, to be me looking like this.”

Seonghwa doesn't respond right away, but you catch the small shift in his demeanor, a brief, thoughtful silence. His hands grip the steering wheel lightly as he drives through the darkened streets, navigating without hurry.

“Do you want to stop somewhere?” he asks, keeping his tone casual, though you can sense the care behind it. “Grab something warm?”

You think about it for a second. A warm drink, maybe a cozy corner of some café, those were things you used to enjoy. But the idea of sitting in a café, dripping wet and freezing, doesn’t feel right tonight. It feels… forced. You want warmth, sure, but not from the outside world.

You glance at him, then back at the road ahead.

“Actually,” you start, “could we just... go to your place?” your words surprising yourself. “If it’s not too much, of course.”

Seonghwa blinks, a soft smile curling at the corner of his lips, but he doesn't ask any questions. Instead, he simply nods, his gaze shifting back to the road as the corners of his mouth deepen into a fond, knowing expression.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low. “I mean... you’ve had a long day. You’re drenched.”

You shrug, even though a small part of you is shocked by your own words. "I’m fine. I’m not in the mood for a date-date or whatever. Just... somewhere warm. And I don’t wanna be alone tonight. If you don’t mind.”

The silence between you two feels more comfortable now, the tension from the earlier moments gone. It’s like a weight has lifted, neither of you needs to pretend anymore.

“Alright,” he says, his voice warm, “to my place it is.” The car turns into a quieter street, and Seonghwa taps his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, his smile still lingering.

When you step out of the car and into the rain, Seonghwa’s hand briefly touches the small of your back, guiding you toward the building. The touch is gentle and reassuring.

His apartment is warmer than you expected when you step inside. It’s spacious, sure, but it’s not the cold, intimidating type of wealth you might expect from someone like him. It’s cozy in a way that’s unexpected, like he’s curated it with care, each little thing in its place. You can tell he’s put thought into making this space a refuge, a place of comfort. 

“I can grab you a towel,” Seonghwa offers immediately, his voice soft. He’s already moving toward the bathroom, but when you shake your head, he pauses. “Are you sure? I’d feel better if you changed into something comfortable.”

You glance down at yourself, feeling how soaked your clothes are, and how tired you are of pretending like you don’t need help. You nod. “That would be nice, actually.”

He smiles, but it’s not a proud smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like he’s quietly relieved, like he wants to take care of you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. “I have a few shirts you can borrow,” he says, a hint of hesitation in his tone. “Nothing fancy, just... dry.”

You watch him for a moment, the way he’s trying to gauge your comfort level without pushing too hard. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of anything, and it’s a little disarming.

“That sounds perfect,” you say, giving him a small, appreciative smile.

He moves quickly, purposefully, heart thudding a little harder than usual. Not from nerves, but from quiet anger. Who forgets to pick up their wife in the middle of a downpour? He doesn’t let the frustration show on his face. He just breathes through it, reminding himself that this moment isn’t about him. It’s about making you comfortable. It’s about undoing a little bit of whatever damage your husband didn’t think twice about causing.

He returns with a shirt and a pair of sweatpants. A soft, worn-in tee, and hands it to you. The fabric is warm to the touch, and it smells faintly of him. He doesn’t linger too long, but there’s something in the way he carefully places it in your hands that makes you feel safe, like he genuinely wants you to be okay, not just physically, but emotionally too.

“Take your time,” he says softly, backing away. He nods toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down to the left. I’ll make some tea. You’ll feel better.”

It’s a simple offer, like he’s willing to offer you warmth without making you feel indebted to him. When you disappear into the bathroom to change, you can hear him bustling around in the kitchen. You take a deep breath and let yourself relax for the first time in what feels like forever.

When you return, towel-drying your hair with one of the fluffy hand towels he left out for you, you’re practically swallowed in his clothes. The shirt hangs loose over your frame, the waistband of the sweatpants tied tight around your hips. You’ve never felt so ridiculous and so safe all at once.

Seonghwa looks up from the kitchen and immediately gives you that soft, amused smile. “Okay, that’s a look.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Stylish, right? You might not get these back.”

“I was just about to say they suit you,” he replies, not missing a beat.

You laugh, and it’s small, but real, and it makes something warm twist in his chest. He’s pacing, sleeves pushed up as he moves easily around the kitchen. A kettle is on, two mugs already waiting. You catch the scent of honey and ginger in the air, something warm and slightly sweet.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur, padding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around yourself.

