#I want to be wrong when I say things are bad

[neoheros]

sakusa knows he’s a bad date.

he’s quiet, timid, doesn’t speak much, and asks all the wrong questions at the wrong time.

he’s not very good at eye contact and a lot of the things he wants to say he feels he can’t say at all either.

(partially due to the feeling that everything he says when he talks to you ends up embarrassing him, and partially due to the fact that talking to you for long periods of time make him tongue tied).

(not that he’d ever admit that).

despite all that though, he does know the basics when it comes to going on dates:

he buys you flowers (and forgets it by his doorway), he opens the car door for you (and apologizes when it almost hits you as he opens it), and he makes dinner reservations at the restaurant you mentioned to him in passing three days ago (he did a good job with this one).

so yes, him being a bad date is not unbeknownst to him. quite the opposite in fact, it’s not only something he knows about himself, but it’s also something that he thinks about all the time.

or at least, all the time ever since he’s met you.

that’s how the two of you end up here — the evening of your first (and probably last) date, sitting on a porch step of an empty building, a bloodied handkerchief filled with crushed up snow pressed against sakusa’s left cheek, and a few missing buttons from your favorite winter coat.

sakusa always knew he was a bad date, but he never thought he would be this bad.

the plan had been simple: get you flowers, open the door for you, drive you to the restaurant you liked. sakusa had this game-plan of his memorized ever since you said yes to him four — now five — days ago.

he wrote it on a piece of paper, step by step, and kept it in his wallet sleeve in case he forgets, he repeated it to himself three times in the mirror this afternoon before he left the house to pick you up, and he said it to himself one last time in the car before texting you that he’d arrived.

he memorized it.

and still, he messed it up.

the streets are empty and the evening is quiet.

“sorry … for this.”

his words feel like they’ve been the first to be spoken all night.

on the snowy concrete just below your feet, there’s a few drops of blood making its presence known loudly against the whiteness of the snow, the drops scatter sporadically, and near it, there’s a button or two from your coat.

you sit next to sakusa on the cold steps, it’s a quiet night, and it’s not snowing anymore, but the soft bed of the cold flurry it left behind made for a beautiful evening.

you let your head fall slightly on his shoulder, “for what?”

you can feel him stiffen immediately under your touch, and he coughs, shy, and looks to the side.

it makes you smile a little bit — his efforts of hiding his expressions — it’s not like you can see him anyway with that big makeshift ice-pack covering his face.

“sorry for the bad date.” he clears his throat, more clearly now, a little louder too, but his tone almost sounds disappointed. “… and sorry for ruining your coat.”

you lift your head up from his shoulder, frowning, and you turn to face him, “it’s not a bad date.”

he doesn’t say anything to that. instead, he keeps his head turned slightly away from you, but his shoulders fall a bit when you move away from him.

“if anything, i should be the one apologizing.” you mutter lowly, “i’m the reason you got hurt.”

sakusa huffs slightly. a second pausing in the air as he refuses to return the look you give him, and finally, he puts down the “ice pack” from his cheek, and looks at you.

his cheek is scratched lightly, nothing too deep, just a red mark that’ll probably resolve itself in a few days, but his lower lip though — the culprit of the blood stained snow — is undeniably busted, still bleeding slightly, and making him wince at the sudden loss of pressure.

“don’t say stupid things.” he tells you, and if it makes him sound cold, he swears he’s not trying to be.

he just doesn’t know what else there is to say.

the truth is — it is a bad date.

he forgot your flowers, almost hit you with the car door, and now, the two of you are missing your dinner reservation because he got himself injured twenty minutes into the night.

it’s not fair, he thinks. half the things he wants to say to you, he can’t. half the things he wants to do, he messes up.

you make him fumble on his words, tongue tied, speechless, literally. you make him write things down on notes so he won’t forget them or practice on bathroom mirrors or worry in his car outside your doorstep.

he is the most capable man in his team, he is the sharpest, the most composed, his teammates and coach all count and look up to him.

but for some reason, one night with you, and it all washes away.

he doesn’t know what to say to you, he forgets things, and he falls face first flat on the hard concrete ground twenty minutes into your first date.

don’t say stupid things.

“you really won’t let me take you to the hospital?” you put your hand on his knee, turning even more to your side so you can face him better.

you have half a mind to put your other hand on his injured cheek but you don’t want to hurt him more than how he already does.

“it’s not as bad as it looks.” and as he says that, he winces, the gust of wind suddenly hitting his busted lip a testament to his bad luck tonight.

sakusa wants to kick himself, if there ever would be an appropriate time to act cooler than how he actually was, it would definitely not be now.

you don’t look so convinced, but sakusa wouldn’t know, he’s still only limiting himself to looking at you briefly before shifting his glance to something behind you or beside you or above you.

“hm. and it doesn’t hurt?” you cross your arms.

he shakes his head, “no. it doesn’t.” (it does.)

you raise a brow, “and you wouldn’t happen to be lying to me right now so i don’t take you to the emergency room?”

he shakes his head again, “i’m not.” (he is.)

you give him a look.

listen — sakusa already knows that he’s a bad date, but come on! he has been planning on asking you to dinner with him since the first week he’s known you, he’s been worrying about this evening since the second you agreed to it, and he’s been kicking himself in the head ever since the night began.

he’d rather bleed out on this disgustingly dirty porch step than admit that he’s a date so bad he can turn an evening meant for dinner into a night at the emergency room.

he doesn’t want you to think that he can be so bad like that. (is it too soon to ask you out for dinner again?)

you still look frustrated at his answers. but at least, he’s looking at you now.

you let out a big sigh, shoulders falling, and suddenly, you clap your hands together loudly as you straighten up.

“then i have an idea.” you say, and sakusa furrows his brows at the sudden change in the atmosphere.

you give him a prompting grin. “heads or tails.”

and it catches him so off guard, he says aloud, “what?”

you dig for a coin in your coat, “i’ll flip a coin and if it lands on heads, we go to the emergency room, no arguments, no fusses, no nothing.”

he frowns at that.

“but.” you tell him, and your grin gets wider as you show him the dime laid out on your palm, “if it’s tails, we go to my apartment, and i’ll try to fix you up there.”

his frown falls almost immediately into something else.

one night out with you and he’s already bleeding heavily and injured, and now you wanna take him back to your apartment?

were you trying to kill him?

“heads or tails, omi.”

he blinks at your words. and once again, he finds himself saying aloud, “what?”

you shoot him a funny look, your eyebrows slightly raising as your lips curve upward into a crooked smile.

you say, teasing, “if you don’t know; heads is the part of the coin with the head of the person showing on it and tails is the–”

sakusa grumbles loudly, cutting you off mid-sentence, making sure you see him roll his eyes at you, and he nudges you slightly with his foot.

he mutters, albeit under his breath, and he tries to hide it, but you can always tell when he’s smiling, “i know what a goddamned head is.”

you shrug, your grin wider now when you see his mood lighten up a bit.

“do you know what a goddamned tail is?”

sakusa huffs out an amused sigh. the smile on his face a lot more prominent now, and you only wonder slightly if it hurts him when he does it.

his shoulders fall as he’s defeated, “just take me to the emergency room.”

you let out a short laugh and the night doesn’t seem so quiet anymore.

you fall back against his shoulder, “ah, omi, are you just saving the opportunity to be invited into my apartment for our next date?”

there’s a choking sound to be heard in the air.

his face almost feels like it’ll erupt into flames by how casually you just said that, a hot pink hue creeping up from his neck to nose all the way to the tips of his ears. he blames it on the cold, and immediately, he presses the “icepack” back against his cheek.

sakusa stands up suddenly from the porch step, “let’s go now.”

and just like he said, he strides away, faster than what would usually be safe on snow-covered pavement.

“omi, not so fast!” you yell after him, rising from your own seat and following his pace, “you might fall again and hurt the other side of your face and atsumu will think i beat you up on our first date.”

he walks faster.

“i can go to the hospital myself, please don’t follow me.”

“that’s ridiculous! let me take care of you!”

he trips on his feet slightly as you say that and his heart feels like it would’ve fell from his mouth had he not caught himself before falling again.

you really were trying to kill him, weren’t you?

maybe this date doesn’t feel so bad after all.

and, is it too soon if he asks you to come have dinner with him again?

[abyssyby]

How will Silus react to a son who shows dragon instincts (stealing something shiny, collecting and keeping it as a treasure, etc.)?

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: hi hi! thanks for sending this in hehe kinda got away from me, but this was extremely fun to think about and i hope you like it! ˙˚ʚ(´◡`)ɞ˚˙

i think he'd be deeply amused! i have a personal headcanon that sylus actually isn't rid of his dragon form/abilities in this life, he's just more powerful and strong enough to mask them now 24/7 hehe

what throws him mostly is when the kids express their want to be like him (because of the implications of that and his own perception of himself). but their natural instincts and traits, sylus expected that and now takes it on as a challenge to hone and help with.

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | a fight between the little twins (´•̥ ᵔ •̥`) angst, fluff, family dynamics, exploring the littles' draconic traits!

Lucian is more his father's son in terms of more outward, classic draconic traits— seeking height to fly, collecting trinkets and treasures, easily allured by shiny and pretty things. Did he not have a twin to bond with (and very social older brothers), Lucian would have had trouble sharing/socializing. He can be very territorial and protective with things he thinks he is responsible for (ex. a specific dino plushie from the big twins, a spot on the couch, a blanket, Kyros).

Sylus's role with Lucian is trying to find that balance of what he can do to regulate himself as a little boy and at the same time not repress any of the inherent instincts he cannot help. He reminds him often that it's okay to act accordingly as long as he isn't malicious or mean.

"You have to choose the better choice." Sylus would say, drawing a sobbing Lucian into his embrace after a fight with Kyros. "Do you want to protect your hoard or your brother?" "But is my trinky." Lucian hiccups, pushing through sudden painful inhales. He clutches the clicky little egg toy in his hand (think bakugan), which weighs heavier with the guilt every passing second he stews in his mistake. Sylus sighs, voice low and gentle. "You yelled at Kyros." "I sorry!" "I know you are, angel." Sylus frowns. His heart aching at the confusion in Lucian's face— wondering what he did wrong, why his need to defend was a bad thing, why he was getting scolded when it was Kyros who took the toy without permission. "But you really hurt Kyros." Little fingers stop their fidgeting on the trinket. smaller, quieter, Lucian murmurs. "I not mean it..." "Papa, I feel bad here," Lucian says, taking Sylus's hand and placing it on his chest. Like he wants to puke. Like he wants to scream. Like he wants to cry his insides out. "Don't like it." Sylus holds him tightly— allowing his presence to be whatever Kyros might need at this moment. He thinks it inadequate, but what he doesn't consider is that it is infinitely more than he had before he met you. And for now, it is enough. "Maybe we say sorry to Kyros? What do you think?" "I give yellow trinky?" he is still shaky when he pitches it. clutching his precious crimson trinket to his chest. "Red one is mine. but- he can borrow. but—but this mine." "That's a start," Sylus kisses his brow. It's not a perfect bow-tied solution, but it's his own. and it's clever and kind and still Lucian. and Sylus cannot be prouder. "Let's go find your brother."

Kyros's qualities are more inert, subtle. He is still territorial and protective— just not to the extent of a Lucian-like reaction of yelling or snarling. If his little hoard is breached, he'd probably harbor a deep sense of resentment towards whoever did so. He remembers everything— the kindness, the betrayal. He trusts gradually yet deeply and isn't the easiest to ask for a second chance.

Kyros's traits manifest in him being watchful and vigilant, protecting his space and his circle more than his trinkets and treasures. He prefers being alone with the exception of his family— and yet even then, he still has moments where you'd find him wandering away from Lucian and the big twins to check on his own stuffies in another room or just rearrange some toys in his collections.

He's deeply sensory-seeking! Kyros is very sensitive to specific sounds (you and sylus humming into his temple so he feels it resonate in his skull), vestibular and tactile input (squeezy-squeezes!), scents (papa's brings the most comfort of all because of that time he was sick).

Sylus's own instincts would urge him to protect him, shelter and hide. But he knows that isn't the better choice. So instead, he teaches grounding to Kyros when his instincts tell him to float away. To hide, but always come back home.

Kyros hates loud sounds— when the karaoke mic goes wrong, when the trumpets on papa's CDs start shouting, when something falls off a shelf and makes a loud thud!. He's gotten better at reacting to them, and no longer has that instinct to cry or yell when it happens. His tantrums come from not being able to rearrange the things that get jumbled inside his head when he is startled like that. He shares that with his father— a replica of home in their mind with everything in its perfect place. But unlike him, Kyros has yet to keep his composure when it is rattled. Sylus teaches him to organize, arrange and at the same time be flexible with it. He was taught that he could grit his teeth, put his head between his knees, and count to ten until it passed. Or simply go to papa or mama when it doesn't. But this sound— this sound creates a landslide in his mind, a devastation far too great to reorganize all by himself. "Go away, Kyros!" Lucian's voice is hoarse as he yells the curse at the top of his lungs. Kyros freezes. His limbs stone and fire all at once. His vision is reduced to blurs of color as the tears build and blind him. He doesn't know what to do, and when Sylus emerges from the other room at the sound, his instinct is to run. Hide. Not be seen, perceived. Alone— where he can't be hurt. You find him in his bedroom, frozen on his bed. clenching and unclenching fists, eyes crystalline with unshed tears. "My love." you coo in sympathy, gently curling yourself around him, taking him into your arms, and placing him in the cradle of your crisscrossed legs. He lets the tears fall then, quiet still. Clinging to your warmth, your scent. Fists crumpling the soft fabric of your shirt. You don't talk, but your fingers intertwine with his, and you draw him closer to your chest as you breathe the way you want him to. Your hand squeezes his palm, the hinges and joints of his fingers, wrists, elbows, and shoulders. Then a familiar forgotten lullaby is hummed into his temple as you kiss him tenderly. When he is no longer wound, no longer rigid like scales but soft like the baby you reared, he speaks. voice small, rusted, and fragile. "I make cian mad." You nod. He did. You saw his twin crying to his papa before you raced off to find him. "I no mean it." his lip wobbles just as his words. "I just... want to see." You hum, listen to him. It's what he needs, to be heard. And when he is ready to listen to you too, you offer: "Lucian probably didn't mean it either." Kyros pouts. "He yelling at me." "But he cried too." you say, smoothing his hair, meeting his eyes. "Lucian doesn't like hurting you." His brow furrows. He knows that is true. His mind struggles, but he places each totem, each memory, and each fact back on their shelves. Just as Sylus taught him to do so. Hide, fix, then come back home. Lucian loves him. Lucian loves his clicky red dragon. Lucian lets him borrow things when he asks. "Mama, I grab the—the trinky," he confesses, fingers finding solace in playing with yours. "Is that why you think he yelled?" "A-huh." your heart corrodes in your chest at the sound of his heavy confirmation. "Cian no like grabby hands. I sorry." You smile— admiring the depths of your son's little mind palace. What you would give to be able to roam its halls and behold its many wonders. "Maybe he needs to hear that from you when you're ready, hm?" he nods. "I ready, mama."

𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You take him to his brother, who is already on his way to him too. sylus kneels to set Lucian down, and you nudge Kyros gently. "I sorry I take—take your trinky." Kyros says first, hands behind his back both to keep himself composed and to show Lucian that he won't be a threat any longer. "Sorry I yelled loud." Lucian hiccups, still shaken at what he'd done. Haunted by how Kyros looked when he did it. He extends his hand, and upon his outstretched palm sits a yellow version of his clicky dragon-egg-ball-trinket. "This for you." Kyros's face brightens as he accepts it. And in the blink of an eye, they are holding each other in an embrace. An ancient instinct they both share, not exactly draconic, but transcending understanding. Could be cosmic. Could be creature. Could be human. But one thing is for sure, this they've inherited proudly from their parents. A woven gift, bloodied and torn, but good. This, they share. This, they treasure. This, they protect in each other— a loyal heart, a golden soul.

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so, so much for sending the ask & for reading! o(╥﹏╥)

[jinjoohaa]

JJK men when you tell them to sleep on the couch

CW: Suggestive content, sexual innuendos,possessive/filthy dialogue, mild degradation, brat-taming themes. Minors dni.

✷ Gojo Satoru

Starts whining immediately. “Whaaat? Why, baby? Tell me—what did I do?”

You ignore him, and he trails behind you like a kicked puppy. Then comes the switch. Suddenly he’s throwing himself onto the bed, arm over his eyes like he’s in a tragic romance. “Y’mean it? You really gon’ make me sleep cold and lonely… without even suckin’ on your tits first?”

He props himself up, messy hair, smirking now. “You know I can’t sleep without your thighs around my head, baby. Don’t do me like this.”

Starts listing all the filthy things he’d do if you let him stay—“I’ll eat it till you can’t remember why you were mad. I’ll be a good boy, promise. Wanna fall asleep with my face right here—” pats your inner thigh.

By the end of it, he’s wrapped around you like an octopus under the blanket, cocky grin against your neck. “See? I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

✷ Toji Fushiguro

“…Huh?” He deadpans. “The couch? For what?”

You mention him being late, and he scoffs. “Tch. That’s what you’re mad about?”

When you say it again, firmer this time, he runs a hand through his hair and stalks toward you. “You wanna punish me, that it? Make me sleep alone after a long fuckin’ day?”

You cross your arms. He grabs your waist, yanks you close. “Nah. Not happening, sweetheart.”

He leans down, voice rough. “I’ll fuck the attitude outta you, then you’ll beg me to stay. That sound better?”

You shove at his chest but he just chuckles. “I’ll be better. Sorry, mama. But I’m sleepin’ right here—with my hand between your thighs, like always.”

✷ Kento Nanami

“…Did I do something wrong?” His brow furrows immediately. “If I hurt you, even unintentionally, I’d like to understand it so I can make it right.”

He stands still, serious and calm, hands tucked in his pockets. “If it would help you feel better, I’ll take the couch. But I’d prefer to sleep next to you. I like holding you. It helps me rest.”

You feel bad now, obviously. He sees it in your face and adds softly, “But I understand if you need space.”

You melt. “I was just messing with you, Kento. You can sleep in the bed. I love you.”

He kisses your forehead like he knew it all along. “I love you too. Now come here.”

✷ Suguru Geto

He raises an eyebrow, lounging in the doorway with a lazy smirk. “You sure about that, princess?”

You cross your arms. “Yup. Couch.”

He tsks, steps forward, brushes your hair back with annoyingly gentle fingers. “That’s cruel. You really want me tossing and turning all night without my pretty girl in my arms?”

You try to keep a straight face. He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear. “Besides… you talk in your sleep, y’know? Say the filthiest things. Who’ll keep you warm if I’m not there to help?”

You stammer. He laughs softly, wraps an arm around your waist. “Thought so. Now be good and scoot over.”

✷ Ryomen Sukuna

Scoffs. “The fuck do you mean, sleep on the couch?”

You glare at him. He glares back harder. “I’m not sleeping on any goddamn couch. If you’ve got a problem, woman, say it to my face.”

You tell him you’re mad. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You get mad at stupid shit. Tch.”

But then—he’s in front of you. “You want space? Fine. But don’t come crawling back at 2 a.m. whining that you can’t sleep without me.”

Starts walking away… then turns, smug as hell. “Bet your pussy misses me more than your mouth does.”

You gasp. He grins. “Thought so.”

Sleeps in bed anyway. Doesn’t ask again.

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[hanquokkasjeekies]

[how they react to you being angry/horny] - bang chan

stray kids scenarios/headcanons

bangchan x f!reader word count: 0.5k genre: (almost) smut, established relationship warnings: mentions of masturbation and implied sex ⋆ slight dom/sub dynamics ⋆ soft!dom!bangchan

ot8 list

~ ~ ~

late

“you took your time didn’t you, chris?” it comes out as more of a statement than a question, making it clear you’re mad– very mad.

“come here, babe” chan’s tone is tender as he opens his arms for you.

your feet try to step towards chan, but you manage to hold back. your entire body is telling you to fall into his arms and just forget everything– but then you remember that you’re mad at him… or at least trying to be.

“i know it’s not like you to get this upset over me being a little late, so… what's wrong?”

he’s reading you so easily.

chan can always tell when something is up with you and usually you find it sweet but today it's almost annoying.

you walk over to him as he closes the front door. you do your best to glare at him while reaching up and hitting the door right beside his head.

“what’s wrong is that you messaged me over an hour ago, saying you’d be home from practice soon.”

chan sighs, but inside he's a little nervous since he's never seen you this upset. “traffic was really bad– and i needed to buy a few things…”

“and those things were more important than me? you didn’t even think to tell me you’d take so long?” tears are welling in your eyes and your voice is starting to sound desperate. “i took a nap in your bed… then i got all worked up– but you weren't there, so i- i played with myself like you always do for me; but– it just wasn’t enough…” you’re tugging on his shirt with your head pressed into his chest and you know you sound silly but you can't help it. “i-i just…”, you mumble against his warmth, “i think i missed you.”

seeing you in such a mess– all because you’re needy for him– chan can’t help getting a little smug. he strokes your head and pulls you closer into him.

“so you couldn’t cum because it wasn’t me?”

you nod, embarrassed at how simply he put it.

“aw, you don’t have to worry anymore, kay? i’m here now, and once you stop crying i'll let you choose.”

“hmm?” you look up at him, confused. “choose what?”

