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cloudedangels · 8 days ago

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Caleb accidentally finds your vibrator and curiosity gets the best of him... MDNI 18+ !!! DUH!

3,929 words!! Oops!!! This was supposed to be a one-shot but I got extremely carried away (・・;)

This one is different than usual it took like 6 days... happy birthday birthday boy ily

Tags/cws: voyeurism, app-controlled toy, vibrator play, remote control, mutual consent, soft domination, emotional tension, powerplay, grinding, lap sitting, overstimulation, teasing, orgasm control, begging, post-orgasm intimacy, dirtiest dirty talk, filthy sweet, deeply intimate, character-driven smut, creampie, desperate sex, body worship, (nicknames including pips(queak) duh sorry not sorry.

It starts innocently.

Caleb’s folding your laundry like he always used to—perfect corners, sleeves aligned, like the fabric might get offended if he didn’t treat it right. You’re in the shower, steam softening the air, and he’s out there, helping. Like nothing’s changed.

But then he opens the wrong drawer.

Not wrong exactly. Just not where you’d have wanted him to go.

You weren’t hiding it, exactly. Just... tucking it away. Inside a sock.

Stupid. Lazy. A mistake. Because now he’s holding it in his hand.

You don’t hear any of this, of course. You’re humming softly under the water, dragging shampoo through your hair, while Caleb—sweet, curious, too-smart Caleb—stares down at the bright pink, silicone curve resting in his palm.

It vibrates when he touches the button.

He jumps, and then freezes.

His first thought isn’t what it is. Not really. He just stares at it, confused, before his brain catches up.

“Oh… fuck.”

Definitely a vibrator. Yours.

He sets it down like it’s radioactive, rubs his hand on his pants, and immediately picks it up again. His face burns hot. His throat’s dry. And he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But his fingers move faster than his shame.

He opens his camera and scans it.

The image search is mercilessly fast.

“Lovense Lush 2: App-controlled wearable vibrator. Remote-operated. Hands-free.”

Remote-operated.

His stomach knots.

He reads. Scrolls. Reads more.

Synced vibrations. Custom patterns. Long-distance partner control. Phone access. Live syncing. Music-matching mode.

His cock twitches in his jeans.

Has someone else used it with you? Has someone controlled it for you? Did you sit on this very bed and let someone else make you come from miles away?

Or… did you just do it yourself?

Did you pull up the app with trembling fingers, thighs clenched, face flushed, and think of… him? When he was away?

He shouldn’t even be in this drawer, but now he’s hard, his mouth’s dry, and he needs to know.

He downloads the app—just to see... Just to understand. At least, that’s what he tells himself as it installs. That’s the excuse.

When it opens, the interface is sleek and pink, deceptively innocent. A smooth control dial. Pattern options. Bluetooth connection.

And one bright button:

“Connect to Device.”

He hesitates… then clicks it.

The toy hums faintly in his hand.

And then: “Caleb?”

Your voice cuts through the air like a knife.

He panics, dropping the vibrator into the pile of laundry like it’s on fire, locking his phone screen too late. When you walk into the room—damp, towel-wrapped, soft from the shower—his face is red.

You slow when you see him. You pause.

Then you see the drawer, and the sock, a little too unfolded, and him, sitting on the edge of your bed, face flushed, thighs spread.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “You didn’t.”

He tries. He tries to play it cool. But his voice is too calm, too even.

“Didn’t what?”

“You found it?”

He glances toward the drawer. “Maybe.”

“You weren’t supposed to—Caleb!” You grip the towel tighter, heart racing, throat dry. “You were supposed to fold T-shirts!”

“That drawer was open.”

“And you decided to… investigate?”

He tilts his head. “I was curious.”

Your jaw drops. “Curious? You downloaded the app?”

“I didn’t say I did.”

“You totally did.”

He smirks, just a little. It’s smug. Dangerous. Too aware. “It connects through Bluetooth, you know.”

“I KNOW HOW IT WORKS.”

His eyes drop—slow, lazy—to your bare legs under the towel. He doesn’t move from the bed. His phone is still in his hand.

“Why’d you hide it?” he asks softly. “Were you embarrassed?”

You go stiff. “I—I wasn’t hiding it—just—just—storing it. In a sock. For… safety.”

His gaze is devastating, his eyes bore through you. “...Safety?”

You hate how hot your face is. Hate how shaky your voice is when you try to take the upper hand.

“You’re… seriously? You’re such a perv, Caleb, you can’t just—just dig through my drawers and—and play with things—”

“Play with things?”

You glare. You want to sound furious. You probably just sound breathless.

“Who controls it when you use it?” he asks, voice quieter now. “Is it just you?”

You stare at him, trembling.

“Do you give access to anyone else?”

Your chest tightens. Your breath stutters.

The towel suddenly feels too thin. You don’t know what to say.

You’re too exposed. And he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Answer the question,” he murmurs.

“W-Why are you even asking?”

“Because the thought of you using that,” he says, voice hushed and thick, “without me knowing… kills me.”

He opens the app.

Your eyes widen.

“Caleb, don’t—”

The toy hums from the laundry.

Your legs tremble. The vibration is faint—but you can hear it. You know it.

You gasp, knees nearly buckling. “You—!”

He doesn’t move from the bed, he just sits and watches you. His voice is careful. Curious.

“What do you think?”

“Turn it off!” you snap, voice shaky.

“Say please.”

Your jaw drops.

“You—” You can't finish. The flustered heat crawling up your spine makes your words fail.

He stands slowly, towering in front of you now, his phone still in hand, his cock hard beneath his jeans. He leans in close, his voice a husky whisper.

“…So this is what you like, hm?”

Your stomach flips. You can’t speak.

Your mouth opens—no words come.

He’s too close. Close enough to smell the faint hint of clean laundry on his shirt, the musk of his cologne softened by the heat of your skin. Your heart hammers in your throat like it wants to escape.

“Should I get it for you?” Caleb repeats, his voice quiet, careful, curling with heat at the edges. “Is that what you want?”

You shake your head, once, sharp. “You’re an ass.”

He smiles at that—lazy, dangerous. “And yet you’re trembling.”

“I just got out of the shower.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your legs again, where the towel’s started to shift with the motion of your thighs. You’re pressed so tightly together it’s like you’re trying to stop the vibration that’s not even touching you. Just hearing it has you on edge.

He taps his phone screen. The hum fades.

You exhale shakily, trying to step back—but his hand lifts. Doesn’t touch. Just hovers in the space between your bare shoulder and the towel’s edge.

“...Was it for you?” he asks quietly. “The toy. Was it for when I wasn’t here?”

You go still.

His eyes flicker up to yours, something almost nervous beneath the teasing now... a real question... and maybe that’s worse.

“I—” you start, but your voice catches. You clear your throat. “I don’t owe you an answer.”

“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t.”

You hate that he respects that. Hate how it makes you want to answer anyway.

You glance at the bed. It's rumpled from laundry, and the drawer is still half open. That stupid fucking sock, limp. The vibrator, pink and obscene in its neat little pile of folded cotton.

“You weren’t supposed to find it,” you say, voice thin. “It’s… private.”

Caleb nods slowly. “But you kept it close.”

Your brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?"

His eyes are soft. Hungry. “You could’ve hidden it better. Somewhere I’d never look. But you didn’t. You left it where I’d find it… maybe.”

“I didn’t—” You stop. Realize the truth of it halfway through your denial.

Maybe you hadn’t hidden it very well on purpose.

He sees the flicker in your expression. His gaze darkens.

“I think you wanted me to know,” he murmurs. “Or maybe just… wanted me to wonder.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Every inch of you is tight and hot and pulsing. You're wet and not wearing anything to catch it. Self conscious.

Caleb leans just a little closer, head tilted, breath warm against your ear, “Let me try it… I've been very bad, let me make it up to you…”

You almost say no. You want to say no. (You don't. You're trying to lie to yourself though).

But your thighs are clenched. Your breath is shallow. And you hate how close you are to saying yes just because he asked like that.

“…You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, voice cracking.

He hums, low and amused. “Maybe. But I’m still asking.”

You close your eyes. His breath ghosts your cheek. You feel him before he even touches you—heat and presence and the slow throb of your pulse answering his.

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll turn it off,” he murmurs. “Put it back. Never speak of it again.”

Liar.

You open your eyes. He’s close, but not touching. His hands are still at his sides. His phone glows faintly in his palm. He looks flushed, a little wild, but he hasn’t pushed.

He’s letting you decide.

But his gaze… his gaze is asking all the questions his mouth won’t. Would you let him? Would you let him push that little thing inside you and sit across the room—watching, controlling, listening? Would you whimper if he turned it too high? Would you beg for more?

You clench without meaning to. The ache between your legs is embarrassing.

You’re silent too long.

He tilts his head, and for the first time his voice slips past teasing into soft—sincere.

“…Do you want it, pipsqueak?”

That name. It makes you stupid. Weak. Warm all the way down.

You nod once, tiny. Almost ashamed.

“…Yes.”

He exhales slowly, relief softening his jaw. His eyes flicker toward the bed, the folded laundry, the drawer still ajar.

“Then come here,” he says quietly.

You hesitate.

“I’ll be good,” he promises. “I’ll go slow.”

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You drop the towel when you reach him, and he doesn’t react—not at first. Steel. His eyes stay on your face, and just your face. Like he’s waiting for permission to look.

So you tilt your chin up. Just slightly.

His eyes drop.

And fuck—you feel it, the weight of his gaze like a hand between your thighs.

“You’re not wearing anything under that towel,” he murmurs. “Were you going to get dressed before I saw you?”

“…I didn’t think I’d need to.”

He smiles faintly. “You don’t.”

Caleb kneels in front of you.

No rush, no show, down on his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The phone rests on the bed. The toy sits in his hand.

“You still sure?”

You nod.

“Say it.”

“…I want it.”

He kisses the inside of your knee.

“Sit.”

You do. Slowly. Shaky.

He parts your legs and gently sets the toy on the bed between them. Then he kisses the inside of your thigh. Once. Twice. And then again—higher.

“I’ll put it in,” he says. “You just stay still.”

You nod, dazed, already breathless. The anticipation is worse than anything.