He glances up from stirring the honey. “You’re cold. You’re tired. I want to.” Then, with a softer voice: “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

That shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does.

You sit at the counter, fingers curling around the mug he places in front of you. You’re so used to handling everything on your own that this small act of care feels like a luxury.

He leans against the counter opposite you, arms crossed casually, like he’s trying to keep a respectful distance. But he can’t help stealing glances at you. Not hungry, not suggestive, just thoughtful. Quietly admiring.

“You’ve had a long day,” he says after a pause, not prying. “Want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, sipping your tea. “Not really.”

“That’s okay,” he says immediately. “We can just sit.”

No questions. No expectations. He wouldn’t make you relive any of it. Not the rain, not the waiting, not the part where someone was supposed to show up and didn’t.

You let a little smile play at the edge of your lips. “You’re... very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being comforting. It’s like you have a degree in it or something.”

Seonghwa chuckles, eyes crinkling just a little. “I’m just treating you how I think you deserve to be treated.”

He means it.

He means it.

You set your mug down. “You don’t even know me.”

Seonghwa smiles, not missing a beat. “I’m working on it.”

He leans slightly on the counter, arms still crossed, eyes steady on yours. “But I’ve picked up a few things. You’re the kind of person who checks in on others even when you’re the one having a bad day. You’re a little stubborn when it comes to letting people take care of you - you want to do things yourself. And when you’re tired, you get kind of funny. Like, weirdly funny.”

You laugh under your breath, and so does he.

“And tonight?” His smile softens. “You needed someone. I was close by. That’s all it takes.” There’s no hidden meaning in his voice. No pressure. Just the kind of honesty you’re not used to from a man.

You meet his eyes, and there it is. The kind of tension that doesn’t scream or flirt, it just hums. You glance around his kitchen. The wooden cabinets, the tiny potted herb garden on the windowsill, the slightly chipped mug in front of you. “Your place… it’s not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” he teases, “you thought it’d be floor-to-ceiling glass, steel counters, and an automatic espresso machine?”

“Something like that.”

He grins. “I like homes that feel lived in. I don’t like that cold, overly-modern stuff. I like that I can comfortably show off my collection of magnets without having to worry if it fits in with the rest of the home.” He points to his fridge and you notice the huge collection of magnets. You let out a soft giggle.

You like that answer too much. You shouldn’t, but you do.

“I like it,” you say softly, not just about the apartment. The warm cup rests between your palms, grounding you, and Seonghwa leans back against the counter beside you, sipping his own. Then, without a word, he sets his mug down and starts rummaging through a cabinet.

You squint at him. “What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder with a small, almost mischievous smile. “We’re making cookies.”

You blink. “We are?”

“We are now,” he says simply, already pulling out a bag of flour.

You let out a soft laugh and step up beside him. You don’t ask if he needs help. You just join in. And he doesn’t say anything, just gives you a smile so gentle. Ten minutes later, the kitchen is a disaster.

The butter refuses to cooperate, slipping through your fingers and plopping to the floor. You try again, and this time it sticks to your hands so stubbornly that Seonghwa has to come to your rescue, giggling as he wipes it off with a spatula.

“Here,” he says, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Let’s try that again.” 

You giggle, brushing hair out of your face. “I swear, never make cookies.” 

“Oh, I can tell,” he teases, but there’s no judgment in his tone, only encouragement. “It’s okay. It’s the thought that counts.”

Later, flour explodes from the bag as it’s accidentally knocked over. It snows down across the counter, your arms, his shirt. You both freeze, and then burst into laughter. A moment later, the chocolate chips spill, scattering everywhere. 

Eventually, you both give up, the half-mixed dough resting lopsided in the bowl. You sat on the counter, legs swinging slightly as Seonghwa stood beside you. The bowl rests on your lap as he hands you a spoonful of raw dough, and you take it without hesitation.

“I think we killed it.” Seonghwa says proudly, scooping up some cookie dough for himself, using the same spoon.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you say around a mouthful. You sit side by side in the wreckage of flour and chocolate chips, warm tea forgotten, sharing bites of something that didn’t quite turn out the way it was supposed to, but still feels like a win.

You’re mid-laugh when he pauses, his eyes softening as they settle on you. Without a word, he steps a little closer, and his hand lifts. Gentle and careful.

