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strbrrymooni · 1 month ago

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Midnight’s Poet

🌙Pairing: Wen Junhui!Law Student x Female Reader!Librarian (Seol Y/n)

🌙Genre: Dark romantic mystery, slow burn, midnight trysts , erotic

🌙Summary: By day, Seol Y/n tends to her beloved library with warm tea, quiet smiles, and stories that bloom between shelves. But when the clock strikes midnight, the air turns heavier—charged with something unspoken. Beneath the hush of lamplight and rows of worn books, he arrives without sound: Wen Junhui, polite law student by day, her silent visitor by midnight. Whose eyes hold poetry and whose hands ache to confess what his lips won’t. When a silk ribbon appears one night as invitation, Y/n must choose: follow the path into the unknown, or stay safe in the warmth of routine. In a library where words are sacred and glances linger too long, love unfolds not in grand gestures—but in shadows, sonnets, and sighs.

🌙Word count: 7k-ish words

🌙Warnings: Mature content / explicit sexual themes, smut, voyeurism, possessive love interest, adult language, mentions of self-pleasure, obsessive behavior, stalking, masturbation, 18+, MDNI

Chapter 1: The Poet watches 💐 - Chapter 2 … - Chapter 3…

You wake before dawn, long before the neighborhood stirs. The first soft glow of morning peeks through your linen curtains, brushing your neck with a gentle warmth. For a moment, you linger beneath the sheets, savoring the hush, before swinging your legs over the side of the bed and planting your feet on the cool wooden floor. Your routine is as familiar as the spine of your favorite novel. In the bathroom mirror you smooth your dark hair into a loose chignon, brush your teeth, and apply the lightest hint of rose-tinted gloss.

At thirty-five, you exude the poise of someone far older. Yet your soft features—your heart-shaped face framed by waves that graze your cheeks, high cheekbones dusted with a natural rose glow, and full lips that curve into an inviting smile—still speak of a youthful warmth. Your body boasts gentle curves in all the right places—slim at the waist, with just enough fullness at your hips and bust to feel both soft and alluring, radiating warmth and quiet confidence with every graceful movement. You slip into a crisp blouse and tailored trousers, then top it off with a pastel cardigan that drapes over you like the morning light itself.

In the kitchen, the kettle sings. You measure two heaping teaspoons of Darjeeling tea into a chipped porcelain cup—one of your favorites, gifted by a regular. You pour in just enough milk to swirl ivory clouds through the amber brew, then wrap both hands around the warm mug and breathe in its comfort. It’s these small rituals that set the tone for your day.

By 7:30 AM, you’re in your car, the engine purring like a contented cat. The drive to the library takes only ten minutes, but you relish each turn along tree-lined streets, watching sunlight spill over rooftops. In your rearview mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself—glasses perched, eyes bright—and remind yourself that you chose this life. Graduating top of your class had opened doors to countless prestigious careers: corporate law, academia, even a fast track into politics. Yet none of those paths spoke to you like this one did.

You arrive at the library just as the iron gates click open. Stepping inside, you inhale the familiar perfume of old paper and polished oak. A soft bell above the door rings, though no one has entered. You drape your cardigan over the back of your desk chair, then move through the sun-lit reading room, fluffing blankets on cushioned chairs and arranging fresh bouquets of daisies—your own special touch. By mid-morning, your cozy sanctuary is never empty. Students seeking a quiet corner. Retirees hunting for a classic mystery. Aspiring writers tapping away on laptops.

And, more often than not, someone with flowers in hand and hopeful eyes. You’ve lost count of how many bouquets and polite invitations you’ve declined. They’re earnest, too, and undeniably charming—the kind of gestures that make most women’s hearts flutter. But something always feels… incomplete. You smile warmly as you hand back a single rose, thanking them for their kindness, and explain that you’re not looking to date right now.

Sometimes you wonder if you should give someone a chance again—just one afternoon walk or coffee at the corner café—and see where it leads. But each time, once you imagine trading these shelves and whispered pages for anything else, you know you’d miss your library more than you’d miss the possibility of romance.

Believe it or not, It’s been years since you last let anyone touch you—five, to be exact. Not since you turned thirty. Not since you quietly decided that your life was already full. You had your time in your twenties: you loved and flirted, danced at rooftop parties, laughed over drinks with friends, and tumbled into bed with three exes and a handful of situationships. But love? That was never something you took seriously. You were too busy topping your classes, building your career, being the friend everyone could count on, the girl with the plans and the fire and the charm.