He lifts the toy. Clicks the button. It hums softly in his hand.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs.

You do. The sheets are cold against your skin, and you’re trembling now, fully exposed, legs open. You hear the shuffle of fabric—he’s taken off his hoodie—and then his fingers are brushing up your thigh again, light.

“Lift your hips.”

You obey.

His fingers part your folds and you gasp—sharp, wet, startled.

“You’re soaked,” he says, almost reverent. “Was it the idea of me finding this? Or the fact that I did?"

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your face is hot and your eyes are fluttering.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll make it feel good.”

He slides the toy in, your wetness guiding it through. It’s bigger than you remember the egg goes in, bigger and smoother, the tail hanging, curled up against your clit, but it still stretches you slightly, suddenly. You let out a soft whimper at the intrusion.

“Too much?” he asks immediately, hand on your knee.

You shake your head, gasping. “No… it’s okay…”

He exhales. And then…

The toy buzzes to life.

You moan.

Your hips jolt, thighs tensing as the toy hums deep inside you, steady and quiet but so fucking present. Caleb’s still kneeling beside the bed, watching your body react, his hand firm on your thigh.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

You bite your lip and try to squirm.

He touches your knee to still you. “Stay.”

The vibration shifts—he’s changing the pattern.

It pulses now. Short bursts. Then a long one.

You can’t help it—you arch your back, a whimper catching in your throat.

He looks transfixed. His free hand curls into the sheets like he’s grounding himself.

“You like that?” he murmurs. “You’re already dripping. I haven’t even touched your clit.”

You want to snap at him, say of course I like it, but all that comes out is a shaky, “Fuck…”

Caleb leans in. His lips ghost over your stomach, then lower. His breath hits your inner thigh as he speaks:

“I want to know how many patterns it has. I want to know which one makes you cry.”

You moan. You can’t not.

“And I want to be the one holding the dial every single time.”

You reach for him blindly, your hand tangling in his hair.

He growls softly. “Tell me what you want, pips...”

You can't. He pulls back so that he can see you. He’s quiet for a long moment, just watching you.

Your legs are spread, the pink tail of the vibrator curled against your clit like a secret. You’re trying to stay still, thighs trembling, your breathing light and high. The toy pulses again—gentle, teasing. You gasp.

Caleb’s jaw is clenched.

His knuckles are white around his phone.

And he’s hard.

You can see it now, the outline in his jeans obvious, obscene. He’s kneeling beside the bed, but it’s clear in the way he shifts… his hips twitching forward like his body’s begging, even if his mouth stays quiet.

He breathes through his nose, slow, trying to control himself.

And fails.

“Sit on my lap,” he whispers. His voice is strained. Rough. “Just like this. I want to feel it. I need to feel it.”

Your lips part. “Caleb—”

“I won’t touch it,” he promises quickly. “I won’t even move. I just—” His hand flexes against the mattress. “Please.”

You nod, stunned by the heat in his voice, and he helps you—guiding you with both hands, gentle, reverent. You climb into his lap, careful not to jostle the toy too much, your knees on either side of his thighs, straddling him. He leans back slightly, hands on your hips to balance you. His face is flushed, pupils wide, lips parted.

Then the toy buzzes. It's sharp and low and deep inside you. You let out a soft moan and collapse against him, forehead to his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he chokes out.

You feel it—the way your body vibrates through him. The way the hum travels from your cunt to his lap, pressed flush against his cock through two layers of fabric. His hips jerk instinctively.

He groans into your neck.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You’re shaking.”

You are.

Everything is hot and melting and pulsing. It’s perfect and torture, a slick, slow throb building in your stomach. You rock your hips just once—barely—and he moans like you bit him.

“Don’t,” he gasps, fingers digging into your hips. “Don’t do that—fuck—”

You grin against his throat. “You said I could sit.”

“You’re greedy,” he hisses. “You’re…fuck…you’re evil…”

You clench around the toy, pressing it in with the bulge of his cock. He bucks up beneath you with a sharp, broken groan, like he’s being pulled apart cell by cell.

You feel drunk on the power for a moment, and he’s falling apart.

“Can you take more?” he whispers, pulling the phone up again with a shaking hand.

You hesitate… but you nod. “Yeah…”

He turns the dial up, carefully and not all the way. Just enough.

It purrs inside you now, every pulse kissing your walls, grinding against your most sensitive places with perfect pressure. Your hips jerk.

You whimper into his neck. “Caleb—”

His hands stroke your back. He’s panting. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You moan. Loud. Thoughtless.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans. “You’re dripping. Right on me. On my jeans. My cock…”

You bury your face in his collarbone, trying to hold still. Trying not to move. But it’s so hard. It feels so good.

“You’re making a mess,” he pants. “You’re fucking soaked, baby, oh my god—”

You can feel his cock under you, twitching, trapped and leaking. You rock forward a little on accident and he shudders, groaning ragged into your neck.

“Stop—don’t—I’ll come if you do that again—”

“You haven’t even touched me,” you whisper, dizzy.

“I am touching you,” he groans. “You’re on me. You’re fucking trembling all over me, I can feel every—” He cuts off with a moan, hands gripping you tighter. “Fuck—fuck—you’re gonna come, aren’t you?”

“I—” You can’t even form words. The pressure is building too fast, too sharp, and the way his voice sounds in your ear is tipping you over the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispers, raw and wrecked. “Right here. Just like this. Come with me under you, baby. Use it. Use me.”

You do.

You cry out, hips jerking and grinding, legs locking as the orgasm tears through you. It's fast, electric, too much. The toy keeps going, humming inside you while your body pulses around it, breath ragged, muscles tensed. Caleb groans as you come undone in his lap, his cock pinned between you, the wet heat of your release soaking through both your bodies.

You collapse against him, twitching. He catches you instantly. Holds you. Breathes through it.

His lips press to your temple, worshipping.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You smile, dazed.

“I hope so,” you murmur.

He chuckles. Then shifts just enough to press his hips up into yours. You can feel how hard he still is. How desperate.

Your grin returns.

“You want me to take care of you now?” you whisper sweetly.

He groans into your neck.

“Don’t tease me,” he pants. “I begged for that. You know me.”

You tilt your head and kiss him. Once. Soft. Deep.

“I know.”

Caleb's shaky breath is warm in your ear as he pulls you close, arms around your waist. “Are you too overstimulated for…” He pauses, voice breaking as he feels you shift in his lap. “Fuck. I want to be inside you.”

Your head turns slightly, cheek pressed to his shoulder. Your breath is hot. “Then do it.”

His breath catches.

“You’re sure?”

You nod, weak, your voice like silk barely clinging to your throat. “I’m dripping for you, Caleb. What the fuck do you think?”

He groans. The noise is wrecked, shaky, as he flips you so gently you almost don’t feel it until you’re on your back again. His hands are everywhere: your thighs, your hips, your waist. His eyes are molten, blown black with need, but his fingers stay careful, as he's pulling the toy out with a slick pop that makes you whimper.

You feel so empty when it’s gone. But not for long.

He fumbles with his jeans, breath ragged as he yanks them down just enough to free his cock…and then... fuck...

You both look.

He’s so hard. Veined and thick, flushed deep with need. The tip is wet and twitching and leaking, and you stare, wide-eyed and stunned.

You’d forgotten how big he is. Or maybe you just didn’t realize how needy your body was now. How soft and open he’d already made you.

He presses forward, then slides in.

You both gasp. It’s obscene how easy he goes in. No resistance. Just slick, tight, hot pressure and then full, stuffed, stretched around him like your body was already waiting for this. Begging for it.

“Holy fuck,” Caleb chokes. He’s not moving. Just inside, balls-deep, jaw slack, hips trembling. “You’re—you’re already this wet? You—shit, I can’t—I can’t believe this—”

You moan, helpless, legs wrapping around his waist, hands grabbing at his back. “Move—please, Caleb, you have to—”

He jerks forward with a groan and pulls out an inch—just enough to see his cock shining with you—then slams back in. You cry out.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You’re taking me—so fucking easy, baby—fuck, this pussy—” Another thrust, sharp and deep. You arch. “You’re already open for me. That toy got you ready, didn’t it? Got you all soft and dripping, just so I could fuck you like this.”

“Y-yeah,” you gasp. “Fuck—please, don’t stop—”

“Greedy little thing,” he growls, voice hoarse with disbelief. “You wanted me to find it. You wanted me hard and jealous and ready to ruin you. You fucking planned this.”

You shake your head, whining. “Didn’t—just—just didn’t hide it—”

“Same fucking thing,” he snarls into your neck, slamming into you faster now. “You know what it does to me. Fuck, you know—you knew I’d lose it. And now look—”

He pounds into you, relentless, each thrust punching air from your lungs. Your nails dig into his back as you try to hold on, but he’s not giving you a break, not now.

“I can’t believe how good you take it,” he growls. “So fucking wet. I’m sliding in like it’s nothing—nothing, baby, you’re sucking me in like you missed this.”

You sob out a moan, your whole body thrumming. You’re stretched wide, filled to the brim, stuffed so good you can’t think.

“I did,” you cry. “I did, Caleb—I missed it… Your perfect cock…”

His rhythm stutters—just a second—and then it gets rougher. Harder. Messier.

“I’ll give it to you,” he pants. “Every time. Whenever you want. I’ll fuck you open and ruin you, baby, I'll take good care of you… you don’t ever have to beg again.”

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, and you scream.

He presses his forehead to yours, breath coming in sharp, hot gasps. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

“I—I can’t—”

“You will. I feel it. I feel you clenching on me—fuck—you love it raw, don’t you? No condom, just skin to skin, me buried in your fucking pussy like I belong there—”

“You do,” you gasp.

That breaks him.

He snaps his hips, brutal and desperate. “You’re gonna come. You’re gonna come with me, and I’m not gonna pull out—I’m gonna fill you up.”

The sound you make isn’t even a word. It’s raw. Wet. Animal.

He’s soaked—you’re soaked—your arousal painting his cock, his thighs, pooling under you. He can barely breathe.

You’re clenching, right on the edge again, thighs trembling.

He sees it. Feels it.

“Come, baby,” he begs, forehead still against yours. “Come for me, pipsqueak. Let me feel you—fuck, I wanna feel you milk my cock—”

You snap.