“There’s a little…” he murmurs, brushing his fingers just above your eyebrow, where a streak of flour has settled. His thumb grazes your skin as he wipes it away, but he doesn’t pull back right away.

His touch lingers.

You feel it all the way down to your spine. His warmth, the closeness, the way his eyes briefly drop to your lips before meeting your gaze again. The air feels thick, like something unsaid is pressing at the edges of the moment. 

“Got it,” he says quietly. But he doesn’t move. And neither do you.

You’re still perched on the counter, his body angled toward yours, only a breath between you. He leans in slightly, gaze dropping again, first to your lips, then back up to your eyes, like he’s asking without words.

You lean in too.

Your knees bump against his hips, and your breath catches, held in your chest like it’s afraid to break the moment. His hands finds the counter next to you, grounding him, pulling him even closer. So close you can count every faint freckle on his skin. So close his breath hits your cheek.

And your phone rings.

Loud. Sharp. Invasive.

You freeze.

The moment shatters like glass.

Seonghwa pulls back slowly, but his hand stays on the counter near you, and he doesn’t turn away. Your phone rings again, and your eyes flick to the screen.

“Husband.”

You swallow hard, something sinking in your chest. Seonghwa doesn't say anything. He just watches, his expression soft but unreadable, and steps back enough to give you space. Not far, just enough. You hesitate for half a second. Then you slide off the counter, still warm from where your knees had brushed against him, and answer.

“Hello?” Your voice is thinner than you meant it to be.

He turns away, not out of anger, not even disappointment, just… quiet. Respectful. Still the same steady, gentle man, already reaching for the dish towel to start wiping flour from the counter like he’s giving you time. Giving you privacy.

But the warmth between you hasn’t disappeared.

It just simmers now, quiet and unsaid. Still there. Still waiting.

You murmur a few short replies into the phone, keeping your tone neutral. You hang up a moment later, your fingers still loosely wrapped around the device, like you’re not quite sure what to do with it. Seonghwa glances at you, not questioning, not pressing. Just that same soft-eyed look, like he sees everything without needing it explained.

You clear your throat and set the phone down on the far end of the counter. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” His voice is quiet. He offers you the tiniest smile. “You didn’t miss much. The cookie dough was starting to melt anyway.”

You laugh under your breath, and he smiles a little wider.

“I should… probably get going soon,” you say.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll give you a ride.”

You change into your old clothes, now warm and dry after Seonghwa took care of it. You finish tying your shoes and glance up at him. His movements are calm, deliberate, like he’s giving you space to process, to gather yourself. His gentleness is almost too much to handle right now, and you wonder if he knows how much he’s doing, just being there. Just being himself.

The drive back to your place is calm, the city lights flickering by as Seonghwa keeps his focus on the road, his hand steady on the wheel. Every now and then, his eyes flicker toward you, like he’s checking, making sure you’re okay. 

When he finally pulls up to your house, you hesitate for a second before opening the door. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, “You really made my day.” and finally, and he offers you that smile of his. It’s small, but it reaches his eyes. 

“Anytime,” he replies softly, as if there’s no question.

You step out of the car, the door closing behind you with a soft click. You stand there for a moment, watching his headlights fade into the distance, a quiet warmth settling in your chest.

***

A week has passed since that night. The one where everything had almost felt like it could change. The small, sweet moments that lingered in the kitchen, the silent tension, and that quiet brush of his fingers against your face. But you hadn’t really spoken much after that.

Seonghwa had been giving you space. He never pressed, never pushed, just sent a message here and there, something light, something simple. Asking how your day was, letting you know he was there if you needed to talk. It was as though he understood the weight on your shoulders, the things you were still trying to process, and he respected that.

You’d found comfort in those texts. They were a gentle reminder that there was still kindness out there, that not all men were careless or indifferent. But you hadn’t been ready to dive into anything more. Not yet.

So you let the days pass, lost in work and the usual noise of life, where everything felt like it was moving forward and standing still all at once.

When you walk into the house that evening, expecting to be alone, the air feels too still. Almost oppressive. You take off your shoes, drop your bag, and then, suddenly, you hear it.

Moans.

Loud and unmistakable.

Your heart skips a beat. The noise comes from the bedroom.

You freeze, panic washes over you in a way you never thought you’d feel. The reality hits harder than a slap, and before your mind can catch up to your body, your feet are already moving, silent, quick, out the door.