Love was never the goal; ambition and freedom were.

That’s why it still surprises people when they find out who you are now: a sweet woman who runs a grand, sun-drenched library with sweeping shelves, towering windows, chipped porcelain teacups, and thick blankets tucked into every reading nook. It’s a haven that feels like poetry—curated with quiet care and love.

You’re content. You consider yourself successful.

And yet… despite the calm, despite the joy this life brings, the quiet ache never fully goes away. That silent, gnawing absence—the hunger that lives just under the skin. Five years of untouched skin, of no hands in your hair, no weight against your spine, no breath whispered hot against your ear.

Touch deprivation. It’s a clinical term. But it sounds so cold for something so deeply human. It’s partially your fault for not letting anyone in that easily to your heart.

Still, today feels different, though you can’t say why. You’re wiping down the counter after chatting with your assistant about restocking the new classics when he appears: Wen Junhui, your quiet regular, entering the library alone.

He lingers just past the entryway, the soft jingle of the bell still echoing faintly behind him. He’s wearing that deep brown sweater—the one that clings just right to his tall frame, hugging his broad shoulders and falling loosely around his wrists. It looks impossibly soft, like something worn for comfort rather than style, but somehow, he still makes it look effortless. His long brunette hair falls gently around his face, soft waves brushing the tops of his cheeks and curling slightly at the ends. It catches the golden library light in a way that makes it glow, and for a moment, you can’t tell if it’s the lighting or him.

Probably him.

There’s something about him that always makes the room feel quieter, even when he hasn’t said a word. His jawline is sharp, his features elegant, like he’s been sculpted out of dusk and warm honey. And those eyes—cat-like, observant, framed by long lashes—glide over the room with quiet intent before they find yours.

He pauses near the reading room, hands tucked into the hem of his sweater, his fingers fidgeting slightly. His eyes flicker toward the small teapot beside your ledger, then back to you. You glance up, mid-swipe, cloth forgotten in your hand, and offer him a gentle nod. Your breath catches—not because he’s never been here before, but because something in his gaze feels different today. More direct. Like he’s searching for something only you could give. He clears his throat, a soft, uncertain sound that makes your chest tighten.

“Um… excuse me, Miss Y/n” he says, voice low and a little shaky. His cheeks have the faintest glow of nervousness.

“I—I noticed you sometimes share tea with the regulars. I was wondering… could I have some, too?”

Your heart suddenly flutters at the request—you’ve seen him linger by the poetry section in silence, his notebooks half-hidden under his arm—but you keep your smile warm and steady. “Of course,” you reply, brushing back a loose strand of hair. “What would you like?”

Junhui hesitates, rubbing a hand through his hair as though gathering courage. You fold your arms across your chest, curious. After a moment, he remembers something his friend once teased him about, and his voice finds strength. “Darjeeling,” he blurts, eyes meeting yours. “My friend says it’s the best—so, if you have it…”

A soft thrill runs through you at his choice—it’s your favorite, too—and you reach for the chipped porcelain cup. As you lift the pot, your hand brushes his, and you both catch your breath. You pour the tea, watching the steam curl between you like whispered secrets, and slide the cup across the counter.

Junhui lifts it with both hands, bringing the rim to his lips in a delicate, reverent gesture. His eyes close for a moment as he inhales the warm aroma, and you see a flicker of wonder in his expression. When he finally tastes it, his pupils dilate, and a sound—half sigh, half laugh—escapes him.

You can’t help the soft chuckle that bubbles up. Before you know it, the words slip out on a breath: “How cute.”

The silence that follows is thick with surprise. Junhui’s cheeks deepen to a warm rose as he meets your gaze, searching, hopeful. After a heartbeat, he lifts the cup once more and offers the tiniest, shy smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice steadier now. “This is… wonderful.”

You offer him a soft smile in return, watching as he nods politely and turns away with the cup of tea. With quiet steps, he walks back toward his usual corner—an old table tucked beside a sunlit window, where his backpack rests alongside a thick stack of law books, scattered notes, and a sleek laptop already glowing faintly. He sets the tea down gently, like it’s something sacred, then slips into the chair and adjusts his glasses, already half-lost in whatever case study was waiting for him.

You don’t mean to watch him. Not really. But there’s something oddly captivating about the way he gently nudges his laptop aside just to make space for the teacup—as if it deserves a seat at the table too. His fingers wrap around the ceramic again. He takes another sip, pauses, and blinks down at the cup like it just whispered a secret to him.