“choose between my fingers and my tongue… or would you rather my dick?”

you blush, but you’re already drooling at the thought; melting under his soft tongue, being fucked dumb by his thick, heavy cock or those long, pretty fingers that can reach all the places yours can’t…

“what do you think, hmm? how do you want to cum first for me?” chan’s voice is soft as he wipes your tears away.

the aching between your legs is driving you insane but you manage to answer his question. “um, fingers– your fingers, please”

“of course, baby, anything for you”

[elikajinnie]

P: Ghostface!Heeseung X Fem!Reader (Recommended age 18+)

Warnings: Stalking, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Murder, Violence, Knife Use, Manipulation, Noncon/ Dubcon, Suggestive Content, Mental Instability (hes insane but in love), Yandere Undertones, Voice Kink, Choking, Light Manhandling, Voyeuristic Tones, Degradation, Dark Themes, Chasing, Forced Proximity, Implied Torture

Synopsis: Heeseung’s spent years loving you from the sidelines, silently watching you give your heart to the wrong people. Now, as Ghostface, he’s done waiting. He’ll tear your world apart, piece by piece until the only place left to run is straight into his arms.

Wordcount: 19k

a/n: After disowning my previous Ghostface!Heeseung fic, I am ready for a do-over :D

now playing: do i wanna know by arctic monkeys | i was never there by the weeknd

You never had much luck with people.

Whether it was fate, bad timing, or some cruel curse stitched into your skin at birth, you never met someone who stayed. No one who let you cry on their shoulder without expecting something in return. No one who hugged you just because they noticed you needed it, even when you didn’t say a word. No one who remembered the little things, like the way you only like white lilies in the spring, or that you always hum when you're nervous.

You were always too much, or not enough. Too quiet, too distant, too soft around the edges for people who only wanted you when it was convenient. If you were unlucky with friends, you were a full-blown disaster when it came to love. Your exes left faster than they said I love you, and those words never felt real anyway. They only knew the version of you that smiled at dinner and made polite conversation. None of them stayed long enough to learn how you took your coffee or what your silences meant.

None of them really saw you. And the ones who claimed they did turned out to be liars in the end—liars, cheaters, or something worse.

And even if you told yourself every time that the next one would be different—someone better, someone kind—you’d hold onto that hope like it was gospel. You told yourself you’d find someone who would treat you like a flower, or at the very least, like a person with a heart. With dignity. But you never did. What you always found instead were the bottom-feeders—the emotionally vacant, the cruel, the ones who looked at your softness like it was a challenge to break. They’d call you dramatic for crying, clingy for needing affection, a burden for simply wanting to be heard. Some of them didn’t even bother pretending. They treated you like an inconvenience, a piece of gum stuck to their shoe, something to be scraped off and discarded the second it lost flavor.

And the ones who came back… They never came back out of guilt. Or love. They came back when they needed something. When they were bored. When they missed the feeling of being wanted and knew you’d still answer. Some just came back to watch you break again just to see if they still could.

Still, you held onto that hope. That slim, flickering chance that maybe, just maybe, you’d find someone who would choose you every time. Someone who wouldn’t make you beg to be seen. Someone who’d put your needs first—not when it was convenient, not when it made them feel powerful but simply because they wanted to see you happy. Someone who would hold you while you cried and swear they'd never let the world touch you like that again. Someone who would burn everything down just to stop your pain.

And maybe that was your biggest mistake. Because if only you had realized that someone had already been there. Right under your nose. Watching. Waiting. Loving you so much it made him sick. So much that he couldn’t stand the way others touched you. So much that he had to make it stop.

Because Heeseung had been patient. Painfully, cruelly patient. He watched from the sidelines with clenched fists and a twisted heart, swallowing the urge to act every time you smiled at someone who didn’t deserve it. Every time you cried over a person who wouldn't even notice if you disappeared. He told himself he had no right to intervene. He wasn't your boyfriend. He wasn’t really your friend either, just the guy who hovered near, talked when you let him, looked away before his gaze gave too much away. He didn’t feel like he deserved you. He never had.

That’s why he stayed quiet. Why he didn’t reach for you, didn’t touch, didn’t confess. Because if he let himself have just one taste of what it would be like to call you his… He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. He knew it would break him. But you were always kind to him. Gentle. You didn’t know how much that alone unraveled him, thread by thread. You spoke to him like he mattered. Looked at him like he wasn’t just Lee Heeseung. You smiled. You gave him hope. And that hope festered. Grew teeth. So when he saw them hurting you—again, and again, and again. He snapped, because if no one could love you right, then he would make sure no one else ever got the chance.

His breaking point was simple.

You were seeing a guy. Not the worst you'd ever dated, but not the kind of man who looked at you like you were everything either. Heeseung had tried to stomach it—biting down on jealousy so hard it tasted like iron, pretending not to notice how fake the guy's smiles were, how his hand always lingered too low on your back.

And then you found out. He’d been cheating. Not just once. Not just with one girl. Multiple women. Meaningless flings. You’d heard it from someone else first, then saw the proof with your own eyes. And it shattered you.

Heeseung watched from across the courtyard that day—watched the way your expression crumbled while you stared down at your phone, watched the way you left early, head low, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold in all the pieces. And he didn’t move. Not at first. He just sat there on the bench, watching you walk away with that broken look on your face, like your chest had been cracked open and all the softness inside was spilling out. He could feel your pain like it was his own.

He’d seen you hurt before. But never like this. And maybe it was selfish, but something in him broke too. Because no matter how close he was, how many smiles you’d given him, how many conversations you’d shared in passing. He still wasn’t the one you ran to. You didn’t even know he was there.

Heeseung sat there long after you disappeared, hands in his lap, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His heart was racing, his breathing uneven, something cold and sharp blooming in his chest like frostbite. He didn’t go to class that day. He followed your boyfriend instead. Just watched. At first. Watched him flirt with other girls like nothing happened. Watched him text while walking, probably lining up his next lie, his next hook-up. He watched until his vision blurred with fury.

Because how could someone treat you like that? How could anyone look at you and not realize how fucking lucky they were? You deserved someone who would memorize the way you liked your tea. Someone who’d know when you were overwhelmed just by the way your shoulders tensed. Someone who would never, ever make you feel like you were easy to leave.

And if no one else could give that to you... Then Heeseung would carve out a place for you himself. But first… He needed to rid the world of the scumbags who hurt you. He needed to make them disappear. And he knew exactly how to do that.

The moment the chains around him snapped, so did his restraint. And with it, his sanity. He had spent years studying you, memorizing your habits, your smiles, the little shifts in your mood when something wasn’t right. But he’d also studied them. The ones who broke your heart. The ones who made you feel like nothing. The ones who looked at your kindness and mistook it for weakness.

He remembered names. Faces. Addresses. It was almost too easy. Tracking them down was like finishing a puzzle he’d been piecing together in his mind for years. And once he found them, once they were alone… He gave them no mercy. Not an ounce of it. Not when he cornered your ex behind that bar where he always flirted with anything that breathed. Not when he followed the girl who spread those rumors about you in high school into the dark parking lot after her shift. Not when he faced the ones who laughed at your tears, who used you and tossed you aside like you were disposable.

They all begged. They all screamed. And he watched—expression calm—as they writhed beneath him, as the light bled from their eyes, as their bodies twitched and stilled, and finally… stopped. He watched them take their last breath with his knife buried deep, his gloved hands covered in everything that made them human. They were monsters, all of them. And monsters deserved to die.

He didn’t regret it. Not a single one. Because every time he plunged the blade in, he thought of you. Of your tears. Of your voice cracking when you tried to laugh through the pain. Of how small you looked when you thought no one was watching. And now… you’d never have to suffer because of them again. Now, he was cleaning the slate. One body at a time. And when it was over—when the world was quiet, and every hand that ever touched you wrong was rotting in the dirt— then, finally, he’d come for you.

Not to hurt you. But to give you the love no one else ever could.

Watching the news on a rainy evening about the latest murder had started to feel… routine. You sat on the couch, legs curled under you, fingers cold around the steaming mug you’d forgotten to drink from.

Another body found late last night... police have yet to connect the murders, though the brutality and frequency are causing rising panic across the city...

This was the fourth murder in the last 48 hours. That alone was terrifying. Unusual, sure. But it was more than just the numbers that started to bother you. What made your stomach twist with something colder than fear was that… you knew them. All of them.

Every single victim was someone who had wronged you. An ex. A former classmate. Someone who’d said something cruel behind your back. Someone who’d touched you without asking. At first, it had been easy to brush off. A coincidence. Maybe your mind just latched onto familiar names, making patterns where there were none. But now?

You stared at the screen as the reporter listed off graphic details from the latest crime scene—the wounds, the lack of mercy, the chaos and something inside you started to go very, very still. You weren’t listening anymore. You were somewhere else. The room faded out, replaced by memories. Faces. Conversations. Fights. That one night you cried in your car after another argument. The time you flinched when someone raised their voice. All those moments when someone should’ve protected you and no one did. And now they were gone. Your chest tightened. Not with grief. But confusion. Dread.

You blinked. Realized the rain tapping against the window had grown louder. Realized the room was dark except for the flicker of the television. Then your phone buzzed.

Unknown Number. No message. Just a missed call.

A shiver crept up your spine. Who would call you at this late hour? You stared at the screen, trying to breathe evenly as your mind raced for a logical explanation. A wrong number, maybe. A scam call. Something innocent. Your thumb hovered over the screen, debating whether to lock your phone and forget it, but then, the screen lit up again.

Unknown Number. Incoming Call.

It rang once. Twice. You swallowed. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet—like the walls were listening. Like something was holding its breath with you. Your finger trembled as it hovered above the “decline” button. But something stopped you. Curiosity? Fear? That twisted voice in your head whispering What if it’s not random?

You answered. The silence on the other end was immediate. No static. No breathing. Just... quiet. “Hello?” you said, your voice more unsure than you wanted it to be.

Still nothing.

And then—softly, like velvet soaked in something darker—a voice responded. “What number is this?” he asked.

“Ehm, who are you trying to reach?” you replied, trying to keep your tone steady.

“I don’t remember,” he answered, voice low, teasing.

You bit your lip, fighting the flutter his voice was causing deep in your chest. You didn’t want to admit it, but there was something… magnetic about the way he spoke. “If you don’t remember, maybe try calling them when you do,” you said quickly, trying to sound casual.

“Oh? Really?” he purred, amusement clear beneath the words.

“Yeah, bye,” you said firmly, and hung up.

Wrong number.

But then your phone lit up again. The same unknown number, calling you once more. You groaned, frustration and unease bubbling beneath your skin as you answered again. "What?"

A low chuckle rumbled through the speaker, slow and deliberate. "Now, now. Don’t do that tone with me." His voice wasn’t any louder, but it curled around your spine like smoke, thick and teasing.

You gulped. There was something about the way he said it—so familiar, so confident, like he knew you. Like he had every right to speak to you like that. You shifted slightly on the couch, glancing toward your window even though the blinds were shut tight. You suddenly felt watched. “I… I really think you have the wrong number,” you said quietly, voice tighter now, smaller.

He didn’t respond immediately. Then, slowly, like he was smiling behind every word. "Mmm. No. I think I’ve got exactly the right one."

Your grip on the phone tightened. "Who are you?" you asked, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice.

A pause.

Then, in that same velvet voice, low and dangerous. "Someone… wanting."

You blinked, confused. “Wanting? What do you mean—what do you want?” But he didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, his voice shifted—just slightly. A little more playful. Mocking. "What’s your favorite scary movie?"

Your heart stopped for half a second. “Excuse me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper now.

Another pause. You could hear the faintest breath, the kind someone lets out when they’re smiling just a little too wide. Like they’re enjoying every second of your confusion. “C’mon. Everyone has one.” The tone was lighter now, taunting, like he was trying to make this feel like a game. “Or do you only like romance?”

Your blood ran cold. That wasn’t just teasing. That was knowing.

He knew you liked romance. He knew you never talked about horror, how you instead cried at the end of movies where the love wasn’t strong enough. And that voice— God, that voice—it was ruining you.

You hated the way your skin prickled, the way your stomach dipped at the sound of it, the way your body betrayed your brain. It wasn’t fear, it was something darker. Something that twisted low in your gut and pulsed with heat beneath the chill. You didn’t know him. You couldn’t. And yet… he spoke like someone who memorized you.

Your silence seemed to thrill him. “I like scary movies,” he continued softly. “But only the ones with a pretty girl who doesn’t run fast enough.”

You jolted up from the couch, heart in your throat, instinctively checking the locks on your front door, the windows, the corners of your apartment. Your phone was still pressed to your ear.

“Don’t bother,” he said, voice dipping lower. “If I wanted to be inside, I would be.”

You froze mid-step, hand hovering above the kitchen window latch. Your heart was racing now, thudding so loud you swore he could hear it through the line. You swallowed hard and reached out anyway, checking the lock on the window with shaking fingers.

Then came his voice again���closer this time, somehow softer and more intimate. “Does that scare you, baby?”

Your breath hitched as you backed away from the window, phone still clutched in your hand, knuckles white. He sounded like he was right there. Like he was behind the glass, watching you fumble in the dark.

“It should.” He didn’t wait for you to respond. “You’re so easy to read. You get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re panicking. You’re doing it now, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight.

“Cute.” The word dripped through the receiver like poison disguised as honey. “Do you want me to stop?” Another pause, heavy and expectant. “Say the word. Tell me to stop.”

You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But your mouth wouldn’t move. Because a part of you—some dark, traitorous part—wasn’t sure you wanted him to.

The line stayed quiet. Waiting.

“That’s what I thought.” The call ended suddenly. And all you could hear now was your own breathing and the rain, still tapping gently against the glass.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, the soft creak barely audible over the quiet hum of his equipment. His eyes were locked on the monitor in front of him, the glow from the screen casting sharp shadows across his face.

There you were. Right there, in the center feed—framed in soft light, trembling slightly as you backed away from your kitchen window. He groaned, low and breathless, as he watched your expression twist in fear. You looked so small. So vulnerable. So perfect. Every little flinch, every shaky breath, every frantic glance to the door—he watched it all unfold through the tiny cameras he’d installed the night before.

He had been careful. Waited until you were asleep, crept in through the second-story window like a ghost, moving in total silence. The cameras were hidden—blended into vents, the back of your bookshelf, nestled above your kitchen cabinets. Nothing invasive… Just enough to see you. To know you. And God, he did. He knew everything.

Heeseung ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, eyes still glued to your screen. He had to admit, you were holding out better than he expected. He liked that about you. He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk, his mouth curving into a soft smile as he watched you sit down slowly, phone still in your hand, eyes darting toward the hallway like you half-expected a shadow to crawl from it.

God, you were beautiful like this. Stripped down to your bare instincts—paranoia sharpening your every move.

Heeseung tilted his head slightly, watching as your hands trembled just enough to give you away. You were trying to hold it together. Trying not to look scared. Trying to convince yourself this was nothing. That it was just a prank call. That the world wasn’t closing in around you. But he knew, because he’d studied you—memorized every microexpression, every nervous habit, every subtle crack in your voice. And right now, you were falling apart so prettily. He let out a soft breath, tapping his fingers against his thigh. He could almost feel your fear like a pulse in the air and it thrilled him.

He knew a part of you didn’t hate the sudden attention. He saw the way you looked at the phone even after the call ended. How long your eyes lingered on the window, like a part of you was hoping to see someone out there. Someone you couldn’t name. Someone who already knew everything about you.

Heeseung bit his lip, dragging his gaze across the screen to watch the way you leaned forward, slowly, hesitantly, like your body couldn’t decide whether to run or stay rooted in place. “You’re already mine,” he whispered to the screen, voice soft. He reached toward the keyboard, fingers ghosting over the button that would turn the camera feed off… but paused. Instead, he opened a drawer beside him, pulling out a small velvet box. He turned it over in his hands, then opened it to reveal what lay inside. A single, perfect white lily. Your favorite. The same one you mentioned offhandedly two years ago at a party, when no one was listening—but he was. He always was. His eyes flicked back to the screen. Maybe it was time you started seeing just how much he cared. Really seeing it.

Tomorrow, he decided.

Tomorrow, you'd get a gift.

You hadn’t meant to sleep in, but when you finally opened your eyes, the sun was already at the highest point, and the blinking numbers on your alarm clock told you it was late—well past anything productive. So you didn’t move. Not for a while. Because… what was the point? You felt drained. Like something invisible had pressed its hands against your shoulders and kept you pinned to the mattress, stealing the motivation to do anything. Even the thought of eating or showering felt too big to reach. So you stayed. Wrapped in your blanket, eyes half-focused on the cracks in the ceiling, letting the world outside spin without you. You kept thinking about the call. The voice. The way he spoke like he knew you—like he’d been watching you for longer than you could guess.

You told yourself it had to be a joke. Some sick prank. Someone with too much time on their hands and a voice changer. But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt real. Too real.

You hadn’t checked your phone again. You didn’t want to. Just the thought of seeing that same number pop up made your skin crawl, your heart pound. You turned your head toward the window, half-expecting to see nothing but the usual blue sky but your gaze snagged on something. A velvet box sat on the windowsill. Perfectly placed, as if it had been waiting for you to notice.

It hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. It couldn’t have been. You hesitated for a moment, heart beginning to race, then slowly pushed the blanket off your legs and stood. Each step toward the window felt too loud in the stillness of your room. Your hand trembled as you reached for the latch, eyes flicking across the yard, the sidewalk, the trees beyond.

Nothing. No one. Just the quiet hum of wind and your own breath. You slid the window open with a reluctant creak, then reached out and carefully pulled the box inside. You opened it, and gasped.

Inside lay a single, perfect white lily.

That night, you barely moved after finding the box. You left it on your nightstand, wrapped shut in a towel, as if that could somehow make it less real.

By the time evening crept in, your body was running on autopilot. You went through the motions—washing your face, tying your hair back, standing under the harsh glow of the bathroom light like it might protect you from the dark pressing against your windows. You refused to look in the mirror for too long. You didn’t like the expression on your own face. You were reaching for your toothbrush when your phone, resting on the counter, lit up.

Your heart dropped.

Unknown Number. Again.

Your hand hovered over it, frozen, the dread curling tighter in your chest like a rope being pulled. It rang once. Twice. You should’ve ignored it. You should’ve thrown it across the room. But your finger moved before your brain caught up, and suddenly—

Click.

You pressed it to your ear. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Then came the voice. That same voice, smooth and low, laced with something too soft to be safe. “Did you like the flower?”

You gripped the sink with your free hand, knuckles white. “Who the fuck are you?” you hissed, voice shaking. “What do you want from me?”

A short, amused breath. “That’s not a thank you.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You could hear your own breath now, loud.

“You looked beautiful this morning, by the way.”

Your entire body went cold. “I didn’t leave the house,” you whispered.

He laughed—soft, delighted, fond. Like you’d said something endearing. Like he loved watching you piece it together. “I know.” A pause. “I always know.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your throat was tight, heart hammering so loud you thought it might drown out his voice. But it didn’t. You heard everything. The sound of his breath. The low hum of satisfaction in his tone. Like this wasn’t fear to him. It was foreplay.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he murmured. “To hear your voice. To talk to you without pretending anymore.”

You braced yourself against the sink, your hand shaking as it hovered near the phone. “You’re sick.”

Another soft laugh. “I’m devoted. There’s a difference.”

You felt something twist in your gut. A mix of fear and something worse crawling under your skin like poison. Because it wasn’t just his words. It was the way he sounded when he said them. Like he believed it. Like he worshipped you.

“You’ve let so many of them touch you,” he said next, voice quiet, dangerous. “People who didn’t even know your favorite flower. People who didn’t care when you cried.”

You went still.

“But I did,” he added. “I always cared. I see you. I’ve always seen you.”

Your mouth opened—no words came.

“Don’t be afraid of me, baby,” he whispered, almost gentle now. “I’d never hurt you.” His voice dripped with sincerity, as if that made everything he’d said before… less terrifying. As if breaking into your life, watching you, leaving flowers on your window—all of it—was some kind of act of love.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was dry, your pulse thundered in your ears, and yet—your body refused to move. Rooted to the bathroom floor, still clutching the phone, still listening to him like he had you under a spell.

And maybe he did.

“They didn’t deserve you,” he continued, voice low and firm, like he needed you to believe him. “None of them saw you the way I do. They only wanted to break you.”

Your knees nearly buckled. You reached for the counter for support, but your hand slipped—your palm knocking your toothbrush to the floor with a soft clatter. The noise startled you back into the moment, just long enough to feel a sharp pang of clarity cut through the fog.

This wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t sweet. It was wrong. It was dangerous.

“I don’t know you,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible.

There was a breath of silence. “Oh, not fully,” he replied, tone smooth, unbothered. “But that’s okay. Because I know everything about you.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Like how you forgot to lock your bedroom window…”

Your breath hitched violently, body going rigid. The phone trembled in your hand now.

No. No, you hadn’t. You’d checked it. Twice. You always checked. You were sure—weren’t you? Slowly, eyes wide with disbelief, you turned your head toward the hallway, where your bedroom door sat half-open in the dim light. The shadows beyond it suddenly felt too thick.

“Or how you sleep with one leg out of the blanket when you’re too warm,” he continued, voice softer now, as if he were reminiscing. “You hum to yourself in the shower. You talk in your sleep when you’re anxious. You said your favorite scent was rain on pavement once. You don’t even remember saying it, do you?”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You backed up slowly, retreating from the hallway like the shadows might reach out and grab you. “Stop,” you whispered, barely holding your voice together. “Please stop.”

He ignored you. “You tilt your head when you read something sad. You chew your straw when you're lost in thought. You cried three nights ago.”

The phone slipped from your hand, clattering to the tile floor with a sharp, echoing sound. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths as the silence pressed down around you like a second skin. Every creak of the floorboards. Every distant car outside. You stared at the phone lying on the tile floor where it had fallen, but you didn’t pick it up. You couldn’t. Your fingers were too numb, too shaky. Instead, your eyes flicked around the room, searching, until they landed on the only thing within reach.

A hairdryer.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything, really. But in your trembling grip, it felt like something. Like you were trying. You inched toward the bathroom door, barefoot and tense, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. The hallway beyond was quiet, lit only by the dull glow of your bedroom lamp down the hall. Shadows stretched long across the walls, dancing every time your body shifted.

You hesitated at the threshold, hand clutching the hairdryer so tight your knuckles ached. Then, slowly you peeked out.