Your husband. With her.

The woman he’d been seeing for months. The one you knew about. From his work. The one he swore wouldn’t ever step foot in your bedroom.

But she had. They had.

The rules didn’t matter now.

You can barely remember how you made it out of the house, your heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribs. You don’t stop to think. You just grab your coat and rush outside, the cold air stinging your cheeks. You get on the bus, not thinking clearly or caring about anything other than getting away.

Away to the last place that felt safe.

Seonghwa opens the door looking completely confused in a loose hoodie and gray sweatpants, as if he’s been lounging or about to sleep. His hair is slightly tousled, his face soft with surprise, but when he sees you standing there, shaking and crying, everything about him changes.

His eyes widens, his body tensing as if his instincts slammed into overdrive.

“Hey-..hey, what’s going on?” His voice cracks a little, pure concern bleeding through. “Are you-, are you okay? What happened?” He barely waits for an answer before stepping forward, one hand reaching out like he’s afraid to startle you, the other already pulling the door wider. “Come in. Come here. Please.”

You don’t even remember how you’d made it to his place. You didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t even know where else to go. You are just… there. Your legs moved on their own. He gently takes your wrist, guiding you inside like he thought you might fall apart if he let go. And maybe you would.

“I-I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper, your voice trembling so much the words barely came out. “I walked in and they were… in the bedroom. Our bedroom. I heard her, and him-”

Your breath hitched. The shame, the heartbreak, the betrayal all crashed into you again like a tidal wave. Seonghwa freeze, his face shifting from confusion to something like disbelief, followed by an ache so deep it flickered across his features before he could hide it.

“You’re shaking,” he breathes, like that was the only thing he could focus on to keep himself from doing something rash. “Gosh-, come here.”

Then he pulls you in. Not tentative. Not gentle like before. But firm. Warm. Protective. His arms wrap around you completely, hands cradling the back of your head, the middle of your back, holding you like he was trying to piece you back together with just his embrace.

You broke.

The sob that escaped you was raw, tearing through your chest as you collapsed against him. His hoodie quickly dampened with your tears, but he didn’t care. He only held you tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair, over and over again, his voice thick, arms unyielding. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

A few hours passed. The silence of the apartment is heavy, and the soft hum of the city outside filters in through the windows, but none of it seems to matter. Seonghwa sits on the edge of the couch, his gaze fixed on you as you sleep, curled up with a blanket around you. Seonghwa didn’t move you. He wouldn’t dare. Your face is peaceful now, but he knows, he saw the remnants of the tears still streaked on your cheeks.

He watches you for a long moment, longer than he should have, just to be sure you were breathing easy, that your face wasn’t tight with the pain you’d carried in. He adjust the blanket around your shoulders once more, fingers brushing your arm like a silent promise: I’m here.

Then he slips away into the kitchen.

The lights are dim. He doesn’t turn on the overheads. Only the small one above the sink cast a quiet glow, painting gold over the counter and the delicate steam curling from the mug of tea he never ended up drinking.

He cleans slowly. Methodically. Not because there is much to clean, but because he needs to do something with his hands. He needs to focus on anything but the image of you curled on his couch with your cheeks still damp from crying. Something about seeing you so hurt, so vulnerable in his home, keeps his chest tight and his thoughts moving. He wants to be nearby, just in case you wake up and need him. 

He didn’t know what to do when you broke. His instinct was to hold you, to gather you up and shelter you from everything, but he’d hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to, but because he didn’t know if it was what you needed.

You are still married. Still healing. Still so fragile it makes his chest ache.

And yet, he can’t stop thinking about how you came here. To him. Not a friend. Not a hotel. Him.

What did that mean?

What could it mean?

He’s still standing at the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel, when he hears the soft shuffle of your footsteps behind him. You’re quiet, hesitant, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Sleep clinging to your features, eyes puffy, hair slightly mussed, your voice rough when you speak.

“Seonghwa?”

He turns once.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, barely looking at him. “For just… showing up. For staying. I didn’t mean to take up your whole night.”

Seonghwa sets the tea towel down gently and shakes his head “You didn’t take anything,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You look at him, startled by how easily he says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather have you.

“I feel ridiculous,” you say quietly, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “Showing up here. Crying like that. Falling asleep like a mess on your couch.”