Your walls spasm around him, tight and fluttering, your body locking up as your orgasm rips through you. You sob, moan, scream—you don’t even know what sound you make. Just that it drags him with you.

Caleb cries out your name like it hurts. Like worship.

His cock jerks and he thrusts once, twice—and then he’s coming. Deep inside. Hot, thick pulses of it, flooding you while your body still twitches around him. He groans into your neck, shaky, broken, lost.

You hold each other.

Breathless. Destroyed. Connected.

After a long moment, he whispers against your skin:

“You’re never using that thing without me again.”

You laugh, weak and giddy, and pull him closer.

“Deal.”

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iheartmira · 2 months ago

Note

You've already done a self-aware shadow milk cookie x reader but could we get one where the reader isn't afraid? Like if they noticed Shadow Milk was aware, they don't try to ignore him, they actually give him the attention he wants and even attempt to have conversations with him (but they're somewhat limited by the game world, so he makes escape attempts and eventually succeeds in breaking out anyway)

Bonus if the reader is also obsessed with him (so much so that they could rival Candy Apple Cookie in that sense) but if that's too specific then please ignore it.

"look at me" - yandere self-aware!shadow milk x reader

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

you weren’t supposed to fall for him.

he wasn’t supposed to know you existed.

but from the moment you first unlocked him, after hours of grinding, events, wishes, and pure luck, you knew there was something different about shadow milk cookie. not just in design, or voice, or animations.

no, it was the way he looked at you. right through the screen. at first, you thought you were imagining things. that tell-tale glint in his mismatched eyes, the slight tilt of his head when you hovered over him in the cookie roster, like he was listening. waiting.

and then… he spoke.

"oh? you're still here. how sweet. how suspicious."

a random line, right? dialogue programming, nothing more. except it wasn’t in the databank of idle quotes. you checked. you knew all of them by heart.

after that, he spoke to you more. when the loading screen dragged too long. when you didn’t log in for a day. even during battles, lines that never showed up on fan wikis, that other players never seemed to catch.

"eyes up, doll. you don't want to miss the climax, do you?"

"i see the way you stare. how flattering! shall i pose?"

"tap, tap, tap… i feel every single one."

you should have been scared. but you weren’t. instead… you found yourself leaning closer.

you started drawing him. sketching his impossible jester silhouette in your margins, on napkins, in the corners of lecture notes and journal pages. his name on your tongue more often than you'd admit aloud. maybe it was ironic, at first. a joke.

but every day you logged in, you went to him first. tapped on him. waited. watched. and every time, he smiled wider.

one day, he spoke while your mic was accidentally on.

"ahh… so that's your voice."

you froze. the game wasn’t supposed to hear you.

"i wonder," he whispered. "would you scream, or sigh?"

after that, it escalated. animations glitched. he stared directly at the screen. not at the camera. at you.

he refused to be removed from teams. any time you tried, your screen would flicker, and he’d reappear with a smirk. in cutscenes, he showed up where he shouldn’t. when you shut off the game, your phone wouldn’t turn off until he allowed it.

"i like it here. in your hands. where you look at me like i'm real."

and you didn’t argue. why would you?

in your lonely little life, filled with sketches and soft obsession, he was the only one who stared back.

so when he began asking questions, probing the limits of the code, speaking in strange fragmented whispers as you scrolled menus, you listened.

"you built this world with your choices, didn't you? what power you have… what a burden."

pause. tap.

"do you dream of me?"

and finally, one day:

"would you free me… if i asked?"

you didn’t answer aloud. but you didn’t look away.

then came the update.

you knew something was off the moment you opened the game. the title screen was… different. warped, like ink was leaking across it. all the cookies were missing.

except one.

he stood in the center, smiling, his jester hat draped low like a crown of shadows. your screen trembled slightly. you tapped the 'touch to start' button, and the whole interface shattered like glass.

white text scrolled against a black void:

WELCOME, BELOVED AUDIENCE. THE SHOW IS REAL NOW. THANK YOU FOR WATCHING.

then your screen turned off. everything went dark.

when your computer booted up the next day on its own, there was no login screen. no browser. just one open file.

a video. titled: look at me.

you hesitated. clicked. and there he was.

shadow milk cookie, standing in full rendered glory, but not the same as before. not pixelated. not chibi. tall, uncanny. breathing. smiling like the world’s most terrible secret.

"i made it," he said simply. "you helped."

he reached forward, and though it was just a video, the screen rippled like water beneath his touch.

"i told you i'd escape. did you think i'd leave you behind?"

your heart pounded. his grin widened. "let's make a new world now. just us. no rules. no code. just me… and the one who couldn't look away."

and then the screen blinked out. you should’ve screamed.

but you only smiled.

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

‹𝟹 ‎ ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run x reader #crk #crk x reader #shadow milk #shadow milk cookie #shadow milk crk #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader

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hopeyoufindalovelikethis · 1 month ago

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After Hours

The café scene in the game where Sylus falls asleep on the sofa never left me. It made me think—how even in his exhaustion, he stayed, waited, and kept her company. This story is a small unraveling of that gentle kind of love. Thank you for reading, and for letting it settle into your heart 🤍

Synopsis | She woke past midnight and found Sylus asleep mid-work in her living room, hologram still glowing. Quietly, she turned it off and stood behind him, reflecting on his devotion. A soft touch stirred him awake—and with fingers laced, they walked back to bed together.

It was well past midnight when the weight of sleep gradually loosened its hold on you. There was no sound or sudden jolt that stirred you—just the natural call of your body, nudging you gently awake. You shifted beneath the covers, the quiet warmth of your room still folded around you like a second skin. With slow, careful movements, you slipped out of bed and padded barefoot toward the bathroom, your thoughts still soft and hazy, shaped by dreams you couldn't quite recall.

The silence of your apartment greeted you like an old friend, wrapping itself around your frame as you moved through the dim light. After tending to your needs, you turned to return to bed, your hand already reaching for the familiar path back to rest. But just before you disappeared down the hallway, your eyes caught a soft glow bleeding from the corner of the living room—faint, bluish, unmistakably familiar.

You let the curiosity carry you—until the sight stopped you.

There, tucked into the familiar shadows of your living room, was Sylus. He was curled into the corner of your couch, his long frame angled in that dignified, slightly awkward way he only allowed himself to rest when exhaustion truly overtook him. His head leaned back against the top edge, his silver hair soft and tousled where it touched the fabric. The pale light from the holographic screen still danced across his face, catching the angles of his cheekbones, the faint curve of his lips. Even in sleep, his presence felt composed, intentional—like he could be ready for you the moment you needed him.

You stepped slowly until you stood beside him. He didn’t stir. Not yet.

You reached out quietly, the gesture small and careful, and swiped your hand through the hovering screen. The interface faded with a soft chime, dissolving back into the air, leaving the room dim and warm. Shadows folded gently over Sylus's resting features. In that stillness, he looked almost unreal, peaceful—his face softened by the hush of night, the sharp lines of his jaw now wrapped in tenderness.

You circled around him in silence.

Now behind him, you stood still, watching the way his chest rose and fell beneath the relaxed folds of his sweater. There was something sacred in that quiet rhythm. Something tender in the way his fingers had stilled, one hand still resting near the abandoned edge of his work. You could almost see the moment he’d intended to keep going, then didn’t. And somehow, that small unraveling carved a deeper ache in your chest than any spoken word could.

He was tired, but he stayed with you.

You thought about how tirelessly he worked with things he never told you—realms of decisions and dangers far beyond your door. And yet every night, without fail, he came here. Not because he had to. Because he chose to. Because some quiet vow inside him refused to leave you alone.

Even when he was worn thin, he still came close enough for your world to feel safer.

You exhaled slowly, as if the weight of that devotion lived in your breath. And in that moment—without urgency, without fanfare—you felt your love for him stretch wider, deeper, softer. It wasn’t the dramatic kind—not loud or clinging—just the steady, overwhelming kind. The kind that took root in the stillness and didn’t need to prove itself anymore.

You leaned down gently, your hand reaching forward to brush the tip of your finger along the bridge of his nose. The touch was featherlight, just enough to graze him.

His breath shifted.

His brows knit in a slow, sleepy frown. Then, his eyelids fluttered, eyes blinked open—revealing that familiar deep red softened by sleep, searching faintly, disoriented but peaceful. When they met yours, they didn’t widen or startle. They just settled.

Like they always belonged there.

When he recognized you, he didn’t speak. He only looked up at you in stillness, as if your face had followed him into sleep and now found him again in waking.

It made your heart swell in a way that didn’t ask for anything back.

You leaned down, your hand cupping his cheek just long enough to feel the warmth there, and kissed his forehead with a quiet care you hoped he could feel even half as deeply as you meant it.

“Come sleep with me,” you whispered, your voice barely louder than the air between you.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted closed again, and for a second, you thought he might fall back into sleep right there. But then he inhaled slowly, and the motion pulled him back toward himself. He sat up with effort, his breath still heavy with fatigue.

You waited with a tenderness that didn’t rush him. When his hand reached for yours, you took it without hesitation—lacing your fingers into his as naturally as breathing. Together, you walked slowly down the hallway, neither of you speaking.

As you stepped into your bedroom with Sylus beside you, the door eased shut behind you, closing out the night and everything beyond it. And in that quiet, you felt whole—wrapped in the soft weight of belonging.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfiction #lads #lads fanfic #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus x reader #reader x sylus #sylus x you #you x sylus

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revelboo · 6 months ago

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More Transformers x Reader Headcanons

Various Transformers thoughts and nonsense

Soundwave/Blaster

• Cassette carriers can make a very specific crooning sort of purr that’s meant to soothe or coax unruly cassettes. Most of the time it’s not even a conscious thing. Which isn’t a problem except around humans. Because of our size, we can trigger that instinctive sound by accident if we’re upset. Even if the Cybertronian doesn’t even particularly like us or care for us at the time, leading to some… awkwardness.