No one. Not in the hall. Not in the corners. Not in the bedroom. But that didn’t mean you were alone. You stepped out, your heartbeat thudding in your ears louder than your own footsteps. You moved slowly, glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, sure you’d catch someone disappearing just out of frame.

Heeseung didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

He was tucked into the shadows like he belonged there—silent, still, a shadow in the shape of a man. The mask wasn’t on yet. Not for this part. This moment was his. And he wanted to see you clearly.

You moved so slowly, so carefully, your bare feet padding along the hardwood floor like you expected the house to turn on you at any second. You were gripping a hairdryer in your hand, knuckles white, body trembling—holding it like it was a weapon. Like it could save you from whatever monster you thought might be lurking.

Heeseung nearly smiled.

God, you were adorable. Clutching that little thing like it was a sword, trying to be brave in the middle of your fear.

Your fear that he gave you. That he fed from.

You were trembling, vulnerable, beautiful in the way only you could be when you thought you were alone—when your instincts were screaming that something was wrong, but you still pressed forward anyway.

So brave. So stupid. So perfect.

Slowly, with a quiet reverence like he was performing a ritual, Heeseung reached into the shadows beside him and picked it up.

The white mask. Simple, smooth, emotionless.

He had found it in a Halloween store years ago, half off and hanging beside plastic axes and fake vampire teeth. It had looked ridiculous on the shelf. Just a cheap costume piece, nothing special.

But in his hands… it became something else.

It became his face. The one the town would fear. And more importantly—the one you wouldn’t recognize. Because as long as he wore it, he could be the monster that haunted your nights, and still be the boy who held the door for you at the coffee shop. The one who smiled quietly from across campus. The one you never looked at twice.

He could be both. And he was.

Heeseung slipped the mask over his face with practiced ease, the cool plastic fitting perfectly against his skin, hiding all the things he didn't want you to see. The world blurred behind the eye holes, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need clarity to see you.

He watched you pace down the hall, your back turned to him now, completely unaware that just down the corridor, in the walls of your own home—he was there.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward behind the mask, invisible but real. You thought you were being careful. You thought you were alone. But he’d been here longer than you knew. Inside your home. Inside your routines. Inside your mind.

And tonight, watching wasn’t enough anymore.

You had just passed the living room.

The hallway behind you stretched long and dim, and the silence clung to your skin like static. You clutched the hairdryer tighter in your hand, your pulse pounding against your temple. Something still wasn’t right. The air was too still. You should’ve trusted your instincts the second the chill ran down your spine. But by the time you stopped—by the time you turned—

It was already too late.

There was a sound—soft, like the shift of weight on hardwood—and then he was there. A flash of white. A blank, faceless mask. The glint of dark eyes behind the holes, locked onto you like prey.

You barely had time to gasp before he lunged. "No!" you cried out, stumbling back, trying to raise the hairdryer in defense—but it didn’t matter. He was fast. Too fast.

His body slammed into yours, knocking you clean off your feet. You hit the ground with a sharp thud, the air knocked from your lungs, the hairdryer clattering across the floor uselessly. His weight pinned you down, not crushing, but inescapable. Precise. Controlled.

You thrashed beneath him, heart hammering, limbs shaking, but he caught your wrists in one strong hand and held them above your head with terrifying ease.

Your eyes met the hollow black gaze of the mask hovering inches above your face. And you knew he was watching you. Drinking in every second. You could feel his breath through the thin voice modulator, warm against your cheek as he hovered too close.

“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he whispered, voice low and muffled. “Terrified. Shaking. Finally looking at me like I matter.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Let me go—please—” Your voice cracked. It sounded too desperate.

He groaned at the sound of your voice—quiet, trembling, raw. There was something about your desperation that broke him open from the inside, something he’d craved without fully realizing it until now. So soft. So real. So his.

His gloved hand moved with agonizing slowness, reaching toward your face like he meant to soothe you.

But your gaze snapped downward—Not to his hand. To the knife still gripped tightly.

The blade gleamed dully in the low light, and now it was inches from your face. Your breath caught violently, your body going rigid under him, the fear suddenly clawing its way to the surface in full. You whimpered before you could stop yourself, eyes wide as you tried to lean away—tried to pull your head back.

His eyes behind the mask didn’t miss it. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, fingers brushing along your jaw in a mockery of affection, while the knife hovered dangerously close, threatening, intimate. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So pretty when you’re scared.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to suppress the sob clawing at your throat. “I won’t scream,” you whispered. “I won’t… I won’t tell anyone. Just—please don’t hurt me.”

That earned a soft chuckle through the mask. “Hurt you?” he repeated, as if the very idea offended him. “No, no, no, baby. You still don’t get it.” He brought the knife a little closer—just enough for the cold metal to kiss your cheek, resting lightly against your skin. “This?” he whispered. “This isn’t for you. This is for them.” He tilted his head, mask brushing against your hair as he leaned in further. “The ones who made you cry. The ones who left you. The ones who used you like you were nothing.” His voice dropped to a near growl. “I made sure they’d never touch you again.”

Your blood ran cold as the blade drifted slowly along your skin. From your cheek, down the line of your jaw, and then… to your throat. He wasn’t applying pressure. But you could feel the threat beneath every movement. Like he was savoring the moment.

You didn’t dare breathe.

Then it moved lower—down the center of your chest, ghosting over the thin fabric of your top. You tensed, your fists still trapped above your head, nails digging into your own palms, breath trembling through your lips.

And then he said it. Calm. Casual. Like you were discussing fashion. “This top doesn’t look good on you…” He tilted his head. “Let’s get rid of it, shall we?”

Before you could scream, move, beg—The knife slashed.

A quick flick of his wrist, and the fabric split cleanly from collar to hem with a quiet tearing sound. You gasped, instinctively twisting beneath him, but he only pressed a little closer, still holding your wrists firm, still watching. The ruined fabric fluttered open slightly, exposing bare skin to the cold air of the room—and to him.

He let out a low hum of satisfaction behind the mask. “Much better…” He brought the knife back—not the edge, but the blunt side—and pressed it gently against your bare skin.

You flinched. Not from pain, but from the cold. From the weight of his stare behind that blank mask. From the way he watched every reaction. Every shaky breath. Every involuntary shiver. Every whispered, broken “please…”

He dragged the back of the blade slowly down the center of your chest, past your ribs, following the rise and fall of your breathing like a line only he was allowed to trace. “So soft now,” he murmured, almost mockingly. “Where’d all that attitude go, hm?”

You clenched your jaw.

“You were so mouthy on the phone. So brave.” His voice dipped, cruel now. “And now look at you.” The blade drifted lower, slow enough to keep you shaking, but never cutting. Never quite crossing that line. “Begging. Squirming. Needy little thing.” He leaned closer, his breath fanning hot across your cheek. “Is this what you wanted all along?”

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered, though even you could hear how weak it sounded.

“Liar.” His tone turned sharp, cold. “You liked pretending to be scared when we both know you’ve never had this kind of attention in your life.”

Your face burned with humiliation—and something else. Because the worst part wasn’t what he was saying. It was that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

You would never admit it out loud. Not to him. Not even to yourself.

Something deep inside—buried beneath years of being overlooked, unloved, untouched something was stirring. Something you had locked away, stuffed into the furthest corner of your mind like a shameful secret. It was preening under the weight of his obsession. Sick with need. Starving for affection in any form it came. And for the first time… it was clawing at the bars of the mental prison you built for it.

You hated it. You hated him. You hated how your body reacted.

You stared up at him—at the hollow, unmoving face of the mask as his voice dripped like poison into your ears.

"Pathetic little thing," he murmured, dragging the blunt side of the knife along your stomach, just enough pressure to make you shiver again. "Is this all it takes to make you fall apart?"

Your lips parted, breath catching, but you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. You wouldn’t let him see the way your body responded. You couldn’t. “No,” you said, forcing your voice to come out even. But it didn’t. It cracked. And he heard it.

He laughed softly—so quietly—like you’d confirmed something for him. "Liar," he whispered. "You say no, but you're shaking like you want me to keep going. Like your body already made the choice your mouth won't admit."

You turned your face away from him, shame burning deep in your chest. Your wrists still pinned. The ruined fabric of your top spread open beneath you like an invitation you never meant to give.

He moved the blade up again, slowly, deliberately trailing it up your side. His free hand ghosted over your hip, then your ribs, not quite touching. Hovering. Always watching. Always calculating how far he could go.

"You want someone to control you. To put you in your place. You act like you're better than that, but you’re not."

You shook your head. “Shut up.”

"You don't want a prince," he growled, the knife pressed flat against your sternum now, "You want a cage. You want to be owned."

“No, I don’t!” you snapped.

He stilled. Then, slowly, his head tilted, eyes behind the mask locked on your every twitch. "Then why aren’t you fighting harder?”

You had no answer. Because your voice kept denying him, and still—your skin was on fire beneath every word. Your muscles ached from holding back every reaction. Your body and your mind were at war, and you didn’t know which one was losing faster.

You were unraveling. And he knew it. God, he knew it. And that was what he wanted. To take you apart. To make you question where fear ended and surrender began.

It took everything in you to stay still. To not recoil. To not lean into it.

The knife slid higher again—not sharp enough to cut, but cold enough to make you feel every inch of the movement. A line of pressure. A silent threat. And you hated yourself for noticing how steady his hand was. How controlled. How he handled you like he already knew every reaction you’d try to hide.

He laughed softly—low, cruel, and devastatingly satisfied. “Your mouth lies,” he whispered. “But your body loves me.”

You shook your head, voice cracking before the words even formed. “No—”

But he was already answering you, voice dropping into that mocking warmth that made your skin crawl. “Sweetheart, you’re dripping desperation... Even now. Even when you’re terrified. Isn’t that sick?”

You wanted to scream. To cry. To vanish from under his gaze, from under the weight of his words. Because they stuck to you like oil—foul and heavy and impossible to wipe off. It made that part of you whisper.

Please. Don’t stop.

You clenched your jaw, as if that alone could silence it. As if willpower could erase the ache of being seen.

He watched your silence with the patience of a predator that had already won. “You don’t have to pretend,” he murmured. “Not with me. I know what you look like when you’re lying. And I know what you look like when you want to be caught.”

You shook your head again, a little more forcefully this time. But the tears gathering in your eyes betrayed you. Your silence betrayed you. The tears gathering in your eyes betrayed you.

In one smooth motion, his gloved hand moved and wrapped gently but firmly around your throat.

Your breath caught. Not from the pressure, but from the sheer shock of it. The control it implied. Your eyes widened, your body going rigid beneath him, and you choked on a breath that barely made it past your lips.

His masked face tilted closer, close enough that you could hear every breath he took behind the plastic. “Why so quiet, puppet?” he asked softly. “What happened to all that fire?”

The nickname cut through you like a cold wind, mocking, possessive, knowing. You swallowed hard beneath his hand, the tension in your throat pressing against his palm. Still, you didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your voice. You didn’t trust what might come out if you opened your mouth.

He hummed, like your silence only amused him more. “You were so strong, weren’t you?” he murmured. “So sure you’d fight me off. Tell me I’m wrong. That you don’t feel anything when I touch you.”

You shook your head again, slower this time. Less defiant. More… confused. At him. At yourself.

His thumb moved slightly—tracing the line of your jaw now, not pushing, just resting there. “So why are you crying?” he asked, voice so low it could’ve been mistaken for concern. “Is it because you want me to stop… or because you’re afraid I might?”

You didn’t have an answer. Maybe there wasn’t one.

He watched you beneath him—still trembling and crying—and yet not fighting like you should have been. Like you could have been. “You should admit it,” he said softly, his voice taking on that familiar, dangerous sweetness that made your stomach turn. “You love this.”

You shook your head, lips trembling. “No… I don’t…”

He clicked his tongue. “You do. You love the idea of someone obsessing over you. Watching you. Following you. You love knowing you have me wrapped around your little finger this whole time.” His words cut deeper than his knife ever had.

Because part of you had wondered. Had sensed something off. Had ignored every red flag, every shadow where it didn’t belong, every chill down your spine—because something in you liked being wanted.

He leaned down again, his voice now right beside your ear. “You want control, but you also want to be seen. To be needed. Worshipped. Owned.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Shut up.”

“Make me.” The words were a taunt but his tone was tender. “Say you hate it. Say you hate me.”

You forced the words out, voice shaking, catching in your throat like glass splinters. “I… I hate it. I hate you.” But it didn’t come out the way you wanted it to. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was small. Weak. Almost pleading.

He giggled. A soft, breathy sound—mocking and delighted. “Say it like you mean it, baby,” he murmured. “Or else I won’t believe it…” His hand didn’t squeeze, not enough to hurt, But it pressed. Enough to make your breath hitch. Enough to remind you that he was still holding all the power, and you were still pretending not to want it. “Go on,” he whispered, his voice curling around you like smoke. “Try again.”

You blinked up at the ceiling, tears spilling freely now, teeth clenched as your chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. The panic, the shame, the betrayal your own body felt toward you, they all crashed together in a tide too thick to swim through. You didn’t repeat yourself. And that was all the answer he needed.

He’s masked face tilted, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your temple. “Stop lying to me, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I already know what you’re too scared to admit.”

Your chest heaved, trying desperately to suck in enough air—but it wasn’t enough. The pressure wasn’t brutal, but it was constant, just enough to tip the scale. Just enough to steal the oxygen from your lungs, second by second. You struggled for a while longer—your legs twitching weakly beneath him, hands still trembling where they had no strength left to fight.

And then. Everything started to fade.

The room tilted, colors bleeding at the edges of your vision. The heaviness behind your eyes swelled, swallowing the light. Your limbs slackened. Your breathing slowed. And then you went still.

Heeseung felt it the moment you lost consciousness. The exact second your body gave out—limp, soft, breath shallow beneath him. He froze, hovering over you, staring. Then, after a heartbeat of silence, he slowly pulled his hand back from your throat. Just looked down at you. Silent. Calm. Like a painting he’d finally finished. His gloved fingers brushed gently down your cheek before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.

Click.

One picture. Just one.

You—quiet, breath barely rising beneath your torn shirt, tears still drying on your cheeks. He slipped the phone away and exhaled softly. Not rushed. Not guilty. Just… satisfied. Then, with surprising care, he leaned forward and slid one arm under your legs, the other beneath your back—lifting you as if you were something delicate.

His.

He carried you to your bed, moving through your space like he belonged there and lowered you gently onto the mattress, arranging you like he had rehearsed it in his head a thousand times before.

And then, he reached up. Fingers curled around the bottom of the white mask. And slowly, he lifted it just enough to reveal his mouth, his jaw, the sharp line of a smile that was real this time—not hidden behind the plastic.

He leaned in. Softly—almost lovingly—he pressed a kiss to your forehead. Just one. Then he straightened, tugged the mask back down over his face, and turned toward your window.

Silent. Swift. And gone.

By the time the night air drifted in and your curtains swayed again, you were still asleep. Alone in your bed.

You woke up in your bed, groggy and disoriented. For a long, slow moment, you thought it had been a dream. But your shirt was still torn. Your throat still ached. And your phone was still on the bathroom floor.

Reality settled in like a weight on your chest. You sat up slowly, arms wrapped around yourself, scanning the room for any sign that he might still be there. But it was quiet. And cold.

It took everything in you to find your voice—just enough of it to make the call. Hands shaking, you dialed.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

You stumbled through the explanation. You only left out the parts you couldn’t say out loud. Not because they weren’t real, but because saying them might make you sound unhinged.

The dispatcher was calm. Professional. Asked for a description. Took your name. Filed a report.

But when you asked what else could be done—what protection they could offer, how soon someone could come, their answer was a practiced kind of politeness that chilled you more than the silence in your room had. “Unless there’s an active threat on-site, we can’t dispatch an officer without cause.”

You paused. “But—he was here. I w—”

“Yes, and we have that in the report. If you call again and say you’re in danger, we’ll send someone immediately. I promise. But right now… there’s nothing else we can do.”

You were silent, lips parted, throat dry.

Then the dispatcher added, a little too casually. “But for now, we’ll dispatch a police officer to your house to run some investigations around the area. Ask a few neighbors. Just to cover protocol.”

That’s all.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. “Right,” you said quietly. “That’s… helpful.”

It wasn’t. You knew it. They knew it. A single officer showing up after the fact to ask a few questions wouldn’t stop anything—not someone like him. But it was something. And right now, something was better than nothing.

After hanging up, you sat in the silence of your apartment, still wrapped in the same clothes from last night. The air felt heavy. Your skin felt wrong. You hadn’t even dared to look in the mirror. You moved to your front window and looked out through the blinds, half-expecting him to be standing there.

He wasn’t. But that didn’t calm you.

Because if he was watching... He wouldn’t be where you could see him.

The knock on the door came an hour later.

You hesitated before answering, fingers curled tightly around the doorknob as you peered through the peephole. A uniform. A badge. A clipboard. You opened the door slowly.

“Miss Y/N?” the officer asked, glancing down at his notes. “Officer Han. Just here to follow up on the report you filed this morning.”

You stepped aside and let him in, your voice still hoarse. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

He entered with casual ease, taking a slow look around your apartment. No urgency. No tension. Just a faint smirk as he glanced at you again—and lingered a second too long. “I’ve had a lot of strange calls,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “But this one’s new.”

You bristled, but didn’t say anything.

He circled through your living room, checked the locks, the windows, even glanced at your bedroom door before shrugging. “No signs of forced entry. No footprints, no prints at all, actually. Window’s closed. Frame’s clean.” He turned to you and raised an eyebrow. “You sure you didn’t just have a bad dream?”

Your stomach twisted. “It wasn’t a dream.”

He nodded like he was humoring you, not believing you. “Right.” He made a few notes on his clipboard and then, with a glance at your bare legs beneath your oversized hoodie, added, “Well, it’s a good thing nothing happened to you. Would’ve been a shame.”

You didn’t answer.

He gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got anyone staying with you? A boyfriend maybe?”

You blinked. “Why does that matter?”

“Just thinking it might be safer. You’re pretty. Wouldn’t want someone creeping around again.”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you folded your arms. “Are you going to file your report?”

He raised his hands. “Alright, alright. Don’t bite.” He handed you a thin card. “Here’s my number. If anything happens again… or if you just need someone to keep an eye on the place tonight, I’m off-duty after six.”

You didn’t take it.

He set it on your counter anyway and left without looking back.

The second the door shut, you stood there, frozen. No answers. No protection. Just another man who didn’t take you seriously—who looked at you and saw an opportunity instead of a person.

The next morning, you were barely awake when the television in your living room crackled with breaking news.

You blinked at the screen from the couch, blanket wrapped around you, mind still clouded with anxiety and sleeplessness. Your ears caught only pieces at first.

“…body discovered this morning at a local motel…”

You sat up slowly.

The anchor’s voice was grim, serious now.

“The victim has been identified as Officer Han, who was reported missing last night after failing to return from a routine follow-up investigation.”

You leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen. The image shifted to grainy motel security footage. A figure entering alone. The camera timestamp was from last night.

“Police were dispatched after the motel’s cleaning staff found the body early this morning. Authorities are calling the scene gruesome and disturbing, with signs of overkill and personal rage.”

Overkill.

Personal.

You barely breathed as the reporter continued.

“No suspects have been identified. Investigators declined to comment on whether this is connected to the recent string of local murders.”

But you already knew.

Your heart pounded in your chest, ice curling through your veins. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It wasn’t random. He had been watching.

And now, the man who didn’t believe you—who dismissed your fear and left you with a smirk—was dead. Killed for touching your space. But then—the dread sank deeper.

How would he know? You hadn’t told anyone. No one else was there. You hadn’t even said anything out loud. Your blood turned to ice.

No.No, no, no.

You stood abruptly, heart racing. Panic poured into your limbs like fire. You tore through your apartment, yanking open drawers, crawling under furniture, pulling books and photo frames off shelves.

Every corner. Every surface.

The chaos grew—piles of clothes tossed across the floor, cushions ripped from the couch, your closet emptied in seconds flat.

And then you saw it.

Tucked just behind one of the vents. Too small to notice unless you were looking for it. A black dot. A tiny lens. A blinking red light.

A camera.

Recording. Watching.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at it—this quiet little parasite hidden in your wall, this thing that had seen everything. You took a step back, grabbing a chair with shaking hands, your mind racing with thoughts of smashing it until it stopped blinking—

Your phone rang.

The shrill sound cut through the silence like a blade, making you jump. Your heart already knew before your eyes confirmed it. You looked down at the screen.

Unknown Number.

Your fingers froze. The world felt smaller. Tighter. Like it was caving in.

The ringing kept going.

You didn’t want to answer. But you couldn’t ignore it. With trembling hands, you lifted the phone to your ear, breath shallow. “…Hello?” There was silence—just for a second. Then his voice slipped through, smooth and sickeningly condescending.

“You really should just leave it alone, sweetheart.”

Your spine stiffened. “Like hell I will,” you snapped, louder than you meant to. “I’m going to smash it. I’ll crush it so hard there won’t be anything left—”

He tsked softly, cutting you off with a mocking sigh. “There it is,” he said, voice lilting. “The tantrum. The mouth.” Then his tone changed—sharper now, lower. The way someone might speak to a child acting out. “You love pretending you have control. But you never do, baby. Not really.”

You froze in place, knuckles white as your hand tightened around the phone.

“Putting on such a brave little face over the phone… But when you're underneath me…” His voice dipped—quiet, dangerous. “You turn into a pathetic, needy little mess. Don’t you?”

You clenched your jaw, trying to hold in the shaky breath that wanted to escape—trying so hard not to react. Not to show weakness. Not to let him win. But you knew he could feel it. Through your silence. Through the way your breath hitched. Through the way your gaze drifted back toward the camera.

“There she is…” he murmured, like he was smiling again. “Poor baby. Is it getting hard for you to think?”