You smile to yourself. He glances up for the briefest second—just a flicker—and your eyes meet. Not long enough for it to be anything, but enough to leave a trace of warmth across your chest. You’re not the type to hover, but you find yourself lingering near his orbit more than usual.

Why now? He’s always been here—quiet, polite, never demanding. Always blending into the corners with his books and borrowed time. And yet today, there’s a pull. Like a thread being tugged loose from a place you hadn’t noticed fraying.

Maybe it’s the way he’s moving slower. Or how he keeps glancing toward the counter, like he’s searching for a reason to stay a little longer.

Or maybe… you’re just finally looking.

So you grab a small tray, just to make yourself look busy. There are a few returned books needing reshelving anyway. With practiced ease, you move past his table, letting your presence drift nearby. As you move past his table, your eyes flicker to him—quietly savoring the tea, his lips brushing the rim like it’s a small moment stolen from a busy day.

“So,” you say, “how’s the tea treating you?”

He sets the cup down with careful fingers, like it might vanish if he lets go too quickly. “It’s… oddly calming. I didn’t expect to like it this much.”

“It’s my favorite.” You light up as you stated cheerfully.

His lips curl at the edge. “Then I must have exceptional taste.”

“You do,” you say with a soft laugh. “Even if it was just a borrowed instict”

He chuckles, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, you caught me guilty. It was actually a recommendation from a dear friend.”

“Xu Minghao, right?” you ask, watching the flicker of surprise in his expression.

He sits up slightly. “Wait—how’d you know?”

You gesture toward the front desk with your chin. “He’s the art major who painted those two portraits of me, isn’t he? They were displayed up there for weeks. Hard to miss.”

Jun blinks, then looks at you, eyes amused. “So it really is you in the portraits.”

You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Really? I thought it looked familiar.” He chuckles softly. “You sound more surprised than impressed.”

He smiled then he leans back, eyeing you with a curious tilt of his head. “So it was Minghao who painted those, huh?”

You nodded and smiled saying, “Who else would it be?”

“I know he’s a talented artist” Jun says, lips quirking, “but I didn’t know he was out here painting you like his muse. Was it… a confession? Or something?”

You pause, your voice quieter this time. “He told me he’s already aware that I would most likely to decline and wouldn’t return his feelings. That it wasn’t about being noticed or confessions, just… offering something beautiful, out of pure admiration .”

Jun watches you for a long beat, then says, “That’s still kind of romantic.”

You smile, soft and understanding. “I guess it is.”

The moment hangs gently between you, not heavy or awkward—just quietly charged.

Jun shifts, resting his chin on his hand. “You must get a lot of those. Admiration wrapped up in both grand and quiet gestures.”

You laugh under your breath. “More than I know what to do with. I think people fall in love with the idea of me—owner of a cozy library, lover of old books and tea. Makes them feel like they’ve just walked into a novel. Is it okay to consider myself everyone’s comfort chapter? not their plot twist.” You laughed softly.

He’s silent for a second, gaze steady. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

You tilt your head, curious. “No?”

Jun’s voice is calm, but honest. “You’re not just a chapter. You’re the part people reread when they don’t know what else to hold onto.”

You blink, a little stunned—heat flickering at the edge of your cheeks. This time, it’s you who looks away first. “You’re kind with your words, Jun.”

He smiles. “Only when I mean them.”

He watches you with a look you can’t quite place—warm, thoughtful, and laced with something quieter, deeper. A slow smile plays at his lips.

“I’d say the people around here have excellent taste, you know especially when it comes to libraries.” His eyes don’t leave yours as his voice drops, just a little softer, just a little slower. “And the beautiful librarian who makes them feel like home.”

You don’t answer right away. You just smile oh so sweetly—and in the quiet between you, something unspoken settles. Comfortable. Familiar. You glance toward the front desk, then back at him. “I guess most people don’t expect the quiet librarian to have a whole set of portraits hanging up. Makes me feel a little less invisible.”

Jun smiles, a softness in his eyes. “I think it suits you. You don’t seem like the type to crave attention, but you definitely have a presence.”

You chuckle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s a nice way to put it. And what about you? You’re usually quiet and demure, always tucked away with your books and notes. What’s your story?”

He shrugs, a bit shy but honest. “I guess I’m just trying to find my place. Law school keeps me busy, but moments like this—quiet corners, good company, great conversation, make it all feel a little easier.”

You nod, understanding more than you let on. “Sometimes it’s the small things that makes the biggest difference.”

There’s a comfortable pause, filled only by the soft rustle of pages and distant footsteps.