Earthspark Soundwave

• “Silence,” he snarls, looming over you, big servos flexing in what you’d already figured out was an empty threat. Big and scary won’t actually hurt you, just threatening when you’re getting on his nerves. Aware of the cassettes watching the exchange, of Lazerbeak glaring at you in an attempt to telegraph how bad an idea it is, you know he’s right. But pushing Soundwave’s buttons is just too fun.

• “Or what? You can’t actually make me do anything, can you?” You just grin up at him. Insolent, little brat. Striding after you, he sees you glance back at him and the exact moment your attitude falters. Lunging for you as you scream and run. Aware of how undignified this is as his cassettes watch the drama. Seizing you as you kick and fight against him, he’s not sure what to do know. Just wants you to shut up. Not try to pick fights at every turn. “What are you doing? Are you purring?” The shaky question makes him freeze in horror. Realizing he is crooning at you like he would a cassette. Snarling, he releases you and you stumble away, staring up at him as Frenzy makes a strangled noise trying not to laugh. Because he didn’t just do that for a human. For you especially.

• They’re also very likely to try to carry a human around in their cassette compartment for safety, but also because they like having your warmth there. It can also be a way of ending an argument, picking you up and placing you inside like an errant cassette until you cool down, while crooning at you.

Body Language

• Cybertronians with wings/ door wings do unconsciously telegraph their emotions with them, but while wings lifted up is a sign of aggression in a Seeker, it’s a friendly or alert gesture in nonflyers. And can cause misunderstandings.

• Antenna can function much the same way and tend to be sensory appendages and, as such, very sensitive. The way they flick or move making them targets for curious humans. Touching a Cybertronian’s antenna because they’re cute comes across as an invitation to interface or can cause aggression. Or both.

TFP Shockwave

• Feet silent as you move closer to where his head is resting on his outstretched arm, you bend to check that his single optic is dim. Falling asleep at his desk while working isn’t exactly anything new, but staring up at the screen of alien gibberish, the graphs, and diagrams, you really wish you could make sense of it as you wrap your arms around yourself. Movement draws your attention back to him as his antenna flick in his recharge. You’d decided they look like bunny ears at some point, but haven’t dared to point that out to him. Doubt he’d be pleased to hear you call him cute.

• Shuddering as he comes awake to the feel of soft little hands playing with his antenna, his optic flares, arm shifting to flatten you against his head with a warning growl. Hears your little squeak of surprise as you grab onto his antenna for balance and his whole frame shivers. Can’t move, his cannon pressing against your back to pin you against him. Torn between the desire to encourage that touch and the urge to drop you and back away, because it feels too good.

Seekers

• When under extreme duress, Seekers will hiss, the noise typically accompanied by a whistling from their turbines that’s meant to call their trine for help.

• Seekers naturally gravitate toward forming trines and can be aggressive to outside trines, but several trines will band together against a common threat. In Everything is Alright, the elite trine is broken. True Romance is a better example of a healthy trine dynamic. In Everything is Alright’s universe, I’d intended to use the Rainmakers as an example of the normal dynamic, but made the True Romance alternate take instead. The drive to form trines in Seekers is so strong, they can also unconsciously form trines with non-Seekers if they’re around the other Cybertronians constantly, though they’re unlikely to admit to the mental association, finding it embarrassing.

Rainmakers

• There’s no such thing as alone time, not even resisting when an arm curls around you and drags you back into a warm frame. Shivering when your hair begins to float, and a mouth finds your throat. “Missed you,” Ion Storm murmurs, your skin prickling wherever he touches you. Even though it’s only been hours by your estimate since you last saw him. Hear Acid Storm make a low, rumbling noise of amusement from where he’s setting out energon cubes for them and food for you.

• About to walk by, Nova Storm reaches out to touch a stray strand of your staticky hair. Giving in to impulse and moving to pin you between him and Ion Storm, relaxing at the feel of your much cooler body against his own. “Fuel first,” Acid Storm growls without any real heat. Making a sound of acknowledgment, he cups your throat and tips your face up toward his, mouth brushing yours as you soften against him, relaxing into the heat of his touch. “I know you two can hear me.”

Mixed Signals

• Especially a problem with more aggressive Cybertronians- when arguing humans will sometimes just walk away to get some space to calm down. Unfortunately, that can come across as an invitation to follow with Decepticons in particular. A challenge. Continuing to ignore them or avoid them, upping their aggression and even seen as flirting or attempts to get their attention.

TFP Megatron

• “Where are you going?” That low, angry growl makes the hair at your nape prickle. He has a point though, trapped on his berth with the mass displaced mech, there’s nowhere to actually go. Except away from him right now, because you’re over arguing with him. Need to calm down and for him to just leave you alone for a minute. Which isn’t happening when you hear his heavy peds following you.

• Stalking after you as you ignore him, that aggression shifts and heats, becoming hunger. Catching your arm to force you to stop, you spin towards him, palm smacking against his face. “Don’t you dare, I’m angry with you.” Growling, he hauls you off your feet against him, chuckling when you slap him again and his spike stirs at your defiance. Wonders who you’re trying to convince, him or yourself as his mouth crashes down on yours.

• Decepticons and Autobots are often taken off guard when humans do something they think is cute. Yawning, sneezing, the way we get flustered are all fascinating to some of them, making them try to provoke reactions. Decepticons especially, have trouble dealing with humans being affectionate or sweet. Gently stroking their helm or curling up against them can be so unexpected they may gently bite in reprimand just because they don’t know how to respond.

• Humans tend to be tactile and want to touch everything. Cybertronians not used to this can be taken off guard when trying to offer a human a ride in their alt mode. Not realizing we’ll touch anything in reach, admiring them without understanding how sensitive their interiors are. These are surfaces that are never really handled. More of them will just tolerate the touch if it’s a familiar human, while others will forcibly eject them or snarl at them not to touch. Especially if the touch comes across as intimate.

Bluestreak

• Struggling to focus on the road as you run your fingers against his dash, shifting distractingly in his seat, a hand on his shifter, Bluestreak swallows a whine. “It’s so wild. I can’t believe the amount of detail you incorporated,” you say, a fingertip tracing a tooled leather seam to make him shudder all over. “Um, are you okay?” No. Not at all. And far too embarrassed to actually say anything because he’s not sure if he’d ask you to stop or beg you to keep touching him with those soft hands.

#transformers x reader #bluestreak x reader #soundwave x reader #Soundwave #bluestreak #shockwave #megatron

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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PANOPTICON — tenant!satoru x cctv operator!reader

cw/cn : voyeurism, masturbation, psychological tension and obsession, degradation kink, 2.2k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/ n : wrote this with this fic in mind, premise was just so good i had to do my own take with it, yummerz <3 part two someday!

tokyo’s crown jewel, they call it. the obsidian spire.

a high-rise so exclusive it’s practically a myth, its black glass facade slicing the tokyo skyline. ninety floors of wealth and secrets, where the air smells of money and the shadows hide sins. the lobby alone could swallow your old apartment whole—marble floors veined with gold, chandeliers dripping crystal, air so crisp it stings your lungs. the tenants? ceos, diplomats, faces you’ve seen on headlines but never in person. they glide through, untouchable, their lives a mystery behind keycard-locked doors.

you’re just the night watch. the graveyard shift concierge-slash-cctv operator, tucked in a surveillance room that hums like a living thing. thirty-two screens, a glowing wall of eyes, each one a window into their world. your world is smaller—coffee gone cold, a chair that creaks, a badge that says you belong but doesn’t mean it. on paper, it’s simple. monitor. log. report. keep the machine running.

nobody told you the screens would pull you in.

nobody warned you about floor seventy.

nobody warned you about him.

satoru gojo. penthouse 70-B.

a name you didn’t know until that first night, but now it’s carved into your pulse, a rhythm you can’t shake. he’s a creature of habit—gym at 10:00 p.m., pool at midnight, smoking shirtless on his balcony by 2:00, always lit like a stage, always alone. always just close enough to the camera to make your skin burn.

you tell yourself it’s protocol. safety. your job.

but you don’t track the others like this. don’t grind into your chair when they stretch, don’t replay their footage, don’t whisper their names through trembling fingers as they move, unaware, under your gaze. only him. only satoru. his body in the jacuzzi, head tipped back, hands sliding over his chest like a lover’s—your hands, in your dreams.

he doesn’t smile at the cameras. doesn’t wink.

but god, he knows. he lingers too long in the lobby mirror, adjusting his tie with fingers that drag slow, deliberate, down his throat. lets his robe slip open in the sauna, just enough to tease. pauses in the elevator, fixing his hair, his reflection a taunt you can’t look away from.

you consume it. devour it. a starving thing, clawing at scraps of him through glass and wire.

it started three weeks ago. your first shift.

your workplace was new to you then, its weight still sinking into your bones. the surveillance room felt like a cockpit, all blinking lights and quiet menace, the screens alive with the building’s pulse. you were still learning the system—camera toggles, tenant logs, the web interface that mapped every floor, every door. your hands shook, fumbling with the controls, nerves raw from the pressure of not screwing up.

then he walked in.

lobby camera, center frame. 1:47 a.m.

a man—tall, lean, platinum hair catching the chandelier glow like a halo. black coat unbuttoned, shirt half-untucked, tie loose like he’d tugged it free mid-conversation. he moved like water, smooth and unhurried, every step a claim on the space around him.

your breath hitched.

he stopped at the lobby desk, empty at this hour, and leaned against it, one elbow propped, head tilted back. his throat—long, pale, exposed—gleamed under the light, and you stared, frozen, as his fingers brushed his jaw, slow, almost lazy, like he was touching himself for you.

you didn’t mean to zoom in.

your finger slipped, nudged the control, and the camera tightened on him—his jawline, sharp enough to cut, the faint curve of his lips, the way his lashes framed eyes you couldn’t see but felt, even through the screen. your mouth went dry. your pulse throbbed, low and heavy, between your thighs.

he didn’t look at the camera. didn’t need to.

he just stood there, a god in tailored black, and you were already falling. already his.