You stared into the blinking red light, your body locked in place. He was turning your fear into something else—twisting it, warping it until even you couldn’t tell what was real. Every breath felt too loud. Every inch of your skin felt watched. Violated. But worst of all… you couldn’t move.

The silence stretched on the line for a second too long. Then his voice returned, laced with something dark and cold underneath. “That officer…” he said, almost like he was thinking aloud. “He deserved it.”

Your heart dropped.

“He looked at you like you were a thing. Like you were for anyone.”

He exhaled slowly through the speaker—something more controlled than anger. Possession. “He had no right. No one does. No one should ever see you like that except me.” His voice sharpened. “Only me.”

Your throat tightened. Your breath came faster, uneven now, like your body didn’t know what it was supposed to feel anymore.

“He thought he could touch what isn’t his.” His tone dropped, almost a growl now. “So I made sure he’ll never look at you again.”

The whimper slipped from you before you could stop it. Quiet. Shameful. Your hand flew up to your mouth—but it was too late.

He heard it. And he laughed. “Oh…” he purred, “you liked that, didn’t you?”

Your chest stung with the effort to keep still, to fight the heat crawling up your neck, the betrayal of your own body leaning into the sound of his voice.

“You like knowing what I’d do for you.” A pause. Then softer—“What I have done.”

He continued, voice like velvet over a blade. “You pretend you’re afraid of me. But deep down, you’re afraid of what it means that you’re not running.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Because he wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t moved from the spot where you found the camera. You hadn’t screamed or smashed it yet. Your phone was still pressed to your ear like it anchored you—like his voice had a hold you couldn’t break, no matter how badly you wanted to. And it terrified you. Not just that he was watching. Not just that he’d killed. But that a part of you—small and broken and starved—was listening too closely. Breathing too hard. And not looking away. You hated that. You hated you.

“See?” he whispered, sweet like poison. “You don’t need to say it. I already know.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the phone, knuckles aching, heart thudding painfully against your ribs.

“It’s okay to stop pretending, baby.” There was a beat of silence. “Be scared of what you’d become without me.”

Your knees felt weak. The room spun. Your breath hitched and stuttered in your chest. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the tears blurred your vision completely. The phone slipped from your hand and hit the floor with a soft clatter.

You ran. Shoeless, directionless—your only thought was out. Out of the walls that had betrayed you. Out of the air that felt too heavy to breathe. The front door slammed behind you. Cool air rushed over your skin like a slap, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. You weren’t even sure where you were going. You just needed space. Distance. Something real. You didn’t realize your eyes were squeezed shut until your shoulder collided hard with someone’s chest. You stumbled back, startled. Hands gently caught your arms to steady you.

“Whoa, hey—are you okay?” The voice was soft. Familiar. Concerned.

Your eyes blinked open, vision still swimming, and then your breath caught again.

Heeseung.

Heeseung from school. From class. From quiet afternoons and passing conversations you remembered.

He looked down at you, brows knit, gaze sweeping over your tear-streaked face and shaking hands. “Y/N?” he said gently. “What happened?”

You stared at him, mind racing. He looked… normal. Kind. Steady. Just Heeseung. Safe. Right?

You couldn’t answer him. Your mouth wouldn’t move. Your voice was lost somewhere behind the panic and exhaustion twisting through your chest. So instead you stepped forward and collapsed into him. Your fingers curled tightly into his sweater like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth, and your face buried itself against his shoulder. The sobs came next—choked and raw, your whole body trembling from the weight of everything you’d tried so hard to hold together.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask questions. Heeseung simply wrapped his arms around you and held you. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other resting firmly between your shoulder blades—like he’d done this before, like he’d always known how to hold you. His voice was soft in your ear. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re safe now.”

The words should’ve comforted you. But a sliver of doubt lodged itself somewhere deep inside your ribs. Because part of you still didn’t know why his embrace felt so familiar.

You don’t know how long you cried. Minutes, maybe more. But eventually, the sobs softened, your breathing steadied, and the tremble in your hands began to fade.

Heeseung didn’t rush you. He just held you, his hand moving in slow, steady circles against your back, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head like he’d done it a hundred times before.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes met yours gently. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you inside, yeah?”

You nodded numbly.

He simply kept one arm around you as he gently steered you back toward the complex, keeping his touch light but steady.

When you reached your door, your legs wavered slightly, and without a word, he slipped his hand around your wrist to help guide you inside. The place looked the same. Still messy from your frantic search. Still silent. Still watched. You didn’t look at the vent again. You couldn’t.

And you didn’t mention the camera.

Heeseung closed the door quietly behind you, eyes sweeping across the room just once before they returned to you—soft, unreadable. “You should sit,” he said gently, nodding toward the couch.

You let him lead you there, your limbs slow and heavy. The moment you sank into the cushions, you felt his arm around your shoulders again—wrapping you up in quiet warmth like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. You didn’t see the flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his lips. It was subtle. Brief. Gone before you could lift your eyes. But it was there.

And as you leaned against him, his hand moved carefully over your arm, soothing, familiar—too familiar.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, resting his chin lightly atop your head.

You let your eyes close. Because in that moment, even with the storm still raging quietly beneath your skin…

He felt like the only person in the world who hadn’t left you.

And that’s exactly what he wanted.

With Heeseung, you felt safe.

You didn’t know when it started, when the panic in your chest began to ease the moment he stepped into the room, or when his voice became the one sound that could cut through the noise in your head.

He felt like your rock. The one steady thing in a world that kept tilting.

When you broke down, he didn’t flinch. He stayed. Listened. Held you when you couldn’t hold yourself together. He never made you feel like a burden, never treated your pain like it was inconvenient or dramatic. He treated you like you were more than a body to use and discard. Like you were worth something. Like you mattered.

There was dignity in the way he spoke to you. In the way he looked at you. Like he saw the parts of you no one else had bothered to slow down for. And maybe that’s why—despite everything, you stayed close to him. Because Heeseung was comfort. He was quiet safety in the storm. He was the only one who made you feel like you didn’t have to survive everything alone. And more than anything… You trusted him.

He never said it outright. Never told you to rely on him. He didn’t need to. Because whenever the world tried to pull you back into the dark—he caught you.

The first time a toxic ex showed up, it was sudden. You’d gone out to get air. Coffee. Something. And he was just there, leaning against a wall like he’d never broken you, like he deserved a second chance just because he decided he was bored again.

His words were sweet, poisonous. All charm and empty promises. You were frozen. Until Heeseung appeared.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just stepped up beside you, his body a wall between you and the past. His expression unreadable—but his presence said everything.

Back off.

When the ex didn’t take the hint—when his hand brushed your arm like he still had a right to—you flinched.

And Heeseung moved.

A single punch. Fast. Brutal. The guy stumbled back, clutching his face, cursing, scrambling like the coward he was.

Heeseung didn’t look at him. He looked at you. “You okay?”

And that—that—was when something inside you started to shift. Because it wasn’t just that he protected you. It was the way he didn’t ask permission to. The way he made it feel like he should be the only one standing by your side. Because no one had ever fought for you like that. No one had ever looked at you like they’d burn the world for daring to hurt you. And in that quiet, terrifying way—He became the safest place you knew.

It happened slowly.

At first, you just leaned on him when things were hard. Then you leaned on him when they weren’t. He answered every call. Showed up without you asking. Knew when you hadn’t eaten, when you hadn’t slept, when you were about to spiral—before you even did.

And you didn’t notice, at first, how the others began to drift away. Your friends stopped texting as often. One of them called once—just once—to ask why you never came out anymore. Why you never replied. Heeseung had been beside you when your phone rang.

He watched your screen light up. And he said nothing. He didn’t have to.

You silenced the call.

It became easier to stay in. Easier to say, “I’m tired.” Easier to believe no one understood you like Heeseung did anyway. Because he got it.

When you were anxious, he pulled you closer. When the nightmares came back, he held you until you fell asleep. When you doubted yourself, he reminded you how they were the problem. How he was the only one who saw you clearly. Who never left. Who never lied.

“You don’t need them,” he said once, brushing your hair behind your ear. “They don’t know how to take care of you.”

And you believed it. Because somewhere between all the sleepless nights and whispered reassurances, you’d forgotten what it felt like to stand on your own.

You stopped reaching out. Stopped checking your messages. Stopped answering your door.

The only voice that mattered was his.

And when you were with him, when he wrapped his arms around you and murmured, “I’ve got you,” into your hair you felt like maybe that was enough. It didn’t feel like control. Not at first.

He never yelled. Never threatened. Never even raised his voice. Everything he did came wrapped in affection—warmth so convincing it made you question why you’d ever trusted anyone else.

When you forgot to respond to a message from a former classmate, he smiled gently. “It’s better that way.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “They never showed up when it counted. Why give them your energy now?”

When you mentioned your job stress, the way your boss ignored your ideas, Heeseung tilted his head, eyes soft and full of concern. “You don’t need to stay somewhere that doesn’t value you.”

You left the job two weeks later. He was proud. He always was.

“See?” he whispered in your ear one night, arms coiled around your waist. “It’s better when it’s just us.”

The more things you let go of—people, routines, independence—the more he filled the space they left behind. He started handling things for you. Picking up your groceries before you asked. Changing your locks for “safety.” Memorizing your schedule better than you did.

And when you forgot something—your meds, a meal, an appointment—he’d kiss your forehead and murmur. “That’s why you need me, baby. The world’s too much. But I’ve got you.”

You smiled, nodded. Felt warm and taken care of. Even as the walls in your apartment felt closer. Even as your phone stayed off more often than on. Even as your name started to feel like it only existed in his mouth. You didn’t leave the apartment for days at a time now. Sometimes, it felt easier not to.

Because when you did, people looked at you like a stranger. But Heeseung looked at you like you were the center of the universe.

“You were never meant to belong to them,” he said one night, pressing his lips to your temple. “You were made for me.”

The day had been normal. Heeseung had made you breakfast, kissed your forehead, reminded you to drink water and take your vitamins. You had even gone outside, just for a short walk. Heeseung said it was good for you, and with him just a block behind, you’d felt… okay.

But that illusion shattered the moment you turned a corner and nearly walked straight into her.

Your ex-friend.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t look surprised to see you. She looked… hungry—like she’d been waiting for this. “Wow,” she said, her eyes flicking up and down your form with a sneer. “Didn’t think you were still alive.”

You froze.

Her voice, so familiar and venom-laced, instantly pulled up old wounds. The gossip. The backstabbing. The way she’d spun lies about you with a smile and laughed behind your back like your pain was entertainment.

“I thought you disappeared,” she continued, crossing her arms. Her words were barbed, digging straight into the softest parts of you. The parts you’d tried to bury. The parts Heeseung had promised to protect. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, your eyes darted—instinctively, desperately—searching the sidewalk, the street, the edges of every moving shadow.

And then..

He was there.

Like he had stepped out of thin air.

Heeseung appeared behind you, silent as a ghost. His arms slid around your waist with ease, grounding you, pulling you back against his chest in a gesture so certain, that your ex-friend’s expression flickered—first with confusion, then discomfort.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Chest pressed firmly to your back. Hands resting over your stomach. And then his eyes met hers.

Glacial. Dangerous. Possessive.

Your ex-friend took a tiny step back.

“Is there a reason you’re talking to her?” he asked, quiet but cold.

She blinked, visibly thrown. “I—what?”

Heeseung’s arms didn’t loosen. If anything, they tightened. Protective. Possessive.

“Because from where I’m standing,” he said, his tone still calm, “it sounds like you’ve forgotten your place.”

You watched her stumble for a response, caught between outrage and unease.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he said, voice laced with quiet venom. “Not anymore.”

Your ex-friend scoffed, eyes flicking from him to you. “Seriously? You letting him speak for you now?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because his fingers gently threaded through yours, grounding you. Reminding you that you didn’t have to speak. Not when he could protect you better than anyone ever had.

Heeseung looked down at you, brushing your hair gently behind your ear. “Let’s go,” he whispered, not even sparing the other girl another glance. “You don’t need to listen to people who never deserved you.”

And just like that, he led you away—arms wrapped around you, eyes scanning everything like a sentry. Because in his world, no one could hurt you. Not without consequences.

It didn’t happen all at once.

The illusion didn’t shatter like glass. It cracked like ice underfoot. Quiet. Slow. Barely noticeable… until you felt yourself slipping.

It started with the keys.

You were reaching for your spare set to grab something from the mailbox one morning, only to find the small bowl near the door empty. Confused, you checked the drawer. Then your bag. Nowhere. “Hey,” you asked gently, as Heeseung walked into the room, drying his hands on a towel, “Have you seen my keys?”

He didn’t look up right away. “You don’t need them,” he said easily, “I already got the mail.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t the first time. But now you were noticing. You didn’t press it.

Then came the phone.

You’d left it charging in the kitchen overnight, something you’d always done but one morning, you found it powered off, moved to a different table, and your passcode no longer worked. “Strange,” you muttered, trying again.

Heeseung’s voice came from the hallway. “Oh, the battery was acting weird. I reset it.”

“But my passcode—”

“I fixed that too. It’s the same as mine now. Easier to remember.” He smiled. “See? I’m just trying to help.”

You smiled back. Because it was Heeseung. Because he always helped. But something in your stomach twisted.

Then, there were the mirrors.

You hadn’t noticed right away, but you started to realize… there weren’t many left in the apartment. Your bedroom mirror had been removed. He claimed it cracked—bad luck. He hadn’t replaced it yet. The bathroom mirror had a towel draped over it “for cleaning.” The hallway mirror? Gone. You mentioned it once, half-laughing, “It’s like I barely see myself anymore.”

Heeseung had only smiled from the kitchen, voice light. “That’s okay. I see you enough for both of us.”

And then there was the voice in your head. The whisper that asked When was the last time you were alone?

When was the last time you left the apartment without him? Without checking in? Without that gentle, smiling permission?

You sat on the couch one evening, hands in your lap, heart beating a little too fast for no reason you could name. Heeseung sat beside you, arm around your shoulders, watching something on TV.

His thumb moved slowly over your upper arm. Back and forth. Reassuring.

But you didn’t feel settled.

It was just supposed to be a quick note.

Heeseung had left for work only twenty minutes earlier, humming something soft as he kissed your cheek and told you he wouldn’t be long. You'd smiled, waved, locked the door behind him.

Now, you stood in the quiet apartment, rummaging through a drawer by the bookshelf in search of a pen. Your fingers brushed against something cold and unfamiliar. You paused. Reached in deeper.

A small, black external hard drive.

Not yours.

You turned it over in your hand, frowning. No label. No marks. Just a single red sticker near the port.

Heeseung’s? Maybe. But why was it in the drawer you never used?

Your curiosity prickled. Sitting at the desk, you plugged it into your laptop. The screen flickered briefly and the drive loaded.

No folders. Just one labeled in lowercase: “x”

Your stomach turned, but you double-clicked.

And then the screen filled with photos.

All of you.

You sleeping on the couch. You sitting on the balcony, reading. You cooking in the kitchen. Slightly grainy, like they'd been taken from a distance. Some were dated from weeks and months ago.

You closed the folder. Then opened it again. As if maybe the pictures would be different this time. As if maybe you’d see something innocent in them—some justification.

But they were still the same.

You—caught in private moments. You—unaware. And he had them saved. Labeled. Hidden.

Your stomach twisted, your skin crawling beneath your clothes.

But still… You didn’t move to delete them. You didn’t scream. Instead, you quietly dragged the folder closed and unplugged it.

You walked back to the drawer. And slowly, carefully—like it might explode if you breathed too hard—you put the hard drive exactly where you found it. Nestled between pens and rubber bands. The drawer slid closed with a soft click. Your hand hovered over it for a moment longer, frozen.

There had to be a reason. Right?

Heeseung wasn’t like those other people. He listened. He stayed. He never made you feel small. Maybe—maybe the pictures were just his way of feeling close. Maybe he started taking them before you were this close and didn’t know how to stop. Maybe he was just scared of losing you and—

You’re making excuses.

Your own thoughts cut through the haze like a blade. Sharp. Merciless.

But you shoved them down—deep, deep down—into that same quiet place where you’d buried every red flag, every whispered instinct you didn’t want to hear. Because it had to be okay. It had to be.

So when Heeseung walked through the door, you were already standing. The lights were warm. A soft song played from your phone like nothing had ever happened.

He looked up and smiled the second he saw you. “Hey, baby.”

That voice. That warmth. That easy calm that wrapped around you like a favorite blanket—so familiar, so practiced, so comforting. You smiled back. Too wide. Too still. But he didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did. And pretended not to.

He stepped forward, pressing a kiss to your temple as he wrapped his arms around you. “Miss me?” he asked, nuzzling into your hair.

You let out a breathy laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Of course.” You tucked your arms around his waist like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t just seen your entire life through the lens of someone else’s control. Like you hadn’t realized the warmth you clung to was built on silent watching and twisted love.

Because if it wasn’t okay— If all of this was wrong—

Then you’d have to leave. And you didn’t know who you’d be without him.

He held you tighter, and for a moment, the silence between you stretched. Just long enough to feel like he was listening for something in your breath. In your heartbeat.

Did he know?

Had he always known?

But he only kissed your cheek again. “Go sit down,” he said softly. “I’ll make you some tea.”

And you went. Because that was what you did now. What you were supposed to do.

Everything was fine. It had to be fine.

You sat quietly, legs curled beneath you on the couch, hands resting in your lap like you were waiting for direction—like you couldn’t move until he was back in the room.

Heeseung didn’t take long. He handed you the tea with both hands, his gaze never leaving your face.

No questions. No suspicion. Just that same gentle smile. That same calm presence.

As if nothing had changed.

You took the mug, fingers wrapped around the warmth like it was something solid to hold onto—like it could keep you grounded. “Thank you,” you murmured, voice even.

Heeseung didn’t answer. He just sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed into yours, his thigh brushing yours—every point of contact anchoring. Controlling, without seeming like it.

Then, without a word, his hand came up. He brushed your hair back from your face, eyes scanning your features with something close to reverence. His fingers traced the curve of your cheek. Your jaw.

Like he was memorizing you all over again.

You forced a smile. A small one. And in return, he leaned in—pressing a soft kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek. Another just beside your eye. “You’re so quiet tonight,” he murmured between kisses, but his tone was gentle. Not prying. Not accusatory.

Just warm. Intimate.

You nodded faintly, managing a quiet, “Just tired.”

His lips brushed against your skin again—this time near the corner of your mouth. “That’s okay,” he said, his hand now on your thigh. “Just stay with me.”

So you did. You let him pull you into his arms. Let your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

And you told yourself—again and again—

It was okay. It had to be okay. Because if it wasn’t…

You didn’t know what you’d do.

For once, you were alone.

Heeseung had left just after sunset, brushing a kiss to your forehead and murmuring something about “important business” with a tone that promised he’d explain later. He didn’t offer details—and you didn’t ask.

He said he’d be home late.

The silence he left behind pressed in from all corners of the apartment. At first, it felt like freedom. But after a few minutes… it didn’t. You paced. Flipped through shows without watching any of them. Scrolled on your phone, but everything felt dull, muted, meaningless without him sitting beside you—without his quiet commentary, without the casual touch of his hand resting on your leg like it belonged there. You hated the emptiness. The stillness. You hadn’t realized how completely you’d grown used to him filling the space.

Then—the craving hit.

Something sweet. Something salty. Something that would feel like comfort in your hands, on your tongue. A distraction. So, without thinking it through, you grabbed a hoodie and slipped on your shoes. No note. No message. Just air in your lungs and a late-night itch for something that reminded you of normalcy.

The 24-hour market was only a ten-minute walk away.

The streets were quiet. Empty, except for the soft hum of neon lights and the occasional car passing by. It felt strange being outside alone. Stranger still to realize how long it had been since you’d done it.

You kept your head down. One hand in your pocket, the other curled tightly around your phone—just in case.

When you reached the shop you grabbed chips, a drink, some candy. Something warm from the heater tray even though you weren’t sure if you were hungry or just… lonely.

You paid at the register with a faint smile, murmured a soft “thank you,” and tucked the snacks into your hoodie pouch and the small bag they handed you. The cashier didn’t look twice—just another late-night customer, just another quiet face passing through.

For once, everything felt… peaceful.

No tension pulling at your spine. No eyes following your every movement. No pressure to speak, to be still, to be watched. You stepped out into the quiet street, the warmth of the market replaced by the cool breeze of midnight air.

You were halfway home—barely two blocks from the apartment—when the first drop hit your cheek.

You looked up.

The clouds were heavy now, painted silver-blue under the streetlights. Another drop hit your shoulder. Then another.

Rain.

You gasped, pulling your hood up as you laughed softly to yourself, feet picking up pace. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed the sensation of rain on your face.

You clutched your snack bag tighter and kept walking, hair dampening beneath your hood, shoes slipping just slightly on the slick sidewalk.

And for that one small moment. You felt like yourself again.

But just as your building came into view, lit by the soft glow of your porch light—

You paused.

Because through the misting rain, someone was limping toward you—unsteady, staggering, like their body was seconds from giving out.

At first, you couldn’t recognize them. Their hair clung to their face, and their clothes were torn, stained dark and slick with rain. Then they looked up. And screamed. A broken, hoarse sound, gurgled with panic and pain. They collapsed just a few feet from you, falling hard onto the sidewalk. You gasped and stumbled forward. “Wait—oh my God—” Your eyes widened in horror as you saw their face, barely visible through smeared blood but recognizable enough.

Her. Your ex-friend. The one who’d cornered you days ago. The one Heeseung had wrapped his arms around you in front of, like a shield made of silk and warning. She was barely conscious now, her lips trembling, trying to say something. Her hand reached for you. Clutching at your ankle. Blood pulsed from a wound at her side, soaking into the concrete, swirling red in the pooling rain. And that’s when you looked up and saw him.

The mask.

White. Expressionless. Flecked with blood.

Standing still at the end of the block like a ghost pulled out of memory, the very shape of your nightmares. The figure that had held you down, whispered to you, touched your skin like it was his to own.