“So,” you say, smiling again, “Are you going to tell me more about this dear friend of yours? Besides being an excellent taste advisor?”

Jun’s grin widens. “Maybe. If you promise not to laugh.”

You lean in slightly, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “No promises.”

Jun chuckles, shaking his head, and sighing dramatically as he rests his elbow on the table like he’s just been gravely wronged. “So this is how librarians lure people into opening up huh— You’re setting me up to share my deepest secrets and then laugh at me. Truly, the most dangerous kind of librarian.”

You smirk. “I prefer ‘strategic conversationalist.’ Now talk.”

Jun chuckles and drums his fingers against the table, sheepish. “Alright, you got me.”

He hesitates, then lets the words tumble out with a fond smile. “Minghao and I go way back. We used to ride the train home together after night classes. He’d always be covered in paint—hands, sleeves, sometimes even his cheek. He said it helped him think better, like the messier his hands got, the clearer his ideas became. I thought it was weird at first. Kinda magical, too.”

He pauses, glancing at you like he’s bracing for teasing. “He used to sketch strangers on napkins. Said it was ‘for practice,’ but I think he just liked catching beauty when no one was looking.

He pauses, a small, nostalgic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Anyway, one evening he showed me this sketch—just the rough outline at first. Said he wasn’t sure if he’d finish it. But even then, I could tell it was someone important to him.”

You tilt your head, curious. “And you didn’t ask who it was?”

“I did,” Jun says, eyes flicking back to yours. “He just smiled and said, ‘You’ll know when you see her.’”

You hum, amused. “That sounds very Minghao.”

Jun nods. “He’s always been good at reading people. Quiet, but observant. He talked about you before—said you had this... calm gravity. Like you made the world feel slower just by being in it.”

Your brows lift slightly, caught off guard. “He said that?” Jun leans forward a little, eyes kind. “He did. And judging by those portraits, he meant every word. I think that was his way of admiring you. Not quite a confession, but… something close.”

You blink, then laugh softly, almost shy. “That’s… unexpectedly poetic coming from him.”

Jun grins, eyes crinkling. “Right? He slips into it when he thinks no one’s listening.” You rest your elbow on the table, chin in hand as you look at him. “And what about you? Got any secret portraits of me stashed away somewhere?”

He raises an eyebrow, playing along. “Wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you, would it?” You smirk. “So that’s a yes.”

Jun chuckles and leans in, forearms on the table, voice lower now—confessional, but still teasing. “Let’s just say if I had a muse, she’d run a beautiful library, have a dangerously charming smile, and pretend not to notice when people fall for her one by one.”

You pause, blinking once. Your heartbeat skips like a missed line in a favorite book. “Dangerously charming,” you repeat, a little breathless despite yourself. “That’s new.”

Jun shrugs, but there’s a softness in the curve of his smile now. “What can I say? Minghao might’ve seen you first, but I always payed attention too.”

You look at him, really look, and it feels like the kind of moment people try to write down but never quite getting it right. The kind that sits in the quiet space between one heartbeat and the next.

“And here I thought you were just here for the tea.”

He meets your gaze, voice steady for a moment. “I was—”

“But then you happened,” you cut in, finishing his own sentence as you leaned slightly forward with a sly smile, your eyes sparkling like you’re holding all the cards. Jun swallows, caught off guard, his confident mask slipping just a little. His fingers twitch nervously on the table as he glances away, cheeks flushing. “Right. I—uh, well, maybe it wasn’t just the tea.”

You chuckle softly, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “See? You’re admitting it now.” Jun clears his throat, trying to recover, voice quieter this time. “Guess… you make it hard to focus on anything else.”

The space between you shifts—less silence, more crackling electricity—as he folds back into his shy, hesitant self, letting you take the lead like it’s the most natural thing in the world

You lean in a bit more, a subtle sly smile tugging at your lips. “For someone who seemed so confident earlier, you’re surprisingly tongue-tied around me now.”

Jun clears his throat, eyes darting away for a second. “Maybe you just know how to catch me off guard.”Before you can tease him further, a soft voice interrupts from behind. “Miss, could you please help me with the new shelf labels for the history and science section?”

You glance back with an apologetic smile. “Duty calls.”

Jun runs a hand through his hair, then looks up at you with a genuine smile. “Thank you, Y/n. I really enjoyed talking with you—more than I expected. It’s not every day I get to have a conversation that feels this easy. I hope we can do this again soon.”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’d love that. Take care of yourself, Jun.”