Seonghwa looks up from the sink where he’s rinsing a cup, then reaches for the towel draped nearby to dry it. He moves slowly, deliberately, as if not to startle you. “You’re not a mess,” he says. “You’re human. And tonight was… a lot. You shouldn’t have had to hear that. Especially not in your own home.”

You nod once, lips press tight, your eyes tracing the pattern of the granite countertop.

“I guess I just didn’t expect it to hurt like that,” you whisper. “I agreed to this open marriage, I knew what it meant. All he had to do was follow the simple rules we made; let the other person know when you’re dating someone and don’t bring them into the bedroom. But hearing them like that… it was like everything I’d been pretending not to feel came crashing in.”

He steps a little closer, still drying the mug but slowing as he listens.

You look up at him then, eyes glassy. “I didn’t mean to bring it all here.”

“You didn’t bring anything but yourself,” he says, voice softer now. “And for what it’s worth… I’m glad you came. I’ve only seen you a few times, but I-” He hesitated, then smiled faintly, “I wouldn’t have wanted you to go anywhere else tonight.”

Your chest tightens. Something in his words, his expression, the way he stands there drying a cup like it was the only way he can keep his hands from holding you.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” he adds, glancing down at the towel in his hand, placing the cup on the counter. “But when I saw you at my door, I didn’t feel interrupted. I felt relieved.” he huffs a quiet breath, laughing under it, ”I didn’t want anyone else to be the one you went to. Is that selfish? Maybe. But—”

He didn’t get to finish.

The towel was halfway folded in his hands when you moved.

Three fast steps.

Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, pulled him down before he could process what was happening, and you kissed him.

Hard. Needy. Quietly desperate.

You needed to. You needed to feel if this was more than just you feeling crazy. Could you really find safety in someone who isn’t your husband? How could this man you’ve met 3 times the past two weeks, be the most thoughtful and supportive person in your life at the moment?

The towel slips from his hand, landing forgotten on the kitchen floor. He kisses you back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, hands finding your cheeks, pulling you close without hesitation. The warmth of him spreads through you instantly, grounding, solid, safe.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

Not until the kiss breaks, just enough for breath.

“I…” you whisper, suddenly unsure.

He smiles, gently, almost in disbelief. “You caught me off guard.” He’s smiling, eyes warm, his thumb brushing your side like he can’t stop touching you now that he’s started. 

“I don’t know why I did that,” you whisper, nervous now, terrified he might say it was too soon. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m really glad you did it.” His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with hunger, and you can feel the weight of his desire pressing against you, but there was hesitation, just a flicker of it.

You mumble the words, barely loud enough for either of you to hear. “Is this... too fast?”

A beat passed. Then another. 

“No,” he says softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Not if it’s you. Not if you’re the one reaching for me.”

Your breath catches, the lump in your throat returning. Not from grief this time, but from something gentler. Something like hope. 

“You set the pace. I’ll follow.”

And he means it. Every word.

You reach for him again, pulling him in. The kiss is firmer this time, your lips claiming his with more urgency, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as if you couldn’t get close enough. He groans into your mouth, his hands tightening around your waist, as if holding you in place is the only thing keeping him from losing control.

Your hands slid by the hem of his shirt, fingertips barely grazing over his warm skin, and you feel him tense beneath your touch. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Fuck,” he rasp. “I’m barely holding on.”

“Good,” you whisper, and lean up to kiss him again.

His hands are on your waist, his grip tight, but there is still a slight hesitation in him. It’s as if he was torn between wanting to be the good guy, wanting to respect your boundaries, and the overwhelming, suffocating need to give in to everything you’re offering. His lips meet yours again, deeper this time, and the kiss is frantic, hungry, as though he can’t get close enough, can’t touch you enough.

You barely register your back hitting the edge of the kitchen island until his hands curl under your thighs and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled by the sudden motion, but his strength… the ease of it, the way he settles you gently onto the counter like you’re precious, it makes you shiver.

You wrap your legs around his hips instantly, locking your heels at the small of his back, and it pushes him in deeper, his length perfectly aligned with the ache between your legs.

The moment your bodies aligned, you both gasped.

You feel him.

Thick and full and undeniably hard, straining against the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants. He’s pressed right against your center, the outline of him so vivid you can practically trace it with your eyes.

You gasp. He curses. 

“I can see you,” you whisper, voice wrecked, eyes flicking down to where his sweatpants clung to him, every thick inch outlined and throbbing. “You’re so hard.”