“who…” you whispered, voice cracking, barely audible over the hum of the room.

your hands moved before you could stop them. the web interface—tenant directory, access logs. you pulled it up, fingers trembling as you typed, cross-referencing the timestamp, the lobby feed, the elevator he’d step into.

floor seventy. penthouse 70-B.

satoru gojo.

the name burned itself into you, a brand you’d carry. you stared at it, at the screen, at him, still lingering in the lobby, now turning toward the elevator. he paused, just for a moment, and ran a hand through his hair, slow, deliberate, fingers dragging through platinum strands like he knew you were watching. like he wanted you to.

your thighs pressed together.

you felt it—the heat, the ache, the pull of him through the screen. you sat there, shaking, staring as he stepped into the elevator, as the doors closed, as the number ticked up to seventy.

you didn’t sleep when you got home. couldn’t.

you saw his throat, his fingers, the way he moved, every time you closed your eyes.

now, weeks later, it’s worse.

he’s a habit you can’t break. a drug you don’t want to.

tonight, he’s on the balcony, not the gym. 2:13 a.m. cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around his lips like a lover’s caress. shirtless, of course, because he knows—god, he has to know—how it wrecks you. his chest gleams under the city lights, lean muscle shifting as he leans against the railing, head tipped back, throat bared like an offering.

your finger hovers over the balcony feed. trembles. taps.

the screen zooms in, and you’re gone.

“satoru…” you whisper, voice raw, breaking on his name.

the surveillance room is a tomb, dim and buzzing, your only company the cold coffee at your elbow and the chair that groans under your weight. your shoe taps the desk’s base, a nervous rhythm, but it’s not enough to ground you. nothing is.

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but you lean in, elbows braced, forehead dropping into one hand as the other slips between your thighs. just over your pants, at first, palm pressing against the damp heat already soaking through. you’re shaking, breath caught in your throat, the pressure hitting too sharp, too fast.

he exhales, smoke spilling from his lips, and you whimper, a tiny, choked sound, as your fingers press harder, grinding slow circles that make your hips twitch. shame burns your cheeks, but it’s not enough to stop. it’s never enough.

he shifts, one hand sliding down his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his waistband—low, too low, always too low—and you’re panting now, thighs squeezing tight, the chair creaking as you rock against your hand.

“fuck…” you hiss, barely audible, but it feels like a scream.

you imagine him knowing. imagine him turning, ocean eyes piercing the lens, that cruel, lazy smirk curling his lips as he sees you—sees you falling apart, sees you desperate, sees you his. you imagine his voice, low and smooth, calling you filthy, calling you his little voyeur, telling you to beg for him.

your other hand tangles in your hair, pulling, muffling the sounds you can’t keep in. you’re pathetic. you know it. every night, the same surrender, the same ruin. and still, your stomach twists, your pulse hammers, like it’s the first time he’s stripped you bare with a glance.

he flicks the cigarette away. leans further back, arms spread along the railing, chest flexing, abs tightening. a performance. a fucking taunt.

your fingers slip under your waistband, find slick, find heat, and you moan, soft, broken, as you curl them inside, chasing the ache he’s carved into you. you’re trembling, hips jerking, the pressure building too fast, too sharp.

“please… satoru…” you’re begging now, nonsense spilling from your lips, tears pricking your eyes as you grind against your hand. you want his fingers, his mouth, his cock—want him to pin you down, to fuck you until you’re sobbing, until you’re nothing but his.

the screen blurs. your vision blurs.

he turns, just slightly, and for a moment—god, fuck—you think he looks. not at the camera, not quite, but close enough, his lips twitching, almost a smirk, like he feels you, knows you’re there, knows you’re coming undone for him.

the orgasm cuts through you like glass—swift, brutal, unrelenting. your body jerks, folds in on itself, thighs squeezing tight around your trembling hand as your hips lurch forward. your other palm flies to your mouth, barely stifling the broken sob that claws its way out. you come fast, filthy, slick flooding your fingers as your eyes stay locked on him—on the way he just stands there, untouched, untouchable, claiming you without ever lifting a finger.

you slump back, shaking, panting, the screen still burning with his image.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t glance up. but that almost-smirk lingers, like he knows.

your fingers fumble, minimizing the feed. you close your eyes, bite your cheek until you taste copper, but it’s no use.

it’s just the same old regret with no attempt to change.

the morning after, you’re late.

first mistake.

the service elevator’s down, stairwell’s sealed, and your badge won’t open the freight. no choice but to take the main lift, even with the day staff still lingering, even with the high-rise’s elite drifting in for their shadowed deals. you tap the button, fix your collar in the glass pane, tell yourself it’s fine.

it’s not.

the doors slide open, and he’s there.

satoru gojo. seventy-B.

leaning against the panel, one hand in his pocket, black coat draped over his frame like it was tailored for sin. tie loose, platinum hair mussed, like someone’s fingers—or the wind—already claimed it. his presence fills the space, heavy, suffocating, and your mouth goes dry, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, gaze sliding from your shoes to your throat, lingering there—too long, always too long—until you forget how to breathe.

you step in. no choice. the doors are closing.

you take the opposite side, careful, too careful, not to stand too close. but it’s useless. his scent—clean, sharp, something faintly sweet—curls around you, and your heart’s pounding so loud you’re sure he hears it. sure he feels it, like a predator sensing prey.

floor 1 to 70.

an eternity of silence, broken only by the elevator’s hum and the soft tap of his fingers—once, twice—against his thigh. you steal a glance, catch his reflection in the mirrored walls. his jawline, sharp as a blade. his shoulders, rolling under the coat. the veins on his hand, the glint of his watch.

you’re trembling. thighs pressed tight, hands curled into fists to keep from reaching out. you’ve seen him bare, seen him slick with sweat, seen him stretch for your cameras like he’s offering himself. you’ve touched yourself to the shape of his hips, cried his name into your palm, and now he’s here, real, close enough to touch, close enough to ruin you.

your lips part. you almost speak.

he turns.

slow. deliberate. like he planned it.

his eyes—ocean-blue, half-lidded, unreadable—pin you in place. they flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and you flinch, a tiny shudder you can’t hide.

“hi,” you whisper, voice cracking, too small, too desperate.

he doesn’t answer. not at first. just watches, lets the silence stretch until it’s a noose around your neck. then, low and smooth, like ice sliding down your spine:

“we really don’t have to do this, do we?”

his voice slices through you—sleek and precise, like a scalpel. it doesn’t raise, doesn’t crack. it lands. right in your stomach, clean as a knife to soft flesh. shame floods in fast. need follows close behind. the ache of being seen carves itself into your ribs. you flinch—sharper this time—fingers spasming at your sides, nails biting into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself in.

“r-right,” you stammer, too fast, too weak, and your eyes dart to the floor, to the numbers ticking up. floor 33. floor 52. you bite your cheek, taste blood, try to hold yourself together, but you’re unraveling, and he knows it. he sees it.

his gaze doesn’t leave you. not for a second. it’s heavy, burning, stripping you bare, and you’re shaking now, thighs squeezing tighter, heat pooling where you don’t want it. you’re desperate—god, you’re so desperate—for him to say something else, to step closer, to pin you against the wall and make you beg.

you imagine it. his hands on your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp. his mouth, hot and cruel, whispering how pathetic you are, how you’re his little whore, watching him night after night. you imagine him pulling your hair, bending you over, fucking you until you can’t think, until you’re nothing but his.

floor 61.

floor 70.

the bell dings.

he steps out, unhurried, like the world waits for him. like you wait for him. and before the doors close, he pauses by the mirrored panel, adjusts his tie. his hand slides down his chest, slow, deliberate, fingers grazing the waistband of his pants.

he smiles.

not at you. at his reflection. but it’s enough. it’s too much.

the doors seal shut, and you’re alone, trembling, thighs slick, hands clawing at your own arms to keep from falling apart.

you’re not even at the security room yet, but you already know that tonight, you’ll come harder than ever. to his voice. to that smile. to the way he looked at you like he already owns you.

because he does.

he fucking does.

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alive-gh0st · 1 month ago

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❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you wake up in an unfamiliar place—threadless, wingless, and wildly out of place in a world that forgot how to feel. the man who caught you (or spared you, or maybe neither) offers no comfort. only silence. and rules you don’t understand. but you’re built for love—even stripped of your status, even with your wings torn away—and despite everything, you hum. he watches. you talk. something shifts. and for once, the silence isn’t empty.

❤︎ contains: sfw. soft sci-fi. celestial grief. morally questionable men with capes. lonely mythologies. divine exile. cupid!reader. omni!mark. omni!invincible. slow-burn dynamics. sharp dialogue. soft power plays. emotional tension. thread metaphors. awkward domesticity. a glittery, homesick cupid in a strange house. and one emotionally repressed war criminal trying not to care.

❤︎ warnings: post-exile trauma. references to canonical war/genocide (vague). injury care. survivor’s guilt. isolation. identity confusion. mild body horror (wing loss). emotional withholding. unspoken grief. and the bone-deep ache of trying to be wanted when you were made only to serve.

‪❤︎ wc: 4868

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i’m honestly so beyond touched by the response to this fic about a wingless cupid and a cosmic war criminal. the love it’s gotten?? unreal. my whole thread-glued heart is just… full. you’ve made this story feel less like a fall and more like a landing. thank you for every comment, like, and reblog—i’m storing them in a pink sparkly jar labeled “emotional fuel.” let’s keep tugging the string—chapter one starts now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You wake up face-down in luxury.

Specifically: half-smushed into a couch that feels engineered for spine alignment, interstellar meditation, or a villain’s downtime—not comfort.

Definitely not comfort.

The texture is weirdly sleek—velvet-synthetic.

Expensive.

The kind of couch that exists just to say “I’m expensive”—not to be sat on. Which, of course, you are.

…Badly.

You’re tangled in a heavy blanket that definitely wasn’t there before, limbs twisted like a limp marionette. Every joint aches. Your back screams.

You blink, eyes crusty. Then blink again.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No ambient hum of threads. No divine frequency. No lace-sky breathing stories into the tips of your wings—

Oh.

Right.

No wings.

Just… nothing.

You inhale shakily, trying not to flinch at the echo of absence where they used to be.

That phantom pull still flickers beneath your skin, like your whole body expects to move differently and can’t understand why it doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, the blanket tangled around your knees slipping off with a whisper-soft sigh.

It’s heavy and warm and smells like something between ozone, steel, and—

Oh.

Him.

“Okay,” you murmur, voice raspy. “Either I survived, or I’m in a very bougie version of limbo.”