He nods, a small, hopeful smile lingering. “You too, Y/n. See you around.”

As you turn to leave, Jun rubs his eyes lightly, and in a low murmur barely meant for anyone but himself, he whispers: “Guess some moments are only meant to be borrowed.”

Jun watched you retreat into the aisles, your silhouette bathed in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the tall windows. There was something about the way you moved—calm, assured, as if the library breathed with you, every corner holding a piece of your quiet strength. It was in that moment, watching you disappear between the shelves, that his thoughts began to spiral—pulling him deeper into the quiet obsession he’d nurtured since the day he first saw you.

Day by day, visit after visit, his feelings for you deepened—quietly, steadily—until they settled into something undeniable. From the very beginning, he knew what he was looking for. He wasn’t just some lost freshman stumbling through the doors of a library. He was already 23, having just entered law school after years of academic discipline and relentless focus. Already sharp, already hungry—for knowledge, yes, but something gentler too. Something steady. Something like you.

He found out you were 31 then—Minghao mentioned it offhandedly one evening, like it wasn’t something that would linger in Junhui’s mind for days after. You didn’t seem 31, not in the way most people meant it. You looked timeless. Poised. The beautiful woman behind the counter with ink-stained fingers and a paperback in your hands, too absorbed in the story to notice him lingering a few paces longer than necessary.

But he noticed everything.

The chipped porcelain cup set gently near her elbow. The soft cardigan slipping off her shoulder. The quiet way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, distracted but at peace. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Because in that moment, Junhui understood something he couldn’t quite name yet—something quietly magnetic, a calm pull that made him want to stay, even as the world outside rushed on. But he knew this much:

He’d found the one place he’d keep returning to, no matter how heavy the casebooks or how tight the deadlines. A gentle certainty, like he was witnessing a scene he wasn’t meant to touch, only return to. Again and again. He didn’t know what to call it yet. He just knew it had already begun.

There was something about the way a small, absent gesture that somehow made the air around you feel warmer, as if you carried a secret sunbeam just for yourself. The way your eyes would catch the light when you smiled—soft, genuine, like a quiet promise only he could understand—made his chest tighten in a way that was almost too much to bear. He noticed how your laughter, though rare, was like a secret melody, a sound that lingered long after it faded. And the way you moved through the library, effortless and poised, as if the whole world bent slightly to your will, pulled by some invisible gravity only you commanded.

Jun had liked people before—fleeting crushes, half-felt flutters he never chased. He’d always been too focused, too disciplined, choosing textbooks over tangled hearts, lectures over late-night texts. He hung out with friends, joked, drank, let life carry him in soft, shallow currents. But this—you were different. It immediately clicked to him that this wasn’t a passing feeling. It was the first time something gripped him from the inside, quiet but consuming.

You didn’t just catch his eye—you unsettled him. Stirred something that made him want to pause, to look closer, to stay. For once, he didn’t want to look away but beneath all that gentle warmth was a spark—something bold and untamed in the curve of your lips when you caught him staring, something dangerously electric in the flash of your glance that left him breathless.

It wasn’t just admiration anymore; it was a burning need, a fierce obsession cloaked in softness—a hunger not just to know every quiet detail of your life, but to be the one who made your pulse quicken, who made your cheeks flush with something thrilling and wild. He wanted to be the only secret you whispered to yourself at night, the only warmth you reached for in the cold.

He had gifts meant for you, some little things he’d collected like: a pressed flower, a ribbon that reminded him of the one you sometimes wore, a first edition of a poetry book he'd once overheard you mention.

They weren’t stuffed into some forgotten drawer—no, Jun kept them in a sleek cabinet tucked neatly in the corner of his apartment. Custom-made, of course, with polished brass handles and velvet-lined drawers. Each letter, each small gift, was wrapped or boxed with care, untouched but deeply considered.

Not ready. Not yet.

They were tokens of affection not meant to impress, but to understand—to reflect all the quiet ways he’d been watching, listening, collecting pieces of you in his mind. Unlike the others who boldly confessed their feelings, Jun never found the courage to do it himself. His best friend had even taken the lead, daring to step forward first—and though that didn’t work out, Jun found a quiet relief in it. Minghao’s calm acceptance of his fate somehow eased the weight on Jun’s shoulders. It didn’t feel like competition anymore. It felt like a possibility.

And today? Today felt like a thread being tugged loose, finally, from the tangle of hesitation. You talked with him—really talked—and he got to see your smile up close, hear your laughter meant just for him. It wasn’t everything. But it was more than he ever expected. Today was more than just a lucky moment. It was hope.