Ghostface.

Your body locked in place, breath stolen from your lungs. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The sight of him alone rooted you to the spot—like a nightmare dragged into reality. Your breath fogged in the cold air as you slowly looked down again, heart hammering in your chest.

Your ex-friend’s hand had fallen limp against the sidewalk. Her eyes were half-lidded, staring at nothing. Her chest, once heaving with effort, had stilled. And then—just like that—she was gone.

You let out a choked gasp, stumbling back from her body.

No. No, no, no—

A scream ripped from your throat before you could stop it, raw and instinctive. The bag of snacks hit the ground with a splash as you turned and ran.

Rain soaked your hoodie. Your hair stuck to your face. Your lungs burned. But none of it mattered.

You just ran.

Down the street. Around the corner. Away from the body. Away from him.

Your mind raced faster than your feet, every thought loud and tangled.

She’s dead. He was there. He saw you. He watched you. He let you see him—

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Because something inside you whispered that if you did… you’d see him chasing after you.

Your feet pounded the pavement, soaked shoes slipping slightly on the rain-slicked ground. The cold air burned your lungs, but panic pushed you forward, faster, faster—until your legs ached and your vision blurred from more than just the downpour. You turned sharply into a side street, hoping—praying—for a place to hide. Something. Anything.

The alleyway was narrow, walled in with brick and stacked crates. Dimly lit. Empty. A dead end. Your heart dropped.

No fire escape. No open doors. No shadows deep enough to disappear into.

You spun on your heel, breath catching in your throat and froze.

He was there.

Standing silently at the entrance. Blocking the only way out. The white mask was soaked, stained, glinting faintly beneath the flickering alley light. His figure was still. Composed. And so very real.

You stumbled back, hitting the damp wall behind you, your hands searching wildly for something to grab, something to defend yourself—but there was nothing. Nothing but empty crates and rain pooling around your feet. “Stay away!” you shouted, voice cracking. “Don’t—please—just stay back!”

But he didn’t. Instead, he began walking toward you, slowly. Like he already knew there was nowhere for you to run.

You pressed further against the wall, your eyes wide, breath caught painfully in your throat. You followed his every movement, the slick black boots splashing through shallow puddles, the gloved hand still gripping the knife.

And then... He stopped. Right in front of you. Before you could scream or run or even think he dropped to his knees.

You froze. Your heart thundered, every nerve screaming that this wasn’t real—this didn’t make sense.

But then he reached up, slowly, and pulled the blood-streaked mask from his face.

Heeseung.

Your breath hitched as your vision spun for a moment.

No. No, it couldn’t be—

But it was.

There he was, kneeling in the rain like a man praying at an altar. His eyes locked on yours, wide. Raw. Desperate.

“Please…” he whispered, barely audible over the downpour. His hands reached out and grabbed the front of your hoodie, gripping it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just—You don’t understand… You never saw what they did to you. You never saw how they looked at you. I was trying to protect you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because everything inside you had suddenly gone quiet. Shocked still. You stared down at him, rain falling in heavy drops between you, soaking your clothes, your hair.

And Heeseung? He looked like he was about to break apart right there on the concrete. “Please don’t be afraid of me,” he whispered again. “I did it all for you.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words felt wrong. Like your voice didn’t belong to you. Like your thoughts couldn’t form fast enough to make sense of anything at all.

Heeseung’s grip on your hoodie tightened, knuckles white, rain dripping from his hair, from his lashes. His eyes never left your face, searching, pleading, trying to read something in you he could hold onto. “I had to,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, broken at the edges. “They hurt you. Every single one of them. Again and again.”

Your lips trembled, but still nothing came out.

“I watched you cry yourself to sleep more nights than I can count.” His eyes dropped to the ground for a breath, then rose again, brighter now, almost fevered. “They used you. Left you. Forgot you. But I never did. I never could.”

You took a shaky step back, but his hands didn’t let go—he followed the movement, still on his knees like a man in prayer. Desperate. Bound. “You’re the only good thing I’ve ever wanted,” he said, the rain making his voice rasp. “Don’t you get it? I didn’t take anything from you. I gave you peace. Safety. I made sure no one could ever hurt you again.”

The words slammed into you like cold water. Heavy. Smothering.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he breathed. “You don’t have to fight for scraps. I’ll give you all of me. Everything you want.” His fingers loosened slightly, but only to slide down your sleeves, clutching your hands now instead, almost trembling. “I did it for you,” he said again, firmer now. “For love.”

And you just stood there. Soaking wet. Frozen. Held in the hands of someone who swear they love you enough to destroy everything else.

Snapping out of whatever trance you were stuck in, your hands pulled back from his like they burned. “No—” you breathed, finally forcing sound out of your throat. “I—I can’t—” Your voice cracked. The words stumbled over themselves. “I can’t think—I can’t—” You shook your head violently, backing up, stumbling over your own feet. “This isn’t love—this isn’t right!”

Heeseung’s face flickered—just for a second—like the sky itself cracked. But he didn’t move.

You decided then and there to run. You sprinted out of the alley like your body finally remembered how to run again, your breath ragged, your legs shaky beneath you. The rain slapped against your skin, but you barely felt it. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Because he didn’t chase you.

Behind you, the street echoed with silence… until it didn’t.

A sound broke through the rain. Not footsteps. Not a shout.

Laughter.

Low at first. Then rising. A hollow, broken sound spilling from the alleyway like something unnatural.

Back there—on his knees, in the rain, face to the sky—Heeseung laughed. Like something inside him had finally snapped.

He crouched lower, curling in on himself, still laughing softly as the mask lay forgotten beside him. “I did it for you…” He whispered to the empty space where you’d once stood. To the shadows, to the night, to the part of you he still believed was his.

“All for you.”

You didn’t stop running until your apartment door slammed shut behind you.

Your fingers shook as you locked it—once, twice, three times—like the extra seconds would keep you safe. Like metal and bolts could hold back everything that had already gotten inside.

You collapsed to the floor, rainwater pooling beneath you. Tears blurred your vision. But for the first time in too long, your mind was clear.

You had to tell someone. And this time—you did.

Your voice trembled as you gave the report, but you didn’t stop. You told the dispatcher everything, the alleyway, the mask, the murders, the name.

“Heeseung. Lee Heeseung.”

They were quiet for only a second on the other end. Then came the response. “We’re dispatching a unit now.”

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn’t. You sat curled on your couch, wrapped in a blanket you couldn’t feel, waiting for the phone to ring. For the sound of boots in the hallway. For something. But nothing came until the next morning.

You didn’t even mean to turn on the TV, your hands moved on autopilot.

And there he was.

Heeseung.

On the screen. Broadcast to the world. Surrounded by armed officers in heavy black gear. His wrists cuffed. Ankles chained. Expression unreadable as he was led down the courthouse steps in slow, measured steps.

The headline blared across the bottom of the screen in bold white text.

“LOCAL MAN CHARGED IN SERIES OF GRUESOME MURDERS — SUSPECT IDENTIFIED AS LEE HEESEUNG.”

Your breath caught when the camera zoomed in—closer, closer—until his face filled the frame. And then… he looked directly into the lens. Not by accident. His eyes found it like a target. And he stared. Dead. Unblinking. As if he were staring through the screen. At you. You froze. The mug in your hands slipped slightly, fingertips growing numb. It hit the table with a dull thunk, but you barely registered it.

The television screen shifted to inside the courtroom—clean, clinical, cold. Cameras weren’t allowed for the full trial, but now the final moments were being broadcast, the judge's voice calm but resolute as he read the sentence.

“Lee Heeseung. You have been found guilty on all counts—fifteen charges of premeditated murder, obstruction of justice, and illegal surveillance.”

You bit your thumbnail hard—so hard it hurt—but you couldn’t stop. Your legs curled tighter beneath you on the couch, the blanket long forgotten.

Fifteen. Fifteen victims. Fifteen names, fifteen lives.

The judge’s voice continued, steady and unwavering. “You are hereby sentenced to life in prison, without the possibility of parole.”

The camera cut to Heeseung being lifted from his chair. He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. He just stared ahead. Emotionless. As if the weight of the sentence meant nothing. As if he expected it.

You leaned forward without realizing it, one hand still at your lips, eyes glued to the screen. You watched him being escorted out—four officers surrounding him, their grips tight on his arms, the heavy courtroom doors swinging open as he disappeared through them.

Just like that.

Gone.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, but you didn’t know if it was from relief or dread. Because while the world had just seen a monster locked away, you had seen the man who’d held your hand. Tucked you in. Whispered things that felt like comfort and turned out to be chains.

The room was suddenly so quiet, you could hear the blood rushing in your ears. And even as the broadcast faded into commentary and speculation, your gaze stayed on the now-empty frame.

You should’ve felt safe. Free.

But all you could think about was how he hadn’t looked angry. Or surprised. He’d looked calm. Like he still had something left to say.

It took years.

Years of therapy. Of waking up in a cold sweat and reminding yourself he wasn’t there. Of flinching at shadows and double-checking every locked door. Of trying to silence the voice that whispered maybe he meant it when he said he loved you. So unlearning what he planted in you took time.

Heeseung had stripped away your independence like it was his right. Isolated you. Softened you into dependence, control masked as care. It had taken everything in you to crawl out of that. But you did.

You started small.

A new job. A new apartment that didn’t creak the same way at night. Learning how to walk home alone again.

You found people. Real people. Ones who asked how you were because they cared, not because they wanted something. Ones who didn’t push when you went quiet. Who stayed, without smothering you.

You made friends—actual friends.

And one day, you realized you’d gone a whole week without checking over your shoulder. Then a month. Then longer.

The panic didn’t disappear overnight, but it dulled. The scars didn’t vanish, but they stopped bleeding.

And eventually, you had something. A life. A future. Yourself. You were learning what it meant to be whole again. Life had finally started to feel normal again.

Your mornings were filled with soft sunlight through kitchen windows, the smell of coffee in the air, and music humming quietly from your phone while you got ready for the day. You didn’t jump at every sound anymore. You smiled more freely, laughed more often. You were blissful.

Until that morning.

You moved through your usual routine with ease—coffee in hand, toast in the other, a blanket draped over your shoulders as you flipped on the television.

Just background noise. Just something to fill the silence. But the silence didn’t stay silent for long.

Your breath hitched when the red headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

“BREAKING: Convicted serial killer Lee Heeseung, also known by his alias ‘Ghostface,’ has escaped from federal prison.”

Your mug slipped from your fingers and shattered on the kitchen floor. You didn’t even look down.You just stared.

The news anchor’s voice droned on above the rising heartbeat in your ears. “Authorities are currently investigating the circumstances of the escape. Lee Heeseung was serving a life sentence for the murders of fifteen confirmed victims. He is considered extremely dangerous. If seen, do not approach—immediately contact law enforcement.”

They showed a still image of him. An old one. One that had haunted your dreams. Blank expression. Dark eyes. Looking right through the camera—through the screen—at you.

Your chest tightened. Your throat went dry.

It couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t be.

But the image didn’t fade. The headline stayed.

And all at once, the warmth of the morning, the peace, the healing, vanished.

You took a deep breath. Then another.

It was fine.

He wouldn’t find you. You had moved across the country—changed your phone number, your address, everything. You kept your social media locked down, erased traces of the past like your life depended on it. Because once, it did.

He’d be caught again.

Right?

That was the thought you clung to as you swept up the broken mug in silence, tossed the shards in the trash, and changed into something clean for work.

You didn’t tell anyone. You never had. No one at your job knew your history. Not the late-night horrors. Not the way Heeseung once made you feel like his world was built around you—only to reveal you were in a cage he’d designed.

The less they knew, the safer they were. And you… you were a private person.

You walked into work like everything was normal. You smiled at the front desk. Clocked in. Answered emails. Laughed quietly at a coworker’s joke in the break room.

No one knew your hands were trembling beneath the desk. No one saw the way your eyes flicked to the door every time it opened.

You told yourself over and over. He won’t find me. He can’t. He’s not here.

But still, even surrounded by people, even in the middle of the day, you felt it. Like a shadow clinging to your spine. Like breath on the back of your neck. That faint, familiar dread that came before everything once went wrong. It settled in your chest like a weight.

You didn’t want to be here. Not this late. Not with the sky already graying, the thick clouds overhead promising rain. You wanted to be home, door locked, curtains drawn. Safe.

But your supervisor had been frantic—overworked, apologetic, but firm. “Please—just a few more files. I’ll owe you one, seriously.”

And like the reliable employee you were, you offered a small, tense smile and nodded. “Sure. I’ll take care of it.”

Because maybe, if you worked faster, got through it all without distraction, you could leave before the worst of the storm rolled in.

You kept glancing at the clock. Every ten minutes. Then every five.

The office slowly emptied. Chairs pushed in. Lights flicked off. Quiet goodbyes hummed around you.

And eventually, you were alone.

You forced your eyes to stay on the screen. Pushed through the work as quickly as you could. Every so often, the lights flickered slightly—old wiring, probably. The kind that always seemed louder when the room was empty.

The clock read 10:12 p.m. You were almost done. Just a little more, and you could finally leave. You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the blur from staring too long at the screen. The office was silent except for the tapping of your keyboard and the low, steady whir of the building’s old HVAC system.

Buzz.

Your phone vibrated against the desk, the sudden noise slicing through the quiet like a knife. You jumped slightly, a chill crawling up your spine as you reached for it.

One new message.

Unknown Number.

And your heart stopped as you read the words.

“Did you miss me, baby?”

Your hand trembled as you slowly lowered the phone.

No. No, no, no—this couldn’t be real. It was a trick. A coincidence. A cruel joke. It had to be.

You hadn’t told anyone. You’d erased everything. You’d buried that part of your life so deep even you barely looked at it anymore. But those words.. Even in text, they pulled something old and cold from the pit of your stomach. Like a door creaking open in the back of your mind that you'd nailed shut years ago. The part of you that still remembered how he used to speak to you. How easily his voice could sound like a promise and a threat at once.

Buzz.

Another message. You didn’t want to look—but your hand moved on its own.

“Ready to come back to me, baby?” “You were so naughty to get me tattle.” “But it’s okay. I’ll pay you back… for all those years I spent behind those bars.”

Your throat tightened. You could barely swallow. The lights in the office flickered again. A hum in the vents above you, like the building itself was holding its breath.

No.

You shook your head, fingers clutching the edge of the desk. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He was taunting you. He wanted you to panic. And you were not going to fall apart.

But your vision blurred, and your chest felt like it was collapsing inward. That familiar feeling, the one where the room feels too small, and every shadow feels like it’s watching you.

You stood up too fast. Your chair scraped loudly against the tile, echoing down the empty corridor, you felt sick, your stomach twisted violently. You didn’t know if it was fear or nausea or both, but suddenly the only thing you could think about was the bathroom.

Somewhere to breathe. To get away. To throw up, anything to feel in control again.

You stumbled down the hall, shoes slipping slightly on the polished floor. The world felt off-kilter, tilting around you with every step. Your breath was too loud in your ears. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pushed the door to the bathroom open with trembling fingers.

And stopped.

Cold.

Right there, on the mirror above the sinks..

Red. Dripping. Smeared with clear, deliberate strokes.

“No one can love you like I.”

The room tilted and for a second, you didn’t know if your knees would hold, and they didnt, you stumbled back a step, your shoulder hitting the doorframe.

It wasn’t paint. You didn’t need to be close to know that. You knew the color. The thickness. The faint, coppery scent already hanging in the air. And worst of all, you knew the handwriting.

You turned on your heel and bolted from the bathroom, shoes slipping slightly on the tile, breath tight in your throat. You ran through the quiet halls, through the glass doors, and into the storm.

The rain hit your skin like needles, soaking you within seconds—but you didn’t stop. You sprinted across the empty lot, and yanked open the driver’s side door of your car. You threw yourself inside, heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape your chest.

Your hands fumbled blindly for your keys. Panic made your vision blur. Come on, come on—where were they?

Knock.

Right by your head.

Your breath caught mid-gasp as your gaze snapped to the window beside you.

A man. Standing still. Soaked hood pulled low over his face, water dripping from his sleeves.

You were already paranoid. Already spiraling. Maybe it was just a stranger. Someone needing help. Someone lost. You told yourself it was fine. Just some random guy.

But then he lifted a hand. Pressed it to the fogged glass.

And slowly...

He breathed out.

The condensation spread across the window. And with one finger, he began to write.

"XO"

Your body froze.

No.No, no, no—

Your fingers went numb.

And then, he slowly pulled back the hood.

It was Heeseung.

Soaked in rain. Hair plastered to his forehead. That same, unreadable look in his eyes.

Like he never left. Like he never would.

And through the glass, he smiled.

Your scream tore through the storm as the car door suddenly yanked open.

You barely had time to react before he was inside, soaked from head to toe, eyes wild even in the dark. “Oh, baby…” he said, his voice low, like he was seeing a ghost he’d missed for years. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You scrambled back across the seat, trying to put space between you, but the car wasn’t big enough. Nowhere near far enough.

He climbed in after you slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “You don’t know how awful prison was,” he murmured, closing the door behind him. “All those days… nights… and not a single one with you.” His presence filled the car. The scent of rain and metal clung to him. Your breath hitched as your back hit the opposite door.

He reached out, not fast, not forceful but like it was natural. Like this was how it was always supposed to be.

You jerked your leg away as his hand grazed your ankle. “Don’t—” you gasped, shaking.

But he tilted his head, eyes soft and strange. “Why are you scared?” he whispered. “I’m here now. Everything’s okay.”

You could feel the panic bubbling in your throat. “You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re not supposed to find me again.”

Heeseung blinked, as if confused by the very idea. And then he smiled, gently, like he was somewhere else entirely. “But I did find you again.”

You swallowed hard, every part of you tense as you tried not to show how your fingers had slowly moved behind your back, toward the door handle. Just a flick. That’s all you needed. Just a second to slip out.

But Heeseung kept talking, eyes locked on you like you were the center of his world. “You can never escape me,” he whispered. “Not my love. Not what we are.” His voice was soft, like a lullaby laced with something beneath. “Every day in there, I thought about you. You made me strong.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering even more. “Strong enough to take over everything. Strong enough to come back to you.”

Your fingers reached the lock. Quiet. Careful.

Click.

Too loud.

Heeseung’s eyes darted to the sound in an instant. And he giggled. Soft, amused. Like a secret had just been told. Then he reached out and, without force, just pulled you closer. As if it were a dance you’d both already agreed to. “I learned so many fun things in prison, baby,” he whispered, nose brushing too close. “I can’t wait to try them all with you.”

You froze.

“But not here.” He looked out the rain-streaked window, expression calm, almost dreamy. “First, we need to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one will disturb us.... Just you and me again. Like it was always supposed to be.” Heeseung turned his gaze back to you, eyes unreadable but locked in place like a magnet. “But first…” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “I need a taste.”

Your breath hitched, confusion and panic colliding in your chest as his hand snapped forward, fingers gripping the back of your neck.

Too fast. Too close.

And suddenly, his face was inches from yours, his lips pressed against yours in a way that wasn't tender, it was possessive. Heavy. Wrong.

Your whole body went stiff, frozen in shock. It didn’t feel like affection. It felt like control. You pulled back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest as your voice cracked, “Stop—don’t!”

Heeseung paused. His grip loosened only slightly as he stared at you, his expression flickering between hurt and obsession. “You always fight it at first,” he said quietly, like it was a memory instead of a moment. “But you’ll remember that you always come back to me in the end.”

The rain beat down harder outside, the storm muffling the sound of your heartbeat as it thundered in your ears. You twisted in your seat, eyes searching the street through the fogged-up windows.

You needed to run. You needed help. Now.

Your mind was racing with how to get out, what to do, what to say but then you felt it. Something cold. Pressed gently, barely touching the base of your throat. Every inch of your body went rigid as your breath caught in your chest.

Heeseung’s expression changed. Gone was the soft smile, replaced by something colder. Disappointed. Almost… tired. “Seems like all the progress we made’s gone,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Years away, and you’ve forgotten everything.” His eyes flicked up to yours, unreadable. “But that’s okay, baby,” he added, voice lighter. “Breaking you down again? That’ll be easy.”

You stared at him, barely blinking, barely breathing. Before you could say anything—before you could even flinch—he leaned forward again. His hands were firm, his presence overwhelming as his lips pressed against yours in a way that was too familiar. You froze, body stiff, mind racing. You didn’t kiss him back—but you didn’t fight him, either. Because of the cold press of metal still hovered at your throat. And in that moment, any resistance felt like a risk you couldn’t afford.

Your eyes squeezed shut as tears slipped down your cheeks—silent, hot. Your fingers trembled at your sides. But it wasn’t just fear rushing through you. It was everything.

The memories. The manipulation. The twisted safety he’d once wrapped you in like a blanket. And underneath it all, something you hated—something deep, buried, long ignored—whispered.

He’s back. He came back for you. He always meant it when he said you were his.

You swallowed down the sob rising in your throat.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand remained hovering near your face, steady, like he still had control—like he always would. “Always so beautiful…” he whispered. “Baby, you are everything to me. And I’ll ruin everyone else who tries to take you away.”

The words twisted something deep inside you. Not just fear. Not just revulsion. But heartbreak. Because no matter how far you’d run, your past had caught up to you. All the trauma you’d buried, the emotions you bottled up, the twisted sense of comfort you once felt in his presence.

It all returned.

You didn’t even realize you were gripping his hoodie until your knuckles turned white. Holding onto him—not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t know what else to do. You were frozen. Trapped in the gravity of something that once felt like safety. “You’re f—fucking insane, Heeseung,” you choked out, your voice shaking.

But he just smiled, like you’d said something sweet. “Ah, ah,” he tutted gently, pressing a finger under your chin. “I’m insane for you, baby. Always have been.”

And then he kissed you again.

Quick. Possessive. Like he believed that if he reminded you of the past, it would pull you back into his orbit.