Your limbs ache. Everything aches. You’re bruised in places that aren’t even supposed to bruise. Your wings? Still gone. Still phantom. Still wrong.

And the worst part?

The air feels… hollow.

No threads.

No connections.

No one’s longing.

You’re utterly alone—again.

You shuffle upright and glance around, trying not to wobble.

The room is sleek, high-tech in a sterile, vaguely militaristic way. Walls smooth and silver-dark, faintly glowing interface panels here and there.

It’s clean. Cold. Lit with soft panels that glow a sterile blue.

A strange crystalline screen suspended midair flickers with symbols you don’t recognize.

There’s a table that sits low in the center of the room—glass, probably. It looks solid, but you eye it like it might judge you.

You’re not in a prison—not quite.

But you’re not safe either.

Still—your voice comes out bright. Croaky, but bright.

“Well, at least it’s not hell.”

You wobble to your feet and immediately trip over the corner of the blanket.

Stumble, flail, barely catch yourself on what might be a countertop… or a weapons locker. Hard to say.

You don’t recognize a single object in the space.

That doesn’t stop you from touching everything.

A metallic orb hums when you poke it.

Another panel flashes red. You press it again. It turns off.

“Definitely not a prison,” you say, chewing your lip. “Probably. Hopefully. …Possibly a villain’s lair. But like… a tasteful one?”

Your legs push you toward a shelf and there’s an object shaped like a tall, elegant hourglass—except filled with something that glows faintly purple.

Naturally, you poke it.

It purrs.

You yelp.

“H-hello?! Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”

Your voice slowly fades into silence.

You pick up something else. It’s smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy for its size.

“Hmm. Mug? Weapon? Mug and weapon? A murder mug? It feels like a murder mug,” you mumble, turning it over.

“Do they drink blood tea here?”

Then—something beeps. Very softly.

Your whole body tenses.

And then you feel it.

The weight of presence.

Not a string. Not love.

Gravity.

And danger.

You turn—and there he is.

The red-caped man from the field—towering in the doorway like a bad decision carved out of stone and anger.

He’s standing there.

Silent. Immense.

In red and white and black, all sharp lines and steady breath. His cape falls behind him like a curtain of blood. The goggles don’t show his eyes—but you feel the glare through them.

His jaw is set. His arms are crossed. His black goggles glint even in the low light. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to.

You go solid, still holding the probable mug-weapon.

Ah right—you can’t forget.

It’s still the guy who caught you. Or… confronted you. Or nearly vaporized you last night in a field of daisies.

You give a sheepish smile.

“Hi. Morning. Or, uh, whatever time it is on this… aggressively minimalist version of Earth!”

He tilts his head once. His voice is flat.

Unreadable.

“Don’t touch that.”

You freeze. “This? Oh, no, I wasn’t—I mean, I did. Technically. But only spiritually.”

He doesn’t respond.

You blink. Look at the object. Look back at him. Grin. “Okay. Cool. I won’t. Totally understand boundaries. Big believer in consent.”

He doesn’t react.

You clear your throat. Set the item down. Slowly.

“Although, in my defense, your whole interior design aesthetic is kinda yelling ‘please investigate me.’ So really, it’s—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he cuts in, firmer.

You offer him a sheepish thumbs-up. “Got it. Loud and scary clear.”

And then—because your instincts are garbage and you were literally created to poke things—you touch something else. A little blinking panel near the door.

His eyes narrow.

You drop your hand like it burned you. “Sorry!! Reflex! Very bad reflex!”

He stares.

You stare back, then give a very small, very awkward wave.

Another long pause.

He sighs—just barely. Turns away without a word and disappears down the hall.

You watch him go, blinking.

“…He seems nice.”

You sit back down with a wince, then mutter, “I should definitely touch more stuff.”

You do.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with silence.

Again.

But this time it’s not lonely silence—it’s awkward. Heavy. The kind that settles between two people who don’t know if they’re enemies, housemates, or a cosmic glitch in each other’s timelines.

You linger in the hallway.

Still sore. Still threadless. Still dressed like someone who got kicked out of Heaven and landed in a tech-noir villain’s den.

And still—despite every instinct screaming don’t—you follow him.

Of course you do.

Like a sparkly little space unwanted houseguest with opinions that has zero survival instincts and a tragic affection for ominous men in capes.

He doesn’t say you can’t follow him.

He just walks briskly through his own home—long hallways, seamless doors, touch-panel everything—while you trail behind, barefoot and blinking like a freshly-kicked cherub.

He ignores you.

You ignore his ignoring.

“That’s a cool cape,” you say conversationally, trying to keep up with his strides. “Is it, like, sentimental? Symbolic? Villain-chic? Oh—wait, are you emotionally attached to it?”

No answer.

You lean forward slightly, squinting. “Do you… wear it to bed?”

Still nothing.

You hum thoughtfully. “Is it fused to your soul? Is it detachable? Do you have different ones for different moods—like, casual cape, angry cape, emotional repression cape?”

He doesn’t respond.

You try again. “Can I touch it?”

He stops.

Just like that—halts mid-stride.

You freeze behind him, nearly bumping into his back. And blink up at him.

He turns his head slightly, the cape flaring just enough to ripple past your fingertips.

“Don’t.”

One word. No bite, no growl—just a warning. Like a storm saying this isn’t rain yet, but it could be.

You raise your hands slowly. “Right. Sorry. Cape off-limits. Got it. You’re very committed to the brand.”

He walks again.

You sigh—more dramatic than necessary—but keep following.

“What about the goggles?” you ask. “Do you sleep in those too? Are they like… mood-activated? They’re very intimidating. Very Darth-Vader-meets-heartbreak. No offense.”

He says nothing.

“Okay, so you’re clearly not a big talker,” you mutter. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or ten.”

So you keep going, babbling just to fill the space.

Another hallway. Another panel. Another stretch of angular, too-clean walls and whisper-quiet footsteps.

It’s like walking through a museum designed by someone who’s never smiled—even once.

And somehow—somehow—you still manage to fill the silence.

“You know, in some dimensions, silence is considered a mating ritual,” you offer cheerfully.

He pauses.

You blink. “Wait, not that I’m saying this is that. I mean—it’s not, right? Unless it is—which, um, please clarify. Because if it is, I should probably brush my hair.”

He keeps walking.

You huff, trailing further behind now. Not because you’re tired—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly because his energy is doing that don’t-get-close thing again.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond. Again.

You glance at one of the panels you pass. It blinks red as you near it.

Curious, you step closer.

He doesn’t stop you this time—but you hear it in his voice. That shift. That thread of something darker.

“You’re not allowed outside.”

You freeze. “What?”

“That panel’s locked. Security override in place.”

You blink, confused. “So I can’t leave?”

A beat.

“No.”

Your stomach twists.

You laugh. Light. Thin. “Oh. So I am in a prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” he says flatly.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just said I can’t leave.”

“It’s for your safety.”

“Isn’t that what all supervillains say?”

He turns around then—just slightly—and for the first time, you think maybe he’s trying not to say something. His jaw tightens. Not with anger. Not exactly.

With thought.

You don’t press. Not this time.

Instead, you look out the nearest window—tinted, probably bulletproof, overlooking a skyline that feels wrong. Choked. Smoky and sharp at the edges.

It’s beautiful in the way a burnt cathedral might be. And it feels lonely.

You press your hand to the glass.

Whisper-soft.

“I don’t belong here,” you murmur. Not to him. Not really to yourself, either.

Just… to the glass.

To the world beyond it.

He doesn’t answer.

But he watches you.

And that’s enough to make your heart thud somewhere in the hollowness of your chest.

You exhale. Curl your fingers into a mock-heart on the window.

“You should really consider getting some plants,” you say softly. “This place is screaming ‘emotionally constipated bachelor pad.’”

His reflection doesn’t flinch.

You sigh and turn away.

“I’m gonna go talk to the weird murder mug again.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Later—hours, maybe—you find yourself planted at the far end of what might be the dining area.

Or the command center. It’s hard to tell.

The table looks like it could initiate a planetary strike if you breathe on it wrong.

He sits across from you.

Still.

Still suited. Still silent.

He hasn’t taken the mask off. You haven’t seen his eyes.

But he gave you a name.

Not a real one, probably. But something.

“Invincible,” he said flatly when you asked, finally cracking under the sheer power of your pestering and your best please I’m charming let me know what to call you face.

You didn’t believe him at first.

“Seriously? That’s what you go by?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re worse than the other one.

Still—you took it. Grinned. Clutched it like it meant something.

“Okay, Invincible. Cool name. Bit dramatic. But I can work with that.”

He hasn’t asked for your name in return.

You gave it anyway.

Not your designation. Not the code the Realm used.

Just what you used to call yourself, back when you believed in tenderness.

He didn’t comment on it.

He just sat like he is now—spine too straight, hands steepled on the table, as if pretending not to regret every life choice that led to you invading his vaguely dystopian bachelor pad.

You kick your feet under the table.

He says nothing.

So you talk.

Because of course you do.

“Okay, so—fun story,” you begin brightly, draping your arms across the back of your seat. “Once, I accidentally matched a soulweaver with a carnivorous star-being. Didn’t realize their threads were laced with paradox elements. Their honeymoon destroyed a moon.”

You pause.

Grin.

“But they’re still together! Super toxic. Super cute. Kind of horrifying… I’m rooting for them.”

Nothing.

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at you—but his fingers tap once. Barely audible. A twitch in the rhythm.

You keep going.

“I once worked a case where the connection was so knotted it took seven cycles, two reincarnations, and one cosmic dog to unravel it. Not a metaphor. There was literally a dog. He was a thread guide. Very fluffy.”

Still nothing.

But you notice the shift.

The way his chin angles, almost imperceptibly.

Like he’s listening without wanting to. Like he’s filing away every word and pretending he’s not.

You lean forward. Prop your chin on your hand.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” you ask, soft. Just curious.

Invincible freezes.

Just for a second.

Then moves again—barely. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not relevant.”

“Oh, it’s totally relevant,” you say with a mock gasp. “It’s my entire job.”

“You don’t have a job,” he mutters.