By the time Jun finally left the library, night had already settled in, cool and hushed. He didn’t say goodbye—he didn’t want to interrupt. You were tending to guests, chatting with a group of regulars near the front shelves, your laughter echoing faintly through the warm light of the main hall. So he slipped out quietly, letting the soft click of the door behind him be the only proof he’d ever been there. You didn’t see him go.

But you noticed he was gone. And somehow, that made you pause.

You hadn't expected to feel... disappointed. But you did.

The warm little bubble of your earlier conversation had popped too soon, and though you were grateful for it—grateful for his company, his deep honey voice and his soft words—you found yourself scanning the room a little too long, hoping for another glimpse of him before realizing he’d vanished like smoke. Still, work called. You smiled through the melancholy, bidding goodnight to the last of the guests, exchanging soft laughs with your staff as they gathered their things and headed out. When the last light in the entry dimmed and the final farewell was said, you were alone again with the hush of paper and shelves.

The library was yours once more.

With graceful steps, you moved through each aisle, checking the returned books, straightening the occasional misplaced title. You slipped between the shelves lined with decadent tales—stories stitched with heat and hunger, desire dressed in poetry and sin. This aisle wasn’t hidden, not exactly. People wandered in often enough, giggling behind covers or pretending not to linger too long. But you? No one ever saw you here.

And that was the thrill of it.

Your fingers glided over gilded titles and velvet spines, covers that gleamed like secrets and whispered promises. These weren’t dusty, forgotten books. No—these books dared to be touched. Each one thrummed with tension, chapters laced with glances stolen in candlelight, with hearts that ached and bodies that burned.

Here, you weren’t the composed librarian or the beloved owner with the poised smile and curated restraint. Here, you were simply you—a woman who craved intensity, who read slowly to feel every word unfurl beneath her skin. A woman who didn’t flinch at how these stories made her pulse quicken.

And like every night, you reached—unapologetically—for the one that always left you breathless. Your fingers curled around the spine of your favorite book—its leather worn soft, familiar as a secret lover’s touch. You pulled it from the shelf with quiet reverence, cradling it as if it could burn you. And maybe it did.

With ease, you slipped into the velvet chair nestled in the farthest corner of the aisle—the one cloaked in just enough shadow to feel like sanctuary. No one ever asked about that chair. No one dared disturb the stillness there. And then, as if guided by instinct, you opened to that chapter.

The one where the man, delirious with restrained desire, finally reached for the woman he had only dared to worship from a distance. His hands trembled—not with fear, but with reverence. Hunger. Worship. He didn’t just touch her—he claimed her, with sincere and deep kisses that pressed devotion into every inch of her skin. It wasn’t violent, but it was feral in its honesty. Obsession wrapped in silk. Possession softened by patience.

His lips trailed the path his thoughts had traveled countless times in silence. And when he took her—body, soul, every broken and beautiful piece of her—it wasn’t just an act of passion. It was a prayer.

Your breath caught, just as it always did.

You let the words seep into you, delicious and unrelenting. The heat bloomed slowly—curling low in your belly, rising to your chest, tightening around your thighs. That kind of longing… that desperate, consuming want—to be seen, to be claimed, to be known in the most carnal and tender of ways—it stirred something deep in your core. A sweet ache.

 A pulse of hunger you never admitted aloud. But here, in this sacred corner, beneath the weight of ink and fantasy… you could feel it fully. Your eyes skimmed the page slower now, letting every word sink in like honey on your tongue. The way he whispered her name—like it held weight, like it tasted sweet—sent another flicker of heat spiraling through you. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, a soft friction that only made the tension worse. The fabric of your clothes suddenly felt like too much—clinging, warm, suffocating in all the places you wanted to feel bare and free.

You shifted slightly in the velvet chair, exhaling through parted lips as your fingers traced the worn edge of the page, then drifted lower—to your lap, then lower still. This was nothing new. Just like every other night spent in this hidden nook, this moment had always belonged to you. A ritual of sorts. A secret indulgence. You let your hand rest there, gentle at first, over the warmth building beneath your clothing—over your own quiet ache. Not yet moving, just being, just feeling.

Just like the stories you adored, you savored the slow unraveling. The anticipation. The delicious pause before the fall.

Outside the aisle, the library was quiet, nearly asleep. But here, you were alive with longing. Here, you let yourself fall into the fantasy—into the kind of desire that didn’t ask permission. And tonight, like every other night, you let your fingers trace lower. A breath hitched. A soft whimper bloomed. A slow smile curled on your lips. You were your own favorite story now. And you were just getting to the best part.