You didn’t kiss him back.

But for a second, he believed you might.

a/n: yeah no, i hate it. This sucks ass

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@vvenusoncasual @bamguetismee @cristy-101 @lynreiii

[ifyouencounterwolf]

Normalize this normalize that, we as writers and ARTISTS need to normalize NOT to see any critiques/negative feedback of our WORKS as a critique of OURSELVES.

When your work is finished and posted, it is done. It marks the end of a unique creative process and is now by and large independent from you. No matter how much of a magnus opus you think of it, you will be creating something better in the near future. So how would that posted work serve you now? By getting the FEEDBACKS from your readers.

How did that make others feel? Did it do the job of disturbing people or comforting people that you have intended it to do? Do people feel something unintended from your work? Do people feel anything from your work? Those are things as authors, we needed to know about, in order to know more about ourselves, and that's not just about our current skill levels.

Believe it or not, there's no inherently bad feedback, the negative ones are not inherently different from positive ones. They are all. just. feedback. They don't define you as a person, they are not attacking you as a person. Even with the worst kind "I hate this so much hope you kys" you could either ignore or ask how they hate it and where do they hate the most. Hate supply is still supply as my narc self would say.

That is, unless you are creating something for money and engagement/attention, and getting criticized will destroy your so-called celebrity fame and break the illusion that you are a prodigy and you don't need efforts to improve like everyone else on this planet earth. But sis, that's your problem.

Writing is a way of communication and forming a discussion, conversations cannot happen if either side is not allowed to speak freely. That goes for both the bad readers who demand authors to stop writing certain topics that disturb them, and bad writers who demand special treatment from the world simply because they created something for free and they thought they have a certain moral superiority to the "free-loaders".

Yes. You did create something for free and you didn't ask for the criticism. But you did that out of love and passion didn't you? Because as human beings, we are privileged to have this creative mind and this desire to express ourselves through our artworks, we live inside our own world but sometimes we want others to take a look at it and therefore we write something or we draw something and they reflect our thoughts and experiences and imaginations.

So what do our readers owe us? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

No one had this moral obligation to only make compliments and really really really mild suggestions and they still have to live in fear thinking whether the authors are still going to get offended because they interpreted "Looking forward to updates" as a demand or "I thought I wouldn't like it but I did" as a jeer.

Damn, if I'm a reader I would just say FORGET IT. I like it or I don't like it, who cares about my opinion? One wrong word would get me in fandom jail.

Except we do fucking care. Do you know what a purgatory I'm living in when I wrote my heart and soul out and people are just not going to leave anything for me to know how I did?

The readers' silence and uncaring to artists is a much more cruel punishment than their hate.

We have talked so much about "don't like it don't click" as a gotcha for the readers, but how about "don't like it but still give it a chance and tell me about it even if you still don't like it"? Because I trust you as my audience, that you have sufficient levels of media literacy and you have good tastes, and you can engage with artworks responsibly... THAT'S WHY I POSTED IT.

I could have just shown my stuff to only a small friend circle and let them be the judge but I chose to put it out there. Because I wanted it to stir up something so I could engage in conversations with people who only know me through my work and I would prefer it to stay that way. If the conversation is just about my typos and my grammar be it that way. It's still better than nothing.

That being said, we should not make it a consensus that readers need to give only compliments or just shut up. We should make authors themselves decide whether they wanted to be criticized or not. Authors can absolutely set up boundaries on how their works should be engaged, authors could say that "I want feedback but please don't nitpick my grammar or typo" or "this is personal to me/I am a first time writer so please be more gentle with your feedback".

But if you don't say anything then consider your work a free game if you may. See who catches the most of your hidden details and symbolism and see who asks the most annoying questions. Damn. As a writer that would actually be my dream.

not to be controversial bc I know this is like…not in line with shifting opinions on fanfic comment culture but if there’s a glaring typo in my work I will NOT be offended by pointing it out. if ao3 fucks up the formatting…I will also not be offended by having this pointed out…

‘looking forward to the next update’ and ‘I hope you update soon!’ are different vibes than a demand, and should be read in good faith because a reader is finding their way to tell you how much they love it. I will not be mad at this.

‘I don’t usually like this ship but this fic made me feel something’ is also incredibly high praise. I’m not going to get mad at this.

even ‘I love this fic but I’m curious about why you made [x] choice’ is just another way a reader is engaging in and putting thought into your work.

I just feel like a lot of authors take any comment that’s not perfectly articulated glowing praise in the exact manner they’re hoping to receive it in bad faith.

fic engagement has been dropping across the board over the last several years, and yes it’s frustrating but it isn’t as though I can’t see how it happens. comment anxiety can be a real thing. the last thing anyone wants to do is offend an author they love, and that means sometimes people default to silence.

idk where I’m going with this I guess aside from saying unless a comment is outright attacking me I’m never going to get mad at it, and I think a lot of authors should feel the same way. ESPECIALLY TYPOS PLZ GOD POINT OUT MY TYPOS.

[trainer-from-unova]

the rule

Ⓢ english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ

ship: the void x afab!reader x robert reynolds

summary: the rule is simple: a day for bob, the next one for void, over and over again. but void is needy and possessive, and insecure and jealous (even though he would never admit it), so when he decides to not let bob have control of their body you decide to ghost him because he's stealing bob's time with you. huge mistake. if you don't talk to him then he would make you scream.

au: bob and the void are a system

c/w: established poly relationship, poly negotiations, jealousy, arguing, ghosting as a punishment, slight dubcon / cnc (aka consensual sex), makeup sex, unsafe vaginal sex, fingerfucking, finger licking, orgasm delay / edging, implied creampie, praise kink, voice kink, dom/sub undertones, possessive (but in love) void, third person pov

a/n: I'll probably post another version of this, shorter but more angsty like I did with muscle memory and a second, also english isn't my first language and feedback is highly appreciated here or on ao3

word count: 2100

The rule was simple: one day one had control of the body to spend time with their girlfriend, the next day the other one, and so on and so forth. As soon as the alarm went off in the mornings they had to change. It had been five minutes since it went off, and Void was still there.

"Are you so anxious for me to leave?" he asked jokingly when she reminded him that he should hand over control to Bob, provocative as only he knew how but deep down annoyed and jealous.

She looked at him with a grimace as they dressed to leave their bedroom, slightly annoyed but not angry — deep down there was no need to get so upset, it was only a few minutes he had taken from Bob. As long as that was all it was it wouldn't be bad. The problem was that Void wanted to get his way and be the one to enjoy spending time with her on her day off.

"It's Bob's turn to spend the day with me," she said more annoyed when an hour had passed and he was still there instead of him, waiting for the lift to go down and out of the tower.

"I don't care, I want to be with you," he replied, infected by her annoyance. "I don't understand why it bothers you to spend time with me, I'm your boyfriend too."

"I don't mind spending time with you when it's your day, I mind you taking Bob's time," she said as the lift door opened and they stepped inside. "It's unfair and Bob and I have the right to spend time together too," she said pressing the button to go down, not very gently. "I have plans with him today," she said looking straight ahead, staring at the lift door.

"I don't care," he replied, craning his neck in her direction and looking at her the whole time.

"Yeah, of course not," she said sarcastically, crossing her arms, "when have you ever cared about anything?"

The question and especially the tone annoyed Void even more, even offended him. He couldn't believe she was asking him that, and it seemed unbelievable that he had to remind her of it.

"You," he replied, calm but serious at the same time, "I care about you," and as soon as she heard that answer, she closed her eyes and craned her neck in the opposite direction as she grimaced with her mouth — touched and sunken, because as much as it bothered her she knew he wasn't lying and that she was the one who had gone too far with her words. "You're literally the only thing that matters to me, ______. And you're also the only one who cares about me."

That was true too, but still Void kept doing something that was wrong, being selfish like a little kid. She didn't want to repeat herself, she didn't want to get into a loop, but she had to say it again whether she liked it or not, because unlike when Bob was in control of the body and listened to Void in his mind, Bob couldn't do that when he was the one in control. Bob couldn't defend himself, so she had to be his voice.

"...It's Bob's turn to spend the day with me," she said as she opened her eyes, still staring straight ahead as the lift beeped. "Go," she said as the door opened and she stepped out.

"...No," he said seriously as he followed behind her, staring as her back was turned.

He followed her like her shadow all the time, and he thought that her anger would soon pass because he was him and because she was usually a cheerful and positive girl, but he was wrong: she didn't speak to him or look at him, she only let himself hold her hand but for not slapping his hand and for someone to see it, especially some paparazzi. Disadvantages of having become a New Avenger, she had to be careful of absolutely every move she made in public because she had an image to look after and a private life to protect.

In desperation he decided to make her talk in the only way he knew how, to calm her down and make her happy in the quickest way he knew how. When they arrived at the tower, as expected, he followed her and went with her into their bedroom, closing the door behind him with his telekinetic powers — latch included, but apparently she didn't notice, or maybe she decided not to give it any importance as she left her bag on her desk chair.

And apparently she also didn't notice or maybe she also decided not to give it any importance as he unbuttoned his trousers, while she turned her back to him and pulled down her trousers to undress and put on more comfortable clothes to go around the house. She didn't notice how he approached her, grabbing her by the waist to turn her around and grab her, slinging her over his shoulder as if she were a sack that weighed nothing.

"Void! What- What are you doing?" she asked in surprise, but not too confused. It was actually a silly question she asked without thinking. Seeing that he was heading for the bed and that his trousers were starting to fall down around his waist, it wasn't too hard to figure out what he was up to. "Void," she said as he released her onto the bed, "this isn't the best m-," she said as she tried to get out of bed, but he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back down as he settled on top of her.

The door may have been locked, but Void would have let her escape if she really wanted to. She could have easily escaped his grasp, even without being trained to do so. She could also have attacked him or tried to immobilise him. But she did nothing, and let him bring his right hand quickly to her crotch, slipping it inside her panties to start touching her. What he noticed there surprised him as well as pleased him.

"Oh, then why are you so wet?" He asked teasingly as he caressed her lips with his fingers, smiling as she tried to look in another direction, frowning as well as blushing, embarrassed. "How long have you been like this? Is it because of my presence?" he asked craning his neck, a mannerism he always did when he was enjoying humiliating someone. "Look at me," he commanded now, much more serious and threatening. "Answer me."

She nodded silently and slowly, connecting their gazes for a second before turning away again, embarrassed and annoyed. But all that would be short-lived, he would make sure those feelings would disappear. Though deep down he liked her playing hard to get, it made him feel more special when he got what he wanted.

"Use your voice," he ordered as he slipped his fingers inside her.

"Yeah," she said as she nodded her head again, a little faster now.

The moment he had his fingers deep inside her he began to move them up and down at high speed, making her scream and writhe in pleasure. She put her hands to her mouth to try to silence herself while also trying to close her mouth and bite her lip, but even if he hadn't grabbed her wrists and pulled them over her head it would have been impossible — he was fucking her mercilessly.

"You move too much," he said slightly annoyed that he had to restrain her. He would have preferred to lift her shirt with the hand that was pinning her down to see her tits, apart from the fact that she sometimes unintentionally closed her legs a little. Her eyes were also closed. "Look at me," he ordered seriously, and she obeyed, "I'm better than Robert," he said trying to convince her, but deep down he was trying to convince himself. "Say it!"

"You're b-better than Bob! You're the best, at everything!"

"You've got a favourite and that's me, right?"

"Yeah!" she moaned as he arched her back.

"Good girl."

"Please-!"

But soon after that he stopped dead in his tracks. Even if she didn't moan that she was about to cum it was obvious, he could feel her pussy throbbing, clinging to his increasingly wet fingers — he stopped too close, to make her even more desperate. On the one hand he wanted to show her that he was better than Robert, to calm her down and make her happy, but on the other hand he also wanted to punish her, torturing her even if it wasn't in the same way she had tortured him during the day. Besides, watching her writhe in pleasure beneath him as she sobbingly begged him to continue, plus the way she sobbed when she felt him stop at the worst possible moment, were scenes almost as satisfying as his own orgasm.

When he stopped masturbating her he released her and made her lick his fingers clean, sliding his fingers along her tongue careful not to make her gag as he stared hungrily and intently at her. Then, as she caught her breath he ordered her to undress while he did the same, quickly removing his clothes from his upper body and pulling down his boxers to free his erect penis.

"Do you want this?" he asked as he grabbed his cock, pulling him close and settling down to stroke her entrance with his wet tip, mixing her flow with his pre-seminal fluid.

"Yeah please," she moaned eagerly. She needed more, she felt empty without him inside her.

She tried to stifle another moan as he thrust his member in without any gentleness, failing in the attempt and clutching his shoulders tightly with her shaky hands. He didn't flinch, just watched her facial expression. And he had no patience for letting her insides get used to him, but because he knew she didn't need to. She moaned again as he began to move back and forth, keeping her hips firmly gripped.

He began to ram into her, harder and faster, making her moan louder and more frequently. Now you could also hear the springs of the mattress and box spring hitting the wall, and his hips against hers. He loved the sensation of making himself hollow between her throbbing, wet walls, and so did she. But most of all he loved her moans and the things she said, hearing how she confirmed how much she liked it and begged for more. It made him feel wanted, it made him feel loved and accompanied.

"Say you love me more than him," he ordered her.

"I- I love you more- more than him!" she replied.

Her back began to arch against the mattress again, sobbing. Void was ramming into her so hard and fast that her whole body shook with each thrust, and she didn't know how he hadn't broken the bed yet.

"Fill me, please!" she begged, her breath hitching and her voice getting higher and higher. She was about to cum, it was obvious. "Please please please!" she said begging for more and at the same time for mercy as she felt a heat forming in her lower abdomen going down. "I need it, I need you!"

"That's my girl," he said smirking. He gladly complied and grabbed her to keep her from moving or unintentionally separating, feeling her pussy begin to clench against his cock.

"Yes please please, use me, I'm yours!" she cried, and lucky for her, he listened to her: he came inside her at the same time she did, mixing their fluids completely and making her lose her mind as she writhed and screamed with pleasure, while he grunted and ended up lying on top of her, satisfied in many ways. He heard from her lips everything he wanted to hear and got what he wanted again, getting his way.

"I love you, and I swear it..." He said in her ear as he pulled back — as she caught her breath she thought he would pull out of her, pulling out of her to let his cum out. He always loved to see how well he filled her, but when there was just a little left to get his cock all the way out he thrust into her again, making her moan again and cling tightly to him. "Someday you'll be all mine, just mine."

© trainer-from-unova / alicent burton | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[venusveil]

Unpopular opinion

(about the zodiac placements)

[⚠️ Disclaimer: This post contains mature content. Viewer discretion advised.]

☃︎Virgo Moons aren't clean freaks — they’re just emotionally constipated with a label maker.

☃︎Scorpio Risings don’t intimidate people — they just look like they hate everyone (including themselves).

☃︎Someone said Leo Moon Needs attention like plants need sun. And I gasped dramatically. (a Leo Moon)

☃︎Pisces Rising doesn’t have “aesthetic” — they have main character delusions with a blurry filter.

☃︎Libra/Scorpio is loyal... but only when they feel like you’re giving them main character energy. If not? Bye.

☃︎Pisces Mercuries will lie to your face cry about it and then forget they even did it.

☃︎Sagittarius Venuses don’t fear commitment — they fear boredom. Yes, that includes you babe.

☃︎Venus in Aquarius has Detachment kink. Will have you in a situationship for 3 years and call it “energy exchange.” Wants to be your partner, best friend, cult leader, and FBI agent.

☃︎ A Mars in Leo partner Will f*ck you like it’s an Olympic sport and expect a 10/10 review. Gets angry if you don’t moan their name like a prayer.

☃︎I’ve got Sagittarius Mercury in the 3rd — anytime something bad, good, or nostalgic hits me, I write. Been journaling since I was 9, mostly about people and how I see them.

☃︎Gemini Suns are not two-faced — they just have 87 tabs open and one of them is definitely plotting.

☃︎Libra Risings don’t flirt they’re just trying to survive awkward social tension by being extra friendly.

☃︎Cancer Suns aren’t sweethearts — they’re passive-aggressive historians of every wrong ever done to them.

☃︎Mars in Gemini will talk you into a threesome, ghost you, then DM you a month later like nothing happened.

☃︎Cancer Mars is horny for emotional danger. If it doesn’t feel like a toxic situationship. they’re not turned on.

☃︎Venus in Leo gets off on jealousy. Flirting in front of their partner is foreplay not betrayal.

☃︎Virgo Venus is secretly into degradation kink but will judge your grammar mid-hookup.

☃︎Aries Mercury wants to argue just to get horny. “I hate you” = “Take your pants off.” hehe.

☃︎Aquarius Mars will ghost you mid-sex to “reconnect with their higher self.”

☃︎Libra Sun will pretend they’re innocent but their search history says otherwise. The first time I met my best friend (she's a libra) I literally thought she was the most innocent person ever. In reality she's far away from innocence.

☃︎Taurus Moon doesn’t care about your feelings unless you’re in their bed and brought snacks. Preferably both.

☃︎Capricorn Venus doesn’t fear love — they fear looking stupid for loving someone.

☃︎Libra Mercury isn’t a good communicator — they just know how to dodge accountability with charm.

☃︎I don’t hate Geminis — I actually love them.Except the ones with Pisces mixed in.Those are lying, manipulative chaos goblins. Sorry not sorry.

☃︎Sagittarius Moon isn’t deep — they just trauma-dump and leave.

☃︎Scorpio Mercury doesn’t keep secrets — they collect yours.

☃︎Aquarius Sun – Thinks they’re mysterious but just avoidant and allergic to real connection.

☃︎One thing about Aquarius: they’ll treat their friends like family, but stay emotionally detached from their actual family.

☃︎Libra Moon – Can’t process their own emotions, but gives everyone else therapy

☃︎Libra & Taurus placements do love beauty, but will still date the most questionable-looking people ever.

Libra/Taurus Venus or Mars, though? Nah. We need to be visually obsessed. I’m a Libra Venus & Mars — tried dating someone I wasn’t into ended up isolating myself.

☃︎Scorpio Sun + Leo Moon They will watch your story 5x, analyze your texts, and never admit it. These baddie falls first. But they’ll die before telling you. (I'll die single but never admit that I've crush on you.)

.

.

.

[batsandbirdbrains]

Okay but I want a post-Spyral fic like

The one where Nightwing flinches whenever Batman raises a hand

Dick is just always convinced that Bruce is going to hit him. That if Dick does something he doesn’t agree with, he’ll hit him to get him back in line. He gets nervous when Bruce raises his voice, in and out of costume. He rarely visits the manor, because his brothers are all mad at him anyway and think that Dick willingly faked death. They don’t even know that he actually died. They don’t understand why Dick can hardly eat solid food and why he can’t swallow pills at all anymore without having a panic attack.

The only one who wants to be around him anymore is Damian. Damian is the only one who doesn’t call him a liar, who isn’t mad at him. Damian misses him, visits him in Blüdhaven all the time, tells the others off whenever they start complaining or saying mean things about Dick.

And Dick takes Damian out for ice cream mostly when he visits, because he can let the ice cream melt on his tongue, he doesn’t have to swallow it while it’s still hard. Dick practically lives off of soup and smoothies and cereal that’s soaked in milk so long it becomes a soggy slop. Whenever he attends dinner at the manor (and it rarely happens these days, only when Damian really begs), he picks at his food and pushes it around his plate. Damian is the only one who realizes he’s not actually eating. And Alfred, of course, but Alfred knows the truth, and he just doesn’t know how to help, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to it if it will make Dick upset.

Dick relies heavily on the OG Titans, who all rally around him, because they’re the only ones Dick tells the whole story too. And none of them ever really liked Bruce all that much, they all saw the bruises Dick used to show up to the tower with after spending time with the Bat.

When Jason asks in a snarky voice why Roy is still hanging around with Dick after everything he did, Roy shuts it down quick.

“He’s my friend,” Roy says defensively. “And I know how shitty of a dad Bruce is, so I won’t buy into whatever story he told the rest of you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jason demands.

“Why don’t you ask Dick yourself?”

Jason forgot that Roy was Dick’s friend first, that they have a whole history Jason will never know the entirety of. But calling Bruce a shitty dad? He knew the OG Titans didn’t like Batman, but he never knew the full reason why. He’d never really asked. Maybe it was time to.

And maybe he and Tim show up to Dick’s apartment unannounced one day, but Dick is having a bad day. He’s been having a few bad days, and Donna has been staying with him because the others are all worried about him. And they find their brother practically catatonic on the floor of his apartment living room being held tightly by Donna, who’s rocking him and whispering stories in his ear from when they were young and reckless and ridiculous. Garth is in the kitchen making soup, because they all know Dick won’t eat anything else right now, if he’ll be able to keep anything down at all. Roy and Wally aren’t there, the boys all take turns staying with Donna in shifts. They try to get Donna in on the rotation, but she refuses to leave Dick’s side until he’s better.

“Get out,” she hisses at them quietly, glaring at them as they stand in the doorway. “He’s in no mood to see you right now.”

“What right do you have-”

“We’re the Wonder Twins, remember?” she asks, her voice full of snark. “I have every right.”

Garth turns the stove down and covers the pot, then goes to escort them out of the building.

“He’s having an episode,” he tells them gently. “He wouldn’t want you to see him like that.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Tim asks.

“That’s for him to decide if he wants to tell you, not me. Just go home. Please.” But before they leave, Garth gives them a hard look. “But you’ve given him nothing but grief since he came back. Don’t expect him to open up right away.”

“He lied to us!”

“Did he?” Garth asks them, and it makes them both falter. “Or did someone else lie about him to you?”

The two look at each other before turning back to Garth, who rolls his eyes.

“There’s a reason the original Titans could never stand Batman,” Garth tells them, letting out a huff of a laugh. “Maybe start there.”

What happens after that? No idea! I just like the angst of it all.