He lets out a strangled groan. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that-”

You can't help but grind once against his member, and you whimper as his hips rolled forward, slow and deep. His cock drags up the seam of your heat, the head catching perfectly where your clit throbs. It’s too much and not enough. The layers between you only made it worse.

He feels you. Wet, warm, pressed against the inside of your panties, where your thin leggings clings like a second skin, doing nothing to hide how badly you want him. His mouth crashes onto yours, and it was different this time, no hesitation, no restraint. Just teeth and tongue and desperation. Your hands were in his hair now, tugging, dragging him closer. He presses against you, hard enough to make you moan, and God, you feel him, thick, hard, straining against his pants.

But something occupies your mind.

“Wait,” You keep your legs wrapped around him. You don’t let go. Immediately, he stills. His breathing ragging, chest rising and falling against yours. His hands are warm on your thighs where they rest, thumbs rubbing soft, slow circles into your skin like he’s grounding you. His forehead presses gently against yours, both of you still catching your breath. 

“I want to,” you admitted, your voice wrecked. “So bad. But I need… I need to say it first. To him.”

Him. Your Husband.

For the first time in months, you hated that your husband was in your mind right now. 

His gaze lifts to yours instantly, and for a second, you brace yourself for disappointment. But it never comes.

He nods. “I know,” he pulls back and kisses your forehead. “Just because he broke your rules does not mean you should do it too.” He’s way quicker to understand than you’ve ever imagined. He’s too good.

“I’m sorry… I really want to.” You say, finding his eyes. “But I feel like I have to tell him that I’m seeing someone, let alone his boss, before I do something.”

“Hey,” he cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, the warmest eyes you’ve ever met. “You don’t have to explain, I totally understand.”

You try smiling but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. “It’s not you. I’m just not in the right headspace, and if we did this right now, I think I’d just… think too much. Regret it. Not because of you! But because of everything else.”

“I know,” he says gently, brushing your hair back with a touch that’s nothing short of reverent. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. If you want to do this or not. Whatever you end up deciding, I’ll respect. But if you decide you want to do this, with me sometime, I don’t want you to feel any pressure. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll wait for you.”

And God. That. That is the thing. He isn’t demanding. He isn’t jealous. He isn’t angry or annoyed or trying to guilt you into a decision.

He just understand.

“You’re kind,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re really fucking kind.” 

A silence fills the space between you, your gaze dropping down to where your bodies meet. You look up at him, cheeks flushed. “If I hadn’t said stop… would you have?”

His eyes darkens. He smile, not cocky. But honest.

“Not a chance in hell.” The weight behind those words makes your chest ache. “Can I do anything for you?” 

You glance down at yourself, then let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I probably need a shower. I look like someone who lost a fight to her own life.”

He grins at that, easing back just enough to slide his hands to your waist. Before you can say another word, he’s lifting you down from the counter with a firm but gentle grip, like you’re something precious, and threading his fingers through yours.

“Come on,” he murmurs, tugging you softly. “Shower. I’ll get everything ready.”

You trail behind him to the bathroom, your hand still tucked in his. He moves around the space with practiced ease, grabbing towels, adjusting the water, and even laying out the same sweatpants and oversized t-shirt you wore the last time you were here.

When he places them carefully on the counter, he gives you one last glance, warm and soft. “Take your time, your clothes are on the counter. I’ll be in the living room when you’re done.”

You nod, suddenly overwhelmed in a completely different way. “Seonghwa?”

He pauses in the doorway, looking back at you.

“Thank you. For… not making this weird.”

His smile is soft, patient. “It’s not weird. It’s okay.”

A few minutes later, you’re still in his bathroom, the warmth of the steam and the quiet hum of the fan giving you a moment to breathe. To be alone and let the water rinse some of it away. Not the pain of today, but the weight of it, just for a moment.

You change into the familiar sweatpants and soft T-shirt he left folded neatly by the sink. They still smell like him. When you open the door again, the hallway’s dim, and the softest light glows from the living room. 

He’s sitting on the couch, one arm resting over the back, a blanket already draped across the cushions, like he’s been preparing your little corner of the world for you. 

“Perfect timing,” he says, patting the space beside him with a grin that’s equal parts teasing and gentle. “I was about to start a movie without you and pretend I didn’t.”

You laugh, your heart lighter already. And as you cross the room and curl into his side beneath the blanket, it’s not the movie that matters. It’s the feeling that you’re safe here, with him.