You shifted slightly in your seat, letting the softness of your panties graze aside as your fingers found their way to your sweet pussy. Slowly, you parted your legs a little more, savoring the warmth and the growing heat between them. Quiet, breathy sounds escaped your lips—unrestrained and deliciously sinful—as your fingers began to trace gentle circles on your clit, occasionally pressing just enough to send shivers through you. The words on the page blurred as your eyes fluttered closed, the story weaving into your imagination. You pictured yourself as the woman in the tale, worshiped and adored in all the right ways, every touch igniting sparks that left you breathless.

Eventually, the book slipped from your grasp, landing softly beside the velvet cushion. Your thoughts were no longer on the words but on the vivid, feverish scene behind your closed eyes. Your fingers grew bolder, slipping into the heat of your soaked pussy with a rhythm that made your body arch and your breath catch. Quiet moans spilled from your lips, echoing faintly through the silent, dim-lit aisles.

Suddenly, for the first time; Wen Junhui. His hot image crashed into your mind, replacing the faceless lover in the story. You gasped, hips tilting as your fingers moved deeper, your other hand rising to cup the soft plump of your breast. In your imagination, he hovered above you thrusting into you so deeply, eyes dark with desire, voice low and dangerous.

“Ohh my darling, you drive me insane… you’re fucking mine,” he growled, every word curling like smoke around your senses. “Only mine. I’ll burn the world before I let anyone else touch you.” His hand was gripping your throat as he picked up the pace of his amazing thrusts and hitting the perfect spots inside of your needy pussy.

You trembled, breath unraveling into gasps, the fantasy consuming you.

“Jun…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m only yours… yes please… fuck me more…”

Unbeknownst to you, in the shadows between the stacks, a figure lingered—still as stone, breath held. He watched as he always did, drawn to you like a moth to flame, unable to resist the ritual you performed each night. Every soft gasp, every shift of your body, sent a shiver through him. You didn’t know he was there… or maybe, deep down, part of you did. And that made it all the more maddening.

Jun’s gaze never wavered. Hidden by the shelves, cloaked in the quiet darkness, he matched your rhythm��his hand jerking off his large cock synced in with yours. Listening to you unravel made something inside him snap and coil, again and again.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. But he couldn’t stay away. Not when you sounded like that. Not when you looked like that. You didn’t know he was there—but Jun had memorized this moment. Every night, like clockwork. And every night, it ruined him in the most beautiful way.

The way your lips parted, your chest rose and fell in stuttering waves, your thighs twitching with desperation—it ignited something feral inside him. Something possessive. You looked so soft, so vulnerable, completely lost in your own pleasure… and yet it felt like an offering just for him. Like your body already knew who it belonged to. He gritted his teeth as his hand wrapped around his cock moving faster. He watched your back arch, your fingers working harder, faster, as though you were chasing something that only he could truly give you. He could hear the sounds slipping from your mouth—sweet, breathless cries that were meant for no one, and yet drove him to the edge.

His fingers clenched at his sides, barely holding himself back. God, how he wanted to step forward. To whisper in your ear how long he’d been waiting to take you right there and then take care of you, to claim every part of you until there was no room left for anyone else. His love wasn’t gentle. It was fierce. Consuming. Twisted around the edges with madness, but only for you.

You were his devotion. His madness.

Soon you shuddered—hips jerking, legs trembling, your breath catching in a half-broken moan—his restraint snapped like a thread stretched too tight. He could taste your name in his mouth. And in the thick silence, he murmured it low and dark, as if you could somehow hear him through the walls:

“…Mine.”

You let out one last loud moan, “I’m yours, Jun!…F-Fuck… I’m cumming.. Ah yes…”

And with that, your legs trembled and you finally released your cum—every nerve lit up like starlight flickering through your veins. The breath caught in your throat, soft and stuttering, as a wave of release washed over you, slow and consuming. Your body arched ever so slightly, lips parted, lashes fluttering shut while warmth bloomed from deep within. You stayed there, breathing hard, one hand falling against your chest as the other slipped away, leaving behind a sweet ache and a dizzying sense of surrender. The silence wrapped around you like silk, intimate and echoing, as you blinked at the ceiling in a daze.

Unseen, from the shadows, he too came alot —shoulders tense, chest rising and falling with sharp restraint. His fingers loosened his grip from his cock with overflowing cum as the low sound he’d tried to suppress finally escaped his throat. And though he had watched you like this countless times before, tonight was different.