[bonediggercharleston]

That is nitpicking a tangent when the actual point was that people are aware of how easy it is for them to cheat so they are statistically more likely to do it. Address that, not the word "advertised" which is just accurately describing how people are being made aware of AI. If you want to say I lost you at the mention of advertising and public awareness, I do not think you are actually trying to follow. Reminder that you started with: "This is what people actually do." Not personal choice but a declarative statement of "this is how students do research with chatGPT". When I listen to teachers they complain about phony essays being handed in.

That was a tangent, checking results is not relevant to this conversation, which is about practicing skills which chatGPT atrophies by doing it for you. You are using it as a search engine but have not demonstrated any superior quality of chatGPT as a search engine, except it gets things wrong pretty often.

Actually OpenAI has started it's largest funding round ever, which means they are asking for more money. Their methods are hyperscaling, which is an increase in capability but the gains are disproportionate to cost. Their new models are being pushed back and not seen to be as big a jump as from 3.5 to 4. They are more in debt than ever. I am not aware of the cost per token going down or the subscription prices going down. Even "cheap" versions like deepseek which are cheaper to train have higher consumption in return. Any claims of it getting cheaper while the market leader got more expensive (the longer GPT5 takes to be released the more expensive it will be) and more addled with debt are dubious. This is magically hoping the tech will beome something it is not. It is a counterfactual and you cannot tell me when it will get profitable because nobody knows if LLMs are even the future of AI. This was a tangent though, the discussion was about ChatGPT atrophying your mental skills.

absolutely negligable, most PCs run all day and the AI compute centers consume orders of magnitude of energy more than most countries. The energy consumption is one of the externalities that make LLMs are really harmful technology, but again, the point here is that ChatGPT will make you a worse thinker if you use it to brainstorm, even in your very personal idealized, individual way of doing things which ignore larger societal scopes that OP was talking about.

It is not in anybody's favor, it is a caution against using easy parallels like you are doing, which are historical anecdotes. the research on the effect on people is clear: use your mental faculties less, and they get worse.

I am a millennial too and uh no, there was no backlash, those things got almost universally adopted. Most people talked about how great they were and apple sold millions of them, immediately making profit. And again, irrelevant anecdote with no connection to AI. You are pretending that because a new technology had a breakthrough, this next one will and that is just a complete fallacy. The commonality is that you think it is useful, which is just an opinion.

Shifting goalposts by claiming the 2 year old data is too old instead of finding data to contradict it. Did churn rate change on git repositories? Was it because AIs got better or because the amount of people using copilot changed? You would not know because you assume the data exists to prove your point, but you did not provide it to prove it.

An economic bubble is not the same thing as an apocalypse and AI is in a bubble now. This is another instance of strawmanning. WE have had several economic bubbles pop in our lifetimes. Also hella way to answer a hypothetical: "It wouldn't happen".

"It is a personal choice to let your brain atrophy." The state of AI bros, ladies and gentlemen. Ignorance is freedom. That is fascist thought. Just straight up. No critical thinking, just "well if they wanna be bad at critical thinking let them". I have to share a world with them. People can not know things, that is normal, but willful ignorance is malicious. You have made an argument in favour of cognitive impairment of human beings and that is the stupidest things I ever heard. There is very little personal choice in this because you deciding to be stupid in a society inflicts your choice upon society. If it affects others it is not personal. Sure you can use chatGPT to think for you but the problem is that GPTs are math-illiterate calculators that are worse at thinking like humans and real calculators are just really good at solving math.

Okay, I say AI should not replace any other tool for writing cause it sucks. Because people are smarter without it. Also all the other tangentially mentioned reason.

"Abstaining from AI will make me look like a douche". That conclusion is non-sense. As for the rest, you clearly used ChatGPT for research, not your opensource project. clearly one works better. and that's the problem: everybody uses it for free, nobody wants to pay for it. that's why they lose money. that's why the bubble will pop. cause if you have to pay for it you could just google shit again.

this one is easy: plato was wrong because writing records works differently from memorization and writing shit down actually helps memorization. chatGPT does not help memorization, it does not help you develop cognitive abilities. it does the work that would let you develop your thinking skills.

a final strawman. i said people do work only if they like to or if they need to. which is why people will use short cuts for work they don't like. and the easier the shortcuts, the more people will use them. which is the original point you got wrong. that ties a nice bow on it, don't it?

"what did students do before chatgpt?" well one time i forgot i had a history essay due at my 10am class the morning of so over the course of my 30 minute bus ride to school i awkwardly used by backpack as a desk, sped wrote the essay, and got an A on it.

six months later i re-read the essay prior to the final exam, went 'ohhhh yeah i remember this', got a question on that topic, and aced it.

point being that actually doing the work is how you learn the material and internalize it. ChatGPT can give you a short cut but it won't build you the the muscles.

[henry7931]

Waking Up As a Stranger

Joey:

“What the— where am I?”

The last thing I can remember was right before falling down a flight of stairs. This guy and I bumped into eachother and ended up tumbling down… and then I think I blacked out…

Actually the more I think about it— I remember the dream I had right afterwards.

I was floating outside of my body… it so surreal seeing myself… and I saw the guy as well. Our bodies were on the ground together. So I panicked and rushed into my body….

But wait—where am I at right now? I feel kinda funny.

I look around and then this nice looking guy comes running over.

“Baby you’re awake!,” he says to me.

“Baby?”

“Yeah honey, it’s me your husband Jacob!”

“Husband?”

That’s when a doctor comes in and says, “Dr. Hasan! You’re awake!”

Wtf? Who is this guy saying he’s my husband and why did that doctor just call me a doctor— that’s when I notice my hands.

They’re big thick masculine hands covered with black hair. I look down and see my chest…

I have dark chest hairy…this isn’t my chest…

I run my fingers down it, this feels so unreal. Maybe I am still asleep?

“Oh I’m sorry Jacob, Pete maybe experiencing some slight amnesia. Good thing is that should wear off soon.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry for just coming in like that. I was just o excited to see that he woke up so quickly.”

“It’s okay! Just give him a second.”

The doctor and Jacob walk closer to the door. I close my eyes and say to myself softly, “wake up…”

“So what about that kid he bumped into? Is he okay?,” I hear Jacob ask.

Kid? Oh shit! They’re talking about me!

“Yes he’s okay! Left with his family 30 minutes ago, what’s strange is that he also had slight amnesia. Kept saying he knew me…”

“Huh, that’s really weird.”

My body’s gone??? And this guy— Pete, is in my key? That’s when I sit up and immediately see a mirror of myself. Only to confirm what I already knew— I’m the guy who I fell down the stairs with…

Hold on… that means that wasn’t a dream earlier… I floated into the wrong body!!!

I get out of bed and both the Doctor and Jacob rush over to me.

“Pete, take it slow,” says the doc.

“I’m feeling fine now, I want to go home,” I say to him.

“Pete baby, come on and listen to him,” says Jacob.

I sit back down and the Doc runs a bunch of tests on me.

What was strange was that he asked me personal questions— and somehow I knew this guys birthday and his parents names…

“Well he seems to be good, just take it easy today.”

We leave the hospital and we get to Jacob’s BMW X7. Nice car I thought…

I wanted to go find my body so bad but I knew that would be hard to do right now.

As we’re driving, Jacob grabs my hand and holds it firmly. I found it kinda comforting even if he’s a strange to me.

I study his face, he’s handsome. The kind of guy I’d hope to marry when I’m this age.

“You scared me today,” he said to me.

“Sorry,” I say back.

“It’s okay, I’m just happy you’re okay.”

We pull up to a giant beach front property. My eyes get huge… is this there house???

Don’t get me wrong my parents are well off but this kind of property in southern Florida is insane! So I guess this body is super rich!

We head inside and Jacob gets me to sit down on the couch.

I kick off my shoes and stair down at the big manly feet that now belong to me. I wiggle my toes and smirk at them.

I feel a slight amount of excitement rush through me. These feet are so hot and I control them…

I run my new hands around my thighs… shit… I wonder…

I open up my pants and I gasp! Surrounded by a lovely trimmed dark bush was thick cock sitting at around 6 inches in length soft.

Man, now that I want to try out! I close my pants as I hear Jacob come back up.

“So we are off for the week, obviously your work knows that after I talked to your boss.”

My work— I’m an orthopedic surgeon. I specialize in trauma and that guy earlier is one of my best buds… Wait! This guys memories are starting to come to me.

Lifts up my feet and sits down placing them on his lap.

He starts rubbing my feet and it feels so good. I watch him and notice something… I’m turned on right now.

Jacob lifts one foot up and kisses my toes. I bite my lip watching him…

I look down at his bare feet… fuck he has some sexy toes too. Actually a lot about him is sexy… his feet, legs, face, beard, the warmth in his smile, his dick…

Memories of being in bed with him rush through my mind…. Fuckkk… he’s so good in bed. Atleast that’s how Pete remembers…

Tbh in my actual body I’ve only dated one guy and I don’t even know if that even qualifies. It’s tough being a 19 year old scrawny guy who’s so unsure about the world. The only time I’ve ever hooked up with someone was from a sketchy one night Grindr hookup.

Kinda freaked me out…

But Jacob is sooo different from anything he’s kissing my feet and telling me how or Pete… idk that he’s so happy he gets to kiss them and how much he loves me.

“I love you too baby,” I say back to him.

I take my other foot and rub it on his crotch. He grins and says, “oh so you are feeling better.”

“Yeah I think so,” I say biting my lip.

He rubs his hands up my think hairy legs… I feel his hand reach into my pants and he grabs my dick.

“You’re so hard right now,” he says grasping it and gently jerking me.

“Well yeah I have a hot husband,” I say back.

He climbs over to me and pulls me in. We start making out.

I run my hands all over him and he pulls back.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom.”

We both head to the bedroom kissing and taking off a piece of clothing every step.

I look over both of our naked bodies… his cock… my cock…

I’m a handsome Doctor with an incredible handsome husband. Maybe I don’t need to worry about finding my body today… or tomorrow…

We crash into the bed and now Jacob is all I’m thinking about…

He climbs on top of me and pulls lube out of the drawer.

He rubs it on my cock and his hole.

He leans down and says softly, “finger me baby.”

I gently insert two fingers into him and he lets out a moan. I finger his hole for a minute before he says, “I’m ready.”

Jacob grabs my cock and works it in. It’s so warm inside of him. Jacob does so much of the work, he’s literally riding my dick. I have my hand on his jerking him off.

Both of us are moaning, loudly!

We keep kissing and repeating I love you to one another. And right now , I do feel like I love him.

More flashback come back… oh god, Pete was having an affair with Jacob… why would he do that???

It’s been months since we’ve… that’s when all of there relationship rushed through my head…

A tear goes down my face and I say, “I love you so much Jacob!”

“I love you too Pete!”

Both of us moan loudly as we cum in unison. My pours so much cum into him while his dick gets all over my chest, hand, and face.

Both of us are panting and I taste his cum.

Jacob climbs off of me and curls into me. I wrap my arms around him and say, “I’m sorry.”

He looks a little confused.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t done that sooner with you. You’re my everything Jacob.”

He pulls me in closer.

“It’s okay, I’m sorry too. Maybe we can make up for that this week.”

“Well you wanna go to the beach or the pool?,” I say with a grin.

“I don’t care but let’s order out tonight.”

“Deal,” I say giving him a kiss.

Both of us go out of bed and head to the shower. We bathe together washing off our cum covered selves.

It’s so hot getting to rub soap on his cute hairy butt.

We dry off and grab a speedo out of my drawer.

I take a photo of myself really just admiring my new body. Gosh, I hope Pete doesn’t want his body back…

I walk outside and Jacob’s already laying out.

“Did you already jump in?,” I ask him.

“Yeah, couldn’t help it!”

Man, I can’t wait to fuck him again tonight!

Meanwhile…

Pete:

I was initially freaked out waking up in this body! But something about being 19 years old again is so sexy!

And I can actually just be single, not have to worry about work, or anything stressful.

Hell, with my knowledge and this youth— I’ll be an unstoppable doctor this round. And I’ll actually have time to party this round!

I pull off my shorts and touch the perky cute cock between my new legs. Ohhhh it’s so sensitive!

I pull off one of my socks and bring up the soft foot up to my face. I take a deep breath into my sole.

“Fuckkkk…”

I gingerly toy with my dick and pull out my phone. I redownload Grindr and set the location for the closest college university.

I wanna fuck a frat guy tonight!

As I gently tease my new dick, all I can think about is that I sure that Joey likes my body— because I want to keep his!

[tojisteddy]

Keegan P Russ, who just loooooves pushing you to the limit when he’s fucking you.

Definitely the type to fuck you stupid, until you brain is coming out your ears like water. Thrusting into you sloppy cunt with vigor, arching your back further so you could feel every inch of his swelling cock, his mushroom tip hitting the hilt of your cervix again, and again, and again. Bulging out of your stomach every time he bottoms out, having you cumming till your limbs are bones.

All you can do is take it, let him say whatever is on his mind, it’s not like you can actually form a sentence anyway, you’re babbling right back to his cocky words.

“You love this shit don’t you baby?”

“Love it sooo much keegan.”

“Wanted to fuck me so bad, now you can’t even think, where’s all that back talk Dollface?”

“I- augh- I can’t- so much Keee, was wrong, hngh-”

“Makin a fuckin mess all over cock, so fuckin wet.”

“Hicc- ugh- feels so- mmh- feels sho gooood, ‘m sorry.”

“So perfect, only for me right?” His hand will come down on your pulsing clit, rubbing in small circles to get you to let out a pornographic moan, “Gonna cum all over Daddy’s dick, huh baby girl, make my dick all pretty?”

He likes to push it, see if you’re willing to bite. Hook, line—

“Yes! Aungh- Wanna- shit- wanna make Daddy pretty,”

Sinker.

There’s a pause, just the sound of your joint heavy breathing, and then just as you’d almost gained your composure, maybe even let an apology of some sort sitting on your tongue— he’s slamming back into you harshly with a every meaner slap to the ass. Not letting you think so much.

He can’t help the laughter that escapes his lips, his ditzy little thing, “Thaaats it kid! Come on, fuck your sweet Daddy back won’t you.”

[demigod-shenanigans]

I’ve had a convo about the teasing line with another person in the replies before, but that’s not how I personally interpret it! Leo pointing out Jason doesn't tease him is something that’s very specific to this situation because it’s a situation he feels vulnerable/embarrassed about due to past experiences. It’s not that Leo minds teasing in general. Leo teases people all the time and also makes fun of himself plenty as a coping mechanism. It’s normal that other people will tease him back a little in return, and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Plenty of friendships include mutual teasing, and that’s fine as long as it’s not malicious and you know what boundaries not to cross (General example here: I feel like Piper may joke about Leo being married to his tools because he disappears into the workshop so much (which is a joke I can even see Leo leaning into for the bit), but she wouldn't stark cracking jokes about his mom, for obvious reasons.)

Leo has teasing relationships with a lot of people. And that’s not a bad thing. But joking things off is kind of his thing. Leo isn’t usually the guy who goes “hey, don’t joke about specific thing X because it’s something I feel insecure about or have made bad experiences with in the past”. He would probably much rather explode himself a second time. And him not talking about his past experiences outside of jokes (in this specific case: the bad experiences he made at foster homes), there’s no way for other people to know this is something he feels insecure about. Him laying there hugging a statue probably did look kind of ridiculous. If someone else had walked in and made a joke about it, it probably wouldn’t have been with malicious intent.

But Jason can read Leo better than anyone else does. He picks up on his insecurities and his coping mechanisms and small changes in his behavior that no one else notices. (My favorite example of this: the fact that, post-Calypso, Jason immediately picks up on the fact that something is wrong with Leo because he’s not fidgeting and he remembers Leo doesn’t drink coffee so him drinking coffee now strikes him as weird/concerning. And then he also immediately knows Leo won’t want to have that conversation in front of the others, so he decides to pull him aside later, when they’re alone.)

And like, considering past experiences, the fact that Jason can read Leo like that should terrify him. He deflects and doesn’t talk about stuff because he can’t stand to be vulnerable in front of other people. But Jason sees him. And he treats him gently. And he doesn’t have to be told which boundaries not to cross (which, in some cases, are stuff Leo just isn’t ready to verbally get into) because he knows Leo well enough that he’s able to tell without Leo having to say anything at all. And it’s a relief. It’s comforting. Leo likes having a person who just sees him and can tell when he’s having a vulnerable moment without him having to admit it out loud. (So, yeah, I do think that bit is gay as hell, I don’t think it fundamentally means all of Leo’s other friends are garbage, though.)

The bit where Leo is describing Jason is even funnier because in Mark of Athena Leo had a section where he’s narrating going “I usually don’t pay attention to the way guys look, probably because I hang out with Jason”. Followed immediately by a description of what Jason looks like and how girls don’t notice him because Jason is being so attractive in his general vicinity. I adore this little train wreck bisexual.

Leo. Genuine question. How much time did you spend staring at Jason’s lips to figure that one out?

[nhmkhnh]

PAIRINGS: VI X FEM!READER

PREFACE: she ran every calculation, analyzed every outcome— but still couldn’t predict how fucking wrecked you’d make her feel.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: haha i'm back, but nah i remake that loser!vi draft into this thang, yeah.

TAGS: nsfw content · nerd!vi · loser!vi · pervert!vi · possessive!vi · subtext turned explicit · sexual tension · lap sitting · wet dreams · public horniness · accidental touching · strap-on use · vi has zero chill · dirty thoughts and dumber reactions · from moans to mayhem · reader teasing turns vi feral · first time breaking point · horny academic breakdown · dom!vi activation · glasses stay ON · vi says “fuck it” and fucks you.

vi always volunteers to help you review for finals—not because she’s a genius, but because she wants an excuse to sit close. she's that type of nerd who prints out a whole custom cheat sheet in color-coded tabs, highlights things that "might come up," and lowkey loses her train of thought every time your hand brushes hers while reaching for a pencil.

you don’t even notice what she’s doing half the time—but vi? vi is dying quietly.

she’s perched on the edge of her bed, glasses slipping down her nose, hoodie sleeves half-pulled over her fingers as she tries to explain the difference between two formulas. but you lean over to look at her notes, and your shirt slips just an inch. just enough to show your collarbone.

her mouth goes dry.

her voice cracks halfway through a sentence.

“…so if you, um… you d-derive it here…” she coughs and violently turns her face away, pretending to look for her water bottle. “shit. uh. sorry. lost my place.”

you giggle. "you're so red right now."

vi literally cannot breathe. she’s gripping her pen like it’s a lifeline and trying not to imagine things she should not be imagining while you sit there looking like that in her room.

if only you knew the shit she writes in her private notebook later. like how she described your laugh as "effortless dopamine" and rated the way you chew gum a 9.5 on the vi-can’t-focus scale.

oh, and every time you call her smart?

she walks into a wall within the next 15 minutes. without fail.

okay no, listen—vi's not a total creep (or so she tells herself). she’s just… a victim. a victim of your instagram story from last summer, when you were lounging poolside in that sinfully tight two-piece, sipping iced tea with your sunglasses slid low on your nose.

she screenshotted it. without hesitation. then panicked and threw her phone across the room like it burned her fingers.

then… she picked it up. opened it again. zoomed in. cropped out the background. stared for like, a solid minute.

and renamed the file “notes3.pdf” to hide it in her study folder.

vi knows it’s wrong. she knows it’s bad. but gods, it’s 2am and she’s lying in bed, sweaty and flushed and biting the edge of her pillow because that picture of you won’t leave her head. she’s got one hand shoved under the waistband of her sleep shorts, muffling her whimpers with her hoodie sleeve like you’ll hear her through the walls.

the image is so burned into her brain she doesn’t even need to open the folder anymore. all she has to do is close her eyes and pretend your thighs are around her head, your voice breathy and teasing: "what would your little nerd friends say if they saw you like this, huh?"

and every time she comes? she whispers your name into the dark like a secret. like a prayer. then immediately opens a new tab to delete the image. (but she never does.)

she swears she didn’t mean to do it.

you left it behind one day—just a little pink tube, tossed at the bottom of her bag after study group. you’d even said, “you can keep it, i’ve got like five.” but vi didn’t throw it out. she didn’t return it. she just… looked at it. a lot. thumbed the cap. rolled it up to see the worn-down curve of the balm where your lips had pressed.

then she opened it.

took a deep breath.

it smelled like strawberry and sin.

the first time she tried it, she was alone in her room, curled up in her hoodie, laptop on her thighs—but she couldn’t stop staring at the tube. like it dared her. so she twisted it up and dragged it across her lips, slow. pretending it was you doing it. pretending you were leaning down, whispering, “hold still, baby, let me take care of you…”

she got so worked up from just that thought, she had to shove her laptop off her legs and grind into her pillow like a desperate, useless virgin who’d never been touched before. and let’s be honest—she kinda hasn’t.

now it’s routine. every night. lights off. chapstick on. fingers in. you in her head.

sometimes she gets bold—leans back in her desk chair, spreads her legs, one hand down her sweats and the other gripping the damn chapstick like she’ll die if she drops it. whimpering out “fuck—fuck, please, please—“ to no one but the air.

when she comes, her thighs shake. and the chapstick’s still there. resting on her chest like a trophy. like it owns her.

and it kind of does.

vi thought she was being quiet. thought the pillow stuffed against her mouth and the gentle whirr of her desk fan would cover it. she was wrong.

it was just another night—2:43am, hoodie halfway stripped, the room dim and warm, the air tasting like sweat and shame. she was on her back, legs bent, one hand down her sleep shorts, the other gripping the edge of her blanket like it could keep her from falling apart.

you’d texted her earlier: “sleep tight, nerd 💛” and that was it. that was all it took.

now every time her fingers slip against her clit, her brain plays out imaginary scenes of you calling her that—“nerd”—but in a voice all breathy and mean and teasing. like you’re on top of her, straddling her, watching her fall apart.