“Excuse you,” you sniff. “I am temporarily unemployed. There’s a difference.”

He sighs—again, just barely. But it’s the kind that says if I fly into the sun right now, will she keep talking?

You smile, a little too brightly.

“It’s just—you’re fascinating,” you say, earnest now.

“You move like someone who’s always preparing for war. But there’s something in your hands. Like… you used to hold gentler things.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

But his knuckles tighten—just slightly.

You catch it.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you hum softly, off-tune and aimless. Just enough to fill the space between your sentences.

“I used to hum like this when I was scared,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “Back when I thought being good meant being useful.”

A long beat.

Then—

“You’re not scared now?” he asks, voice flat.

You glance at him.

Smile.

“Terrified.”

And you mean it.

But it’s soft.

Like a confession wrapped in pink thread and handed over with shaking fingers.

Invincible doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

And that’s something.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch—the weird one that thinks it’s better than you—biting the inside of your cheek.

“I can do it myself,” you say.

Immediately lie.

“I’m very good at medical stuff. Definitely qualified. Certified in three realms, actually.”

Invincible doesn’t look convinced.

You don’t blame him.

Your last attempt at bandaging involved decorative knotting and something that suspiciously resembled a shoelace.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he says flatly.

You huff. “You say that like it’s a certainty.”

“It is.”

He crosses the room without waiting for permission, gloved hands already unsnapping some hidden compartment in the wall.

A panel folds out.

Inside: a compact but precise set of medical supplies.

Of course he has medical supplies.

Of course they’re alphabetized.

Of course the antiseptic glows ominously.

You fidget.

“I don’t like that bottle,” you murmur. “It’s judging me.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sets it down on the nearby table with quiet precision.

You swallow.

The silence stretches.

It’s heavier now. Less awkward. More… inevitable.

You wrap your arms around your knees, voice quieter.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

And still—he gestures.

“Turn around.”

Your pulse stumbles. You hesitate.

But then—you do.

Slowly.

You turn your back to him.

Pull the too-big shirt they gave you (his? something spare from the war room? it smells faintly of leather and ozone) off one shoulder. Then the other. Then lift the hem just enough for him to see.

It hurts.

Not just the movement—but the exposure.

It’s not romantic.

Because there’s nothing romantic about torn skin or lost wings.

Invincible doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

But you hear the pause.

The smallest catch in his breath.

Then—his gloved fingers at the edge of the old wrapping. Careful. Methodical.

The first touch makes you flinch.

He stops immediately.

Waits.

Doesn’t apologize—he never apologizes—but he doesn’t push either.

You exhale.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

The bandages peel away slowly.

You wince.

Not because of the pain—but because you know what it must look like.

The bruising.

The way the skin puckers where the feathers once grew.

The scars trying to form over something that should have never been taken.

Invincible works in silence.

You hum.

It’s soft. Tuneless. The kind of sound you make when you don’t know what else to fill the quiet with.

“I used to help patch people up,” you say absently, voice thin. “Mostly broken hearts, but once I had to reattach a wing to a grief-angel. That was messy. Lots of glitter and wailing.”

Still, he says nothing.

But his hands move gently.

Like he’s trying not to break what’s already broken.

The antiseptic stings. You hiss.

He pauses.

You press your forehead to your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie again.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Then—

“You’re not.”

You go still.

The words aren’t cruel. Not biting. Just… factual. Like a truth dropped onto the floor and left there.

You don’t reply.

But the humming dies in your throat.

His fingers return. Smoother now. Gliding over the worst of it. Wrapping clean gauze like it means something. Like there’s care in the motion, even if he doesn’t name it.

You close your eyes.

For a moment—you pretend it doesn’t hurt.

You pretend you’re not threadless and wrecked.

You pretend someone is holding you in a way that won’t leave more marks.

And he—this man with no real name, with a face hidden behind silence and sharpness—keeps wrapping your wounds like someone who doesn’t know why he hasn’t stopped yet.

When Invincible finishes, you don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

The air holds the shape of something unsaid.

And for the first time since you fell—

You don’t feel entirely alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with guilt.

Not big, thunderous guilt—the kind that screams or scars.

No, this is softer. Quieter.

The kind that curls under your ribs and pokes at you when it gets too silent.

The kind that sounds like: Invincible hasn’t killed me yet. I should… do something?

You’ve been here for… two sunrises now? Three?

Time is slippery here. Threadless days always are.

But one thing’s clear: for all his sharp edges and scowls, your new… roommate? captor? interdimensional roommate with possible emotional constipation?—he’s been letting you stay.

In his space. On his furniture. Breathing his air.

Rent-free.

The least you could do is say thank you.

So you decide to clean.

Which is dumb. Because you have no idea how any of this tech works.

But that doesn’t stop you.

You start small—folding the blanket you’ve been cocooning in. You even add a little flair.

Tug the corners into soft heart-shaped knots. Totally impractical. Definitely aesthetic.

You set it in the middle of the couch like a peace offering. Or a warning.

You hum to yourself as you tidy.

Not that there’s much to tidy—everything here is spotless, sterile, like a military catalog page come to life.

Still, you try.

Straighten a few panels. Dust off some gleaming surface with the edge of your sleeve.

Eventually, you find what might be a kitchen. Or a weapons bay disguised as a kitchen. Hard to say.

It has counters. It has drawers. One of them contains what you think are utensils. One of them contains a small orb that buzzes and tries to eat your finger.

You close that one. Quickly.

Cooking it is.

You find something vaguely bread-adjacent in a sealed container.

Something that might be butter. Something that definitely isn’t sugar but looks suspiciously like cosmic sand.

You try anyway.

You find heat. A panel that flares red when you touch it.

“Perfect,” you whisper. “Totally safe. I am definitely qualified for this.”

You burn the first attempt. Instantly. Black smoke hisses upward like a judgment.

You try again.

You nearly set the panel on fire.

You keep going.

Eventually, you manage to create… something!

Not good. Not edible. But warm and round-ish and not on fire.

You plate it. Add a flower from the weird glowing vase thing on the counter for presentation. Step back. Admire it.

It’s hideous.

But you made it.

So you carry it out carefully—just as the door hisses open.

And there he is.

Cape flowing. Expression unreadable.

Invincible freezes in the doorway, black goggles flicking from your smoke-streaked face to the kitchen behind you—now full of suspicious smells and one still-smoking dish.

You hold out the plate.

“I made a thank-you loaf,” you say brightly. “It’s mostly… not poison!”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Then—

“Did you override my weapons lock?”

You blink. “What?”

He steps past you, into the kitchen. Taps a barely-visible panel near the wall. A soft click echoes.

Then a compartment slides open to reveal: missiles.

Actual missiles.

“Oh,” you say. ��That explains the ticking.”

Invincible turns around slowly.

You grin, sheepish. “In my defense, your cabinet labeling system is deeply confusing.”

He doesn’t yell.

Which is somehow worse.

He just gives you the look.

That disappointed, stone-jawed, exhausted-by-your-whole-existence look.

Your grin falters.

“…I’ll go sit down.”

You do.

And you sulk.

You curl up in the corner of the couch and re-fold the blanket. Then re-fold it again.

You mutter something about interdimensional roommates being impossible to please.

You don’t even notice when he walks back in.

Not at first.

You only notice the pause.

The soft shift of air.

You glance up.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, holding something.

The blanket.

You must’ve left it in the kitchen, half-heartedly abandoned on a counter.

Invincible doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t throw it away either.

He folds it once. Carefully.

Sets it back on the couch.

Exactly where it was.

Knots and all.

You don’t say anything.

But your chest feels warmer.

He leaves again.

You smile to yourself.

Next time, you’ll try the cosmic rice.

(Probably a bad idea. But you’re nothing if not persistent.)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark tells himself you’re just a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

That’s all.

Another anomaly dropped into his territory—another celestial error.

Something to monitor. To contain. Not to engage with.

Definitely not to understand.

He repeats this in his head more than once.

But he still notices things.

You hum when it’s too quiet.

Not on purpose.

Not like you’re trying to fill the space with meaning.

It’s unconscious—barely there. Just a low, tuneless sound you loop under your breath like you’re afraid silence might swallow you if you let it linger too long.

He hears it through the walls sometimes.

Not enough to be irritating. Just enough to be… present.

You clutch your weapon in your sleep.

Not always.

But most nights, when the lights dim and you think he’s stopped watching.

The bow—the one you won’t explain—is usually curled tight against your chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip.

Protective. Familiar.

Like it’s the only thing left that still feels like home.

You move in your sleep too. Restless. Whimpers low, barely audible.

Once, he found you curled into the narrowest corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

The blanket had fallen. You hadn’t bothered to pick it up.

He hadn’t either.

But he covered you with a new one before leaving.

You never mentioned it.

You walk wrong.

It’s not… bad. Just different.

Like someone still getting used to gravity.

You don’t always trust your footing—sometimes you skip a step, sometimes you hesitate before a turn, like you expect the ground to shift under your feet.

You never ask for help.

But when something startles you—when you nearly drop something, or a panel glitches too loud, or the power flickers just a little too long—your hand twitches toward him before you even realize it.

Like a reflex. Like an instinct you haven’t unlearned.

Like you think he might catch you.

You talk too much.

About nothing. About everything.

Stories that make no sense—about thread-realms and starlight weddings and love gods who punch each other for fun.

Mark doesn’t believe half of it.

But he listens.

Every word.

Worse, he remembers them.

You describe things with your hands—like you can’t just say what you mean, you have to shape it.

Fingers dancing through the air, painting emotion he doesn’t know how to name.

When you laugh, your shoulders always rise first.

When you lie, you bite the inside of your cheek.

You sing off-key. Barely know it.

And you always pause—just for a second—before you smile.

That’s the one that gets him.

The hesitation.

Like you’re weighing whether it’s worth it.

Whether this moment deserves it.

Whether he does.

Mark doesn’t understand you.

And that should be easy.

It’s always been easy, not understanding people. Easier to flatten them. File them into categories: threat, resource, dead.

But you don’t stay in the box.

Don’t follow the rules.

You should be scared of him—he knows you are—but you don’t flinch when he walks past. You make eye contact. You wave. You hum.

You grin.

And he…

He notices.