And for the first time in a long time, that’s more than enough.

***

The boardroom is quiet when Seonghwa walks in the next day.

He’s always early, by design. It gives him time to breathe, to set the tone, to sit at the head of the glass table with everything already in place. His laptop is open, a black pen lined up perfectly beside his notepad, and his eyes skim the agenda, though he already knows it. But his focus isn’t on the day’s schedule.

Not yet.

It’s still on you.

Not the way you looked when you walked into his apartment yesterday. Exhausted, crying, your whole body weighed down by things you hadn’t said yet, but the way you looked curled up against him hours later, asleep on his couch, tucked into his side beneath a blanket like you’d always belonged there.

You had cried. You had kissed him. You had let him hold you. He’d kissed the crown of your head.

And he didn’t sleep much that night.

Not because you didn’t let him, if anything, you were warm and quiet, breathing slow against him. It was the way you felt in his arms that kept him awake. Like he was holding something fragile and sacred. Like if he moved, even slightly, you might disappear.

In the morning, you stirred first. Groggy and quiet, blinking sleepily against his chest before murmuring something about needing to go home and change before work. He offered to take the day off. Said he could cancel everything. That he didn’t care.

But you shook your head with a tiny smile. Insisted that he go.

You even teased him for hovering. Called him “overly attentive.” He’d rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but when you leaned in and kissed him goodbye, soft and sleepy, he nearly asked you to stay.

But you left. And he watched the door long after it closed behind you.

Now he’s here. Under sterile lighting. A boardroom full of chatter. And across the table sits the man who used to be your husband in everything but legality.

He walked in laughing - with her - like it’s just another Thursday. The girlfriend is practically attached to him, all smiles and subtle touches, like they don’t work under the same roof. Like they’re not sneaking around as if people haven’t noticed. Seonghwa doesn’t look up immediately. Just lets his fingers tap softly against the side of his coffee cup. 

Measured. Calm. Focused.

“Morning,” your husband says with that too-casual tone, like everything’s perfectly fine.

“Morning,” Seonghwa replies, flat and cool.

He doesn’t do anger like most people. It simmers quietly in him, contained, controlled. He doesn’t lash out. He remembers. He watches. He files things away until the time is right.

Today’s not the day.

But he is watching.

The meeting starts. The others file in, small talk filling the space. Projector humming, documents shuffling. Seonghwa opens the presentation. Keeps his voice even.

“I’d like to keep today’s meeting brief,” he says, voice smooth and low. “We’re focusing on timelines, project deliverables, and accountability.”

His gaze flicks to your husband. The pause is barely a second too long. “Especially accountability.”

There's a flicker in the man’s expression. He shifts in his seat, coughs once like he’s about to make a joke, but one look from Seonghwa shuts him down. The meeting ticks forward. 

Then your husband speaks up.

“I think the delay in deliverables came down to a lack of communication, not really our fault,” he says, flashing a grin at his girlfriend like she’ll have his back.

She does.

But Seonghwa is already leaning forward, calm but sharp. “And who was responsible for communicating that timeline to the vendors?”

Silence.

Your husband clears his throat. “Well… technically, I was. But-”

“Then let’s not redirect blame.” Seonghwa’s voice doesn’t rise. It never needs to. “If you were the lead, you’re accountable. End of story.”

The table goes quiet. The girlfriend shifts awkwardly. And your husband, he looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t dare.

Good.

Seonghwa could say more. So much more. He could talk about how you came to him last night after being ignored for months. How you told him things you never said to anyone. How you almost gave yourself to him. How you let him hold you, warm you, kiss you, keep you safe. How you fell asleep against him like he was the only place you felt okay.

He could say how he’s never going to forgive this man for not seeing you. For making you feel small. For letting you cry alone in your kitchen while he flirted with someone new on the clock.

But Seonghwa keeps it inside.

He lets the meeting run its course. Makes his points. Keeps his composure. Because no one knows what you are to him.

Yet.

And when it’s finally over, he gathers his papers slowly. Closes his laptop with care. And doesn’t look back once.

Because there’s something about seeing that man across from him, pretending like he still owns your heart, when Seonghwa knows what it feels like to have you kiss him good morning, in nothing but his hoodie, after a night of quiet healing.

He’s not done protecting you.

And your husband? He doesn’t even realize he already lost.

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