He had never seen you like this before—so untamed, so utterly undone and vulnerable. Your breath came in soft, trembling whispers, your body moving with a desperate grace that pulled at something raw and fierce inside him. Every sigh, every shuddering plea was music—no, worship—each note coaxing something primal and sacred from deep within his soul.

When you said his name. Not in a whisper. Not shyly. You cried it out—needy, reverent, wrecked.

It slipped from your lips like a secret you’d been aching to confess, like a truth pulled from the very depths of your soul. Let alone screaming out his name for the first time as you released—like he was the only man who ever touched you, the only one you’d ever beg for like that.

It shattered him in the most beautiful way.

Tonight, you weren’t just beautiful—you were fire incarnate. Wild and radiant, with a hunger that burned brighter than the fading light around you. The way your hair tumbled loose, the subtle arch of your neck, the way your legs spread out, the way you fucked your wet pussy with your fingers where he desperately wishes replace it with his fat needy cock, the way you cupped your plump breast where he also wished to hold and ravish them all for himself, the way your lashes fluttered adorably as you surrendered to the moment and came naughtily with your juices coming out as he wishes to savor and devour every last drop from your delicious pussy dripping with cum—it was a vision he could never forget.

Even after you just came, you make him want and need for your pussy to be pounded with his pulsing cock and fuck you senseless with all his cum dumped shamelessly inside your desperate pussy till the sun rises. He controlled this urges as his heart pounded more instead, his breath caught in his throat, aching to reach out and hold you, to quiet the storm raging behind your eyes. You were his secret longing made flesh, and seeing you like this—unseen, unguarded—drove him to the edge of madness.

In that golden library glow, with you lost in your own world, he realized how deep his need for you ran—how every moment apart was a slow, aching torment. He hadn’t meant to linger. Not at first. But each night, as the sky darkened and your guests trickled out, he returned—drawn not just to your beauty, but to your honesty. To the way you gave yourself to the stories, to the way you touched the pages like they could feel it too. And tonight, like every night before, he watched you fall in love—with words, with longing, with the fantasy you read so intimately it almost hurt.

He didn’t dare speak. Not yet.

But his mind was filled with you. With the sound of your breath catching. With the sight of your skin glowing faintly in the soft lamplight. With the thought of being the one you'd call to next time—not in imagination, but in truth. And in the hush of the empty library, his voice fell like a prayer—low, reverent, trembling with a love he could no longer contain. And he whispered into the hush of the empty library, barely audible even to himself.

“Someday,” he whispered, eyes still fixed on you, “you’ll know it was always me. Every night... only me.”

The silence that followed was sacred, like the moment between a page turning and the next breath. You stirred softly in the velvet chair, heart still racing from the storm you’d just weathered alone—unaware of the shadow that had long since merged with the shelves. The atmosphere was warm now, flushed with heat and candlelight, your limbs heavy with release and wonder. You shifted, gathering yourself with quiet care, fingertips brushing over fabric, smoothing folds and tucking away every trace. Unseen, he did the same in the dark, breath slow and reverent as he composed himself in silence, as if this ritual meant more than just desire.

Everything was back in place—yet nothing felt the same.

You were about to leave the library for the night when you heard it.A soft shift. A faint breath. Not the creak of the old walls or the usual groan of shelves settling — but something different. Something deliberate.

You froze.

The silence stretched, wrapping itself around you like a second skin. Your eyes scanned the room, heart thudding against your ribs, but there was nothing. Just the hush of paper and dusk. Still, your instincts prickled. You reached for your catalog key to lock up — and there it was. A note, tucked beneath a silk ribbon, knotted with care.

Your pulse caught in your throat. Fingers trembling slightly, you unfolded the small piece of parchment. The handwriting was achingly familiar — slanted, thoughtful, like someone had taken their time crafting every letter just for you. Beneath the date, a single sonnet:

“To the keeper of twilight and stories untold, You walk through dust motes like threads spun in gold. Each glance from you — a silent prayer, And I, the shadow, am always there. Not to frighten, but to adore, To ache, to burn, to want you more.”

Your breath hitched. The words curled around your ribs like silk and storm, soft yet breathless.

Someone… someone had been watching. But not cruelly. Not creepily. It was worship in ink. Devotion. You looked around again — nothing but shadows and shelves. But now, the stillness felt alive. And part of you , the part that remembered every night you let yourself unravel between the pages — knew.

You weren’t alone. Not really.

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