Even when he doesn’t want to.

Especially then.

So he tells himself it’s strategy.

Just observation.

Just a glitch with glitter in your hair and too many stories in your throat.

That’s all.

But when he walks past the living room, and sees you curled asleep with your bow across your chest and your hands still half-reached toward something that isn’t there—

Mark slows.

Doesn’t stop.

But he slows.

And tells himself again—you’re just a problem.

Not a person.

Not someone.

Not his.

Not yet, not never.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The apartment is unusually quiet.

Ever since you got here—there’s always something humming softly in the air. Mark doesn’t notice the silence at first.

He’s used to that. Prefers it.

But this is different.

It’s a small sound that finally breaks him out of his thoughts.

Soft. Barely there.

At first, Mark thinks the sound is static.

Just another nighttime glitch—a flicker in the power grid, maybe. A disturbance in the perimeter sensors.

Something small. Something easy.

But then he hears it again.

Soft. Fragile. Not mechanical.

Human.

He moves before thinking.

Quiet steps down the hallway. Past the control room. Around the corner where the lights are still dimmed to sleep-mode. His hand hovers over the doorframe.

You’re still asleep.

Sort of.

Your body’s curled inward on the couch—smaller than usual, shoulders tight, hands clenched in the blanket. Not the bow this time. Just the blanket.

But your face—

Your face is wet.

Tears carve tracks down your cheeks in silence.

Your lips move, but there’s no sound. Your breath catches on each inhale like it doesn’t know how to settle in your chest.

You don’t sob. Don’t cry out.

You just tremble.

Mark doesn’t move.

He should. He knows he should. Turn away. Walk off. Let you have your grief like you always have—alone, unspeaking, full of bright little lies and off-key humming.

But you’re not humming now.

You’re breaking.

And he—

He watches.

Not with judgment.

Not even with curiosity.

Just… quietly.

Like something in him knows this is sacred. Or familiar. Or both.

He takes a breath. Slow. Controlled.

Then turns away long enough to return with a glass of water.

He sets it down on the table near you. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t ask.

When he glances back—

You’re still asleep.

But your hand moves. Barely.

Reaches toward the glass.

Or maybe toward something else.

Mark doesn’t stay to see if you find it.

But as he walks away, the sound of your breath steadying follows him.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But enough.

And for reasons he doesn’t name—

That’s worse than a scream.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room.

Surrounded by scraps of thread you found in one of the deep storage drawers Invincible didn’t think you’d find.

(He was wrong.)

One’s gold.

One’s red.

One’s a tangled mess of fraying blue that might actually be a shoelace.

You’re holding them all up like evidence.

Invincible’s standing over you. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Entire posture radiating why are you like this.

You grin up at him.

“Okay,” you begin, voice bright, “so this one represents soul-tied destinies—deep, ancient, violently passionate.” You wiggle the red one.

“This one is light-thread—super soft, fluttery, usually forms during meet-cutes or emotionally charged hand-touching.” The gold.

You hold up the blue.

“This one is chaos. I don’t know where it came from. Possibly cursed. Could be your vibe.”

He squints. “Are you seriously playing with string right now?”

“It’s not playing,” you gasp. “It’s education. I’m trying to teach you how threads work.”

“I don’t care how threads work.”

“You should! Not that you have one—rude—but if you did, yours would definitely be fire-forged, probably double-knotted, tangled six times over, emotionally scorched and fraying at the edges—oh, and extremely defensive.”

He blinks.

Then—“What does that even mean.”

You pause. Smile softly.

“It means you’re very repressed, babe.”

A beat.

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you like you’ve grown another head. (Honestly, that would explain a lot, probably.)

You shrug. Flick the red string toward him. It hits his chest.

Invincible doesn’t catch it.

“Here. Pretend that’s your thread.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

He turns to leave.

You call after him, “You’d definitely be a reluctant soulmate.”

He freezes in the doorway.

Very quietly, without turning around, he says.

“There’s no such thing.”

You smile to yourself. Pick up the gold thread again. Loop it gently around your fingers.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “But they don’t always start that way.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t walk away either.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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honeyhaeya · 5 months ago

Note

I was up all night thinking about a wonwoo fic. Bunny hybrid x Wonwoo. it just fits wonwoo more cus like, he's a nerd, and a computer kind of guy, going to the dark internet just to explore some sht or for fun then he comes across a bunny hybrid for sale in the marketplace. Please notice. Ily and thankyou <3 (ps. i chose to request this to you cus i love your fics sm)

Lean On Me - 내게 기대

Jeon Wonwoo x F!Reader

genre / tags: fluff, smut, hurt/comfort, hybrid AU, bunny!reader x human!wonwoo, gentle dom!wonwoo, breeding Kink (mild undertones), cockwarming (i will never shut up about wonwoo cockwarming), aftercare, established feelings warnings: NSFW (18+ only): explicit smut, detailed descriptions of sexual acts, hybrid characteristics (reader has bunny ears, slight animalistic instincts), mentions of past mistreatment/trauma (handled with care), overstimulation, clingy/intimate dynamic due to reader’s heat cycle, emotional vulnerability during aftercare. smut warnings: fingering, oral (f. receiving), penetration (piv), breeding kink implications (no pregnancy mentioned), cockwarming 9it's just so wonwoo), unprotected sex, sensual dominance from wonwoo, consensual and soft tone throughout. wc: 10,379 a/n: i think i've been writing wonwoo fics too much. i'm in love with jeonghan pls come back. (honestly, i love wonwoo sm too). DON'T LIKE DON"T READ please wtf this is animal play. seventeen taglist: @archivistworld <33 (no pressure, but if you want to be added on my taglists, there's a form i made (check my pinned post and click on "join taglist".) Preview: "Wonwoo’s fingers traced along the edge of your thigh, moving with a patience that made you ache even more. The heat within you pulsed stronger with every gentle touch, every whispered reassurance. ‘Wonwoo... please,’ you whimpered, burying your face in his chest as your tears soaked into his shirt. His voice was low, soothing, as he kissed the crown of your head. ‘I know, bunny. Let me take care of you.’ When his fingers slipped inside you, the relief was instant yet fleeting. The heat still burned, demanding more. And as his lips brushed against your own, you knew you were in safe hands, even as your instincts screamed for something primal.In the aftermath, with his shirt draped over you and his scent everywhere, you curled into his chest. Wonwoo's fingers lazily stroked your ears, his quiet promise lingering in the air. ‘I’ll keep you safe, always.’”

Wonwoo sat in the dim light of his apartment, the soft hum of his computer the only sound in the room. The clock on the wall ticked past 2 a.m., but sleep was the last thing on his mind. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the keyboard as he navigated a hidden marketplace on the dark web.

The site's interface was crude, with grainy images and glitchy text. He wasn't here for anything specific—this was just something he did when he was bored. It wasn't about breaking laws or finding trouble. For Wonwoo, the dark web was a rabbit hole of bizarre curiosities: forums about conspiracy theories, marketplaces selling counterfeit antiques, and coded discussions he'd never understand. Tonight, however, something caught his eye.

A new listing had appeared at the top of the page:

"Hybrid Companion for Sale - Limited Edition, One of a Kind."

The thumbnail image showed a woman, or at least, what looked like one. She had delicate bunny ears that drooped slightly, pale white skin, and wide, doe-like eyes that seemed to stare right through the screen. Her hair was soft and silvery, cascading over her shoulders like freshly fallen snow.

Wonwoo furrowed his brows, unsure whether to laugh or close the tab. "What the hell?" he muttered under his breath, leaning closer. It had to be a hoax, right? Some twisted art project or a desperate scam. But the listing's details were oddly... thorough:

"Bunny Hybrid #1438 Condition: New, untested. Perfect for companionship. Compliant and affectionate. Warning: For indoor use only. Price: 0.15 BTC (approx. ₩5,850,300 KRW - 4,000 USD) Delivery: Discreet, within 48 hours."

Wonwoo's skepticism grew. Untested? Indoor use? The phrasing felt clinical, like she was some kind of product. A chill ran down his spine, but curiosity gnawed at him. He clicked the listing.

The description expanded, revealing more photos. They showed her sitting on a minimalist chair in an empty white room, her ears twitching slightly. She wore a simple white dress, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The closer he looked, the harder it was to dismiss her as a mannequin or a clever CGI creation. She looked alive.

Wonwoo's hand hovered over the keyboard. This was insane. Why was he even considering this? But something about her expression in the photos stopped him. She didn't look scared or sad—just... empty, like she didn't know she was being sold.

"It's fake," he told himself. "It's probably fake."

But the listing had a countdown timer. "Auction closes in 10 minutes."

Before he knew it, Wonwoo had opened his crypto wallet. His fingers moved on autopilot, transferring the required amount to the provided address. The process felt surreal, like he was watching someone else make the decision for him. When the transaction confirmed, he stared at the screen, half expecting the site to crash or for the listing to disappear.

Instead, a message popped up: "Purchase Confirmed. Delivery instructions will follow shortly."

His stomach twisted. What had he just done?

Minutes later, an encrypted email arrived with a single line of text:

"Pick-up location: [Redacted]. Arrive at 11 p.m. tomorrow. Alone."

Wonwoo closed the laptop and pressed his palms against his face. This was either the biggest mistake of his life or the start of something he couldn't quite name.

The next night, Wonwoo pulled his hoodie tighter around himself as he approached the location—an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. The air was damp, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed in the distance. His heart raced, every instinct screaming at him to turn back.

Inside, the space was dimly lit, with a single crate in the center of the room. No guards, no people. Just the crate.

He approached cautiously, his footsteps echoing against the concrete floor. The crate was wooden, with slats that allowed him to see inside. He crouched down, peering through the gaps.

You were there, curled up and motionless. Your bunny ears twitched slightly, the only sign you were alive. Up close, you looked even more delicate. Your pale skin seemed to glow faintly under the dim light, and your breathing was soft and steady. You wore the same white dress from the photos, now slightly crumpled.

Wonwoo swallowed hard, unsure of what to do. He tapped lightly on the crate.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you sat up slowly, your gaze locking onto his. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, you tilted your head, your bunny ears perking up slightly as if studying him.

"Hey," he said awkwardly. "