and this time?

this time she just… lost control.

she was so close, she didn’t even realize her voice was rising— didn’t even catch it when her lips parted and she moaned, "f-fuck—… please—don’t stop—"

then a cough. a loud-ass, unmistakable cough from the other side of the room.

her whole body locked up. wide-eyed. palm still buried between her legs.

roommate: “…you good, dude?”

vi: "…yep. just—bad dream."

the silence that followed was biblical.

she didn’t move for ten minutes. just laid there, hand still wet, face on fire, heart slamming so hard against her ribs she thought she might throw up.

next morning? roommate didn’t say a word. but vi swears she caught them smirking when you came over later, all sunshine and oblivious charm, giving vi a hug while she stood stiff and red and sweating.

it started off innocent—summer heat, library ac busted, both of you sweating through your shirts after walking across campus. you stopped by a corner shop, bought two cones, handed one to vi without a second thought.

she didn’t even lick hers.

because the second she turned to look at you, you were already dragging your tongue up the side of yours, slow and absent-minded, eyes somewhere off in the distance, lips parted slightly like you didn’t even notice what you were doing.

vi did.

she noticed everything.

your lips wrapping around the tip. the way the ice cream melted and slid down your wrist. how you licked it off with one long stroke, then sucked your finger clean like it was nothing.

her cone melted in her fist. she didn’t take a single bite.

she just stood there in stunned, boner-deep silence, heat flooding her body in places that had nothing to do with the weather. her thighs clenched. her ears burned. her heart was punching holes in her ribs.

all she could think— that could be me. fuck, that should be me.

she walked into a street pole two minutes later. didn’t even notice until you gasped and ran over. she blamed the sun. you bought her a new cone.

later that night, she stared at her ceiling with a hand between her legs, moaning your name into the darkness while whispering, “just like that. just like that—f-fuck, yeah, eat me like you ate that cone—”

it happened while you two were packing for a weekend trip—just a casual little beach getaway with friends, nothing serious. vi was helping you toss stuff into your duffel bag while pretending not to stare every time you bent over in your shorts.

and then— you flung a whole handful of clothes her way and said, "can you fold those for me real quick? thanks, babe!"

her brain short-circuited at “babe” alone, but then her hands sank into the pile— and wrapped around something soft, thin, lacy.

it took her half a second to realize what she was holding. another half second to look down and see— your panties. your favorite black lace pair.

vi didn’t move. didn’t breathe. just stared.

they were still warm.

she went rigid, every single muscle in her loser nerd body locking up like a corrupted file. her ears turned red. her lips parted. and before she could stop it— a tiny whimper escaped.

just—“ah.” soft. pitiful. broken. like she’d just been stabbed by horny.

and then?

she bolted.

mumbled something like “gotta pee real quick!” and sprinted to the bathroom like her life depended on it. the door slammed. the lock clicked.

and she collapsed against the sink, clutching your underwear in both hands like it was a sacred object, forehead pressed to the mirror, whispering— “you’re so fucked up, violet. so fucking sick. but gods, they smell like her. fuck—”

she didn’t even make it to the toilet. dropped to her knees right there on the bathroom rug, panties clutched in one hand, the other between her legs, hoodie sleeves rolled up and teeth biting down on the fabric to keep quiet.

came fast. came hard. tried to wash her face like nothing happened. came out five minutes later looking destroyed.

you: “you okay?”

vi: “yep. super good. hydrated. thriving.”

you: “…why are your ears red?”

vi: “sunburn. shut up.”

the lecture was boring. the lights were dim. the professor was talking about something vi didn’t care about—maybe economic theory, maybe planetary motion. who knows.

because in front of her? you were chewing your pen.

and not like a normal person. no. you had your lips wrapped around the end of it—slowly. you’d suck for a second, then bite gently. then drag your teeth down the plastic shaft like it owed you money.

vi’s entire consciousness evacuated her body.

she blinked. once. twice. and then just… froze. pen halfway in her mouth, tongue poking the inside of her cheek— you looked like a whole fucking wet dream and didn’t even know it.

vi’s thighs clenched under the desk. her grip on her notes turned deathly. her glasses started fogging up and she swiped them off, pressing her face into her sleeve, “fuckfuckfuck—” under her breath, shaking like a damn leaf.

every time you twirled the pen or bit it harder, she swore she could feel it. in her stomach. in her chest. between her legs.

and then you stretched.

arms over your head. shirt riding up. vi saw a sliver of bare back and nearly came on the spot.

she had to excuse herself.

muttered something about needing to print slides, rushed out of the lecture hall and into the first empty bathroom, slammed the stall door, and buried two fingers into her soaked panties with the desperate grace of someone not okay.

panting, head back, she came whispering your name and the word “pen” like it was a sin she couldn’t stop committing.

she went back to class 20 minutes later with shaky legs and didn’t remember a single word of the lesson.

vi was halfway through a ranked match—keyboard clacking, headphones on, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. she didn’t even notice you approach until you laughed and said:

"ugh, i’m tired. let me sit here for a sec."

and before she could ask what “here” meant—

you sat. right on her lap. facing the screen. wiggling to get comfy.

vi flatlined.

like, physically short-circuited. her hands froze. her headset slid crooked on her head. every neuron in her brain screamed what the fuck while her body screamed don’t move or you’ll die.

because you weren’t just sitting. you were squirming. and you had no fucking clue you were grinding down onto her lap like a tease with zero self-awareness.

her thighs tensed. her breath stuttered. and her dick— (her strap, tucked under sweats because she was feeling a lil fruity that day) shifted. pressed. throbbed.

right beneath you.

her voice cracked.

“uh—fuck—b-babe, wh-what are you—”

you shushed her. “you’re playing, right? don’t mind me.”

and you leaned back. all the way into her chest. let your arms rest on hers. melted into her like you didn’t just turn her into a human vibrator.

she didn’t even finish the match.

dropped the mouse. let out this pathetic little moan in your ear— and grabbed your waist with both hands, fingers digging in.

“i—i can’t fucking take this,” she whispered.

you froze. and felt it. the outline of the strap. rock hard under you. the way she was breathing—so heavy, so fucking desperate.

her voice rasped, low and ruined: “you’re gonna sit here and be good, yeah? or i’m fucking this into you. right now. on this chair. don’t care if the door’s open.”

the skies opened without warning. vi was already seated when you burst in—out of breath, soaked to the skin, laughing.

“fuck,” you huffed, brushing hair out of your face. “i didn’t bring an umbrella.”

and that’s when she saw it.

the white shirt. soaked. transparent. clinging to your chest like a second skin. every. damn. curve. the lace of your bra outlined in full definition. drops of water trailing down your collarbones. your thighs shining with rain and sweat.

and vi?

vi died.

her eyes went wide. her mouth dropped open. she blinked so hard her glasses fogged up just from body heat. her throat went dry. her brain emptied like a deleted word doc.

you waved at her.

she waved back. missed. hit the edge of her chair.

you sat beside her. legs crossed. shirt still soaked. and every time you shifted in your seat, the fabric pulled across your chest just enough to make her pulse spike.

she couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t stop imagining things.

how your skin would feel under her hands. how that soaked shirt would peel off with a sticky sound. how her tongue would follow every drop down your stomach until—

"vi."

she jumped. looked up. the professor was calling on her.

vi stammered. “i—i didn’t—um—sorry, could you repeat the—yeah. just—sorry. my brain’s—um—rain.” everyone laughed. you leaned over and whispered: “you okay, nerd?”

her legs clenched so tight under the desk she might’ve bruised herself. and then, after class, she disappeared into the bathroom for a solid twenty minutes.

no one asked.

no one needed to.

the sigh she let out behind that locked stall door said it all: “holy fuck, i’m gonna die for this girl.”

it started slow.

just a dream. warm, hazy, too good to be real.

you were on top of her, hips grinding into hers, thighs caging her in, hair messy, lips parted. you were panting. desperate. fucking gorgeous.

and you were saying her name. over and over. "vi. vi. god, vi—right there, right there—don’t stop—"

her hands were on your ass. your nails were clawing down her chest. her strap was buried deep in you and your walls were so tight and you were so wet and— fuck. she couldn’t hold it.

in the dream, she grabbed your hips, slammed up into you, and came with a broken, ragged moan.

and in real life?

she came too.

in her fucking sleep.

body shuddering. thighs trembling. sweat slick on her forehead. hand still in her panties. your name slipping from her lips in a soft, gasping whisper: "fuck—"

and her roommate heard it. of course they did.

“…vi? dude, you good?”

vi jolted upright like she’d been electrocuted. soaked through. blanket kicked off. hair a mess. pussy still pulsing.

she couldn’t even lie. just sat there like a broken sim with her hand still halfway in her sweats.

"…yeah," she croaked. "i'm great."

BONUS: BREAKING POINT

you were sitting on her lap again. like nothing. like you didn’t know what you were doing.

your ass—warm and soft—pressed snug against her thighs. you giggled, wiggled, threw your arms around her shoulders, and leaned in like this was just another game. "hey, cutie nerd."

vi gripped your thighs. tight.

her jaw tensed. her glasses slid just a little down her nose. you were facing away, oblivious, the hem of your skirt brushing her knees, your scent everywhere—like sunscreen and body lotion and danger. vi had been keeping it together. she’d tried. gods, had she tried. all those months of being your sweet little nerd—tutoring you, stammering when you bent over, blushing when you called her pretty.

but today?

today you fucking whispered:

"does sitting on you turn you on, vi?"

right into her ear.

click. that was the sound of something inside her snapping. a line that had been stretched way too thin—too many nights of your casual teasing, too many dreams soaked through with your name on her tongue.

she stood up. lifted you. just—grabbed your waist like it was nothing and hauled you into her arms, like you didn’t weigh a thing.

“vi—?”

you barely got the word out before she dropped you onto her bed. sheets soft beneath your back, knees still apart, skirt pushed up.

vi was on top of you in a second. breathing hard. glasses still on. eyes wild. voice low and dangerous.

“you wanna tease me, baby?” her hands were on either side of your head now. “call me a nerd? sit on my lap like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

you blinked up at her. wide-eyed. silent.

that look broke her too.

she grabbed your wrists. pinned them to the mattress. her breath came out sharp, heated. her thigh slotted between yours and pushed—firm, slow, right up into your center.

you gasped.

she grinned.

“then fucking take it.”

her mouth slammed into yours. nothing sweet. all teeth and heat and desperation. her tongue curled against yours, hands squeezing your wrists so hard you whined into the kiss. and vi— vi moaned like she’d been starving for this.

like she needed you to breathe.

“gods,” she muttered, lips against your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat. “you don’t know what you do to me. you think i’m stupid, don’t you? think i didn’t notice when you bent over in that skirt on purpose? you think i didn’t see that lacy shit you wore yesterday?”

she bit your neck. not enough to mark. but enough to make you gasp.

“you really want me to snap, huh?” she growled the words as her hand slid up your thigh. fingers dragging your panties down, slow and messy. “you want your pervy little nerd to go feral on you?”

you didn’t even get the chance to answer. her fingers dipped between your folds—just once, slick and lazy—and she groaned.

“fucking soaked,” she breathed. “you sat on me like this? fuck—”

she pulled back. stripped her hoodie and shirt in one movement, still panting. you saw the strap—thick, already strapped in tight beneath her sweats—and your whole body arched.

vi saw the way you looked at it.

“yeah?” she murmured. “want it?” she climbed back over you, grinding the strap against your bare cunt. “beg.”

you whimpered. “please…”

“please what, baby?” her hand was back on your neck now, not choking—just firm. just reminding you who was on top. “say it. say you want me to fuck you.”

you swallowed. “i want you to fuck me, vi—please, i need it, i’ve been teasing you because i—fuck, i want this—”

she didn’t wait. didn’t give you another chance to speak.

she grabbed your thigh. hooked it over her arm. lined up the strap and slammed in.

you screamed.

in the best way.

it was deep. unforgiving. her hips snapped forward, again, again, her hand covering your mouth to muffle the way you were falling apart.

she leaned down, forehead against yours, fucking you harder than you ever imagined this awkward, stammering nerd could.

“you’re so tight,” she groaned. “so fucking good—fuck—why didn’t i do this sooner? you wanted this. you needed this.”

you nodded desperately under her. legs shaking.

she pulled out halfway—then slammed in again, harder. you cried out, body clenching, back arching.

vi snapped her hips again. “was this what you wanted, huh? your little nerd to break and ruin you?”

you whimpered into her palm.

“then don’t you dare fucking tap out, pretty girl.” her rhythm got faster. rougher. “i’m not done with you yet.”

your orgasm hit so fast it shattered you.

she didn’t even slow down.

kept fucking you through it—eyes locked on your face, watching the way you fell apart under her, shaking and sobbing and trying to breathe.

when you moaned her name—broken, pleading—vi moaned back. whispered, “i love it when you say it like that…”

then she kissed you. deep. slow.

and started fucking you all over again.

[nightplvmes]

MORNING (fluff)

Rafayel one shot ⋆｡° | pairing : rafayel x fem!reader (third person pov) ⋆｡° | word count : 1k ⋆｡° | fluff, lazy morning, clingy rafa likes and reblogs are appreciated!! ★ masterlist here

She was about to fall asleep, her eyes slightly closed, until she felt hands around her. A yawn escaped her lips and she turned to look over her shoulder. Rafayel was trying to make room for him on the bed.

She shifted and crawled to the center of the bed to make room for him. Seconds later, she felt his weight on the bed. His arms wrapped around her again, this time pulling her closer to him. It was cold, and his warmth was actually comforting. She yawned and shifted gently in his arms so she could turn until she was facing him.

"I thought you were going to work," she murmured in her sleepy voice. She didn't know how long ago Rafayel had started his morning routine, but she knew it had been long enough for her to fall into a deep sleep for at least a few minutes.

"I work at home," he replied, causing his girlfriend to roll her eyes. He knew what she meant: starting some paintings he had pending. He already knew what she meant, but he liked to tease her every time she asked the same question.

"You know what I mean."

Rafayel nodded, pressing his body against hers. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, smelling her scent. There was a peculiar scent she had every time she woke up, and it had become his favorite. He'd mentioned it to her once. "Yeah, I just… wanted to say good morning to you."

"It doesn't count as good morning if you wake me up." She gasped when Rafayel pulled her against him again. She knew there was something more to it. It didn't have to be something bad, exactly, but she knew it wasn't just Rafayel wanting to say good morning to her. "What's wrong?"

He sighed when he stopped hiding his face to look at her. "I wanted to spend some more time with you," he admitted. "Besides, you smell so good. I hate that you smell so good," he complained before burying his face in her neck again, inhaling her scent.

She smiled, trying to wriggle in his arms, but Rafayel was stronger than her, and there wasn't much she could do while she was still sleepy. "You're late. Thomas called me yesterday asking if you'd thrown away your phone because you weren't answering." It had become a habit to call her when Rafayel didn't answer, which was… often when he was with her.

"One day won't change anything." He stopped hiding his face again, this time to place a kiss on her cheek. "It's your fault for smelling so good," he complained… again.

She laughed again; his lips tickled her, but she didn't dare push him away. She turned her face to look at him, but Rafayel took the opportunity to press his lips against hers, a small, lazy kiss. Like those kisses you give when you know there's more to come.

"You can do many things in one day." She shook her head. He had that look on his face that told her he wasn't leaving her side anytime soon. "I promise to stop showering and rolling in mud next time," she joked, causing her boyfriend to snort and her to giggle.

"Do that, and I'll put you in the shower myself." He squeezed her hips, and she raised an eyebrow, sensing that his words actually had a double meaning. "I didn't mean that, but you could put it into practice right now."

"Stop it, you have work." She shook her head. It wasn't that she didn't really like the idea of taking a bath together, but she hated being the reason he wanted to stay in bed all day or preferred to spend his time with her and was now he had pending work.

Rafayel nodded, giving up. He wouldn't get anywhere fighting with his girlfriend, especially since he knew she was right; he couldn't keep putting off work. "Fine." He sighed in frustration and placed one last kiss on her cheek before getting out of bed.

She watched as he left the room after a few seconds. The room fell silent, and she felt guilty for practically kicking him out of bed when she really would have liked to be curled up next to him for the rest of the morning.

She let out a yawn and shifted back in bed to settle in and sleep for another couple of hours. She was still tired; she could feel it throughout her body, but when she settled under the sheets and closed her eyes, sleep never came. Minutes passed, and if she continued like this, she was sure it would be hours, but she couldn't go back to sleep. All she could think about was Rafayel and how much she missed his warmth.

She gave up and got out of bed, having to tiptoe as the cold from the floor penetrated her feet. It took her a couple of seconds to reach the big room where Rafayel usually worked. Despite the quietness, he felt her presence almost immediately.

"Wouldn't you go back to sleep?" Rafayel's question echoed throughout the room even though he was facing away from her, preparing the materials he would use for his next painting.

"It's your fault, you made me wake up," she replied, and now it was her arms that wrapped around him from behind. He smiled and one of his hands wrapped around hers to bring it to his lips, placing a soft kiss there.

Was she too needy? Was there something wrong with wanting to be close to her boyfriend on certain days? It wasn't that she couldn't be without him; she could survive perfectly without him; she just preferred not to.

He guided her to the chair in front of the blank canvas and made a space for her on his lap, as he had done so many times before. She rested her head on his shoulder, her gaze fixed on the canvas, waiting to see the beginning of his next work.

And spending the morning on her boyfriend's lap, receiving his kisses, seemed like the perfect way to start the day.

[puppysuh]

I need another part of nerd!haechan PLEASE my life literally depends on it.

and so the haechan brainrot continues… WHEN WILL THIS TORTURE END i can’t stop thinkinh about himmmmuuhhhhhghhghhgghhhhh ★ part 1

network(s) : @neocity-net

it was honestly just supposed to be a harmless prank. go to his apartment under the guise of a tutoring session, see how much of a gross virgin loser he was and report back to your friends until the rumour of his dick cheese spread around campus faster than a common cold.

ridicule him. gain more popularity for yourself whilst subsequently ruining his already nonexistent reputation. use him as a cheap joke, something to have a laugh at over a couple of iced lattes with the girls.

anything but this.

when your friends ask you how it went, you try to lie through your teeth. “nothing special,” you say, staring at the froth gathered on the top of your drink. “the guy has a boner for math questions and league of legends, not actual sex. totally a waste of time.”

and that’s where the conversation ends, with your friends thinking the two of you didn’t kiss, didn’t even fuck because either he was too chicken or you lost interest quickly.

they couldn’t have been more wrong.

you ended up sleeping at his that night. when you woke up in the morning, dressed in nothing but one of his comic con t-shirts, you felt regret at what you did, or moreover, and you failed to do. whilst you were under the impression that he was a good for nothing loser, haechan had rocked your world the night prior, and you’re less worried about what you’re going to tell your friends, you’re more worried about how you’re going to stop yourself from becoming completely addicted to him.

nerd!haechan is even sexier when he’s just woken up. his hair is a mess, glasses askew as he moves around his kitchen with the same nerdy grace he does everything else, fixing himself a bowl of cereal as if he hadn’t fucked you seven ways to heaven the evening prior.

“you gonna get yourself something to eat? i’ve got cereal— well, i’ve got lucky charms or oatmeal. oatmeal’s a hassle and lucky charms might be too—” you groan, and he stops in his tracks. “what?”

he finally turns to you, and you feel as though you could almost faint. how didn’t you think he was this attractive before? “me and you. last night. you almost killed me. aren’t we gonna talk about it?”

he smiles, and it isn’t a cocky smile, it’s a nervous one, and his eyes are glued to the floor. “we can… and we can also talk about the whole passion project thing too. you never actually wanted to fuck me, did you?”

your heart pangs in your chest. you feel bad, so you walk towards him slowly before placing your hands on his shoulders. “i did. sure, the girls thought it would be funny, but…” your palm slides to his cheek, and you lift his gaze away from the ground. “i thought you were cute. kinda like… a teddy bear.”

“a teddy bear?” you nod. “sorry i didn’t live up to your expectations.”

you laugh quietly, and he smiles again, this time with a little more confidence. “i’m glad you didn’t. and i definitely wouldn’t mind going again.”

“you wouldn’t?”

“not in the slightest.”

suddenly, all idea of breakfast is abandoned, his bowl of lucky charms discarded and replaced with you sitting on his counter, legs spread as he kneels between them with his tongue buried in your cunt. your fingers card through his hair, urging him to tongue fuck you deeper, to rub his thumb on your clit faster.

“you were— fuck— you were a virgin before all of this. where the fuck did you learn to eat so good?”

“mostly porn.” the way he answers you so bluntly has your thighs squeezing around his head, neck tipping back and head pressing against his cabinet. he barely takes another breath before diving right back in, fingers joining his tongue as he teases your g spot with perfect precision. “didn’t know it would actually work.”

and it’s the way he keeps looking up at you, as if to beg for your approval. but you can hardly praise him, instead filling his kitchen with repeated moans as you hump your pussy desperately against his tongue. “gonna cum, don’t stop—”

you can feel his sly grin on your clit before he finally pushes open the dam, juices spilling down his chin as you cum on his tongue shamelessly. all that can be heard is your voice, whines filling the kitchen, along with the wet sounds of him dragging his tongue up and down the length of your pussy, nails digging into your thighs with a grip that could only spell possession.

the worst part is; you could go again. you would let him fuck you again and again, on his fingers, his tongue, his cock, and you would never be satisfied, and this guy was a virgin less than 24 hours ago. when he lifts himself off of his knees to kiss you, there’s nothing you want more than to go again, and when you finally leave his apartment, dressed in yesterdays clothes and hair a mess, you pull out your phone and scroll down to the unsaved contact buried at the bottom of your list.

you : same time tomorrow, freak?

unknown number : same time tomorrow, sweetheart.

a/n : started this blog less than a month ago and all i can talk about is him. can say i wouldn’t change that for the world 🙂‍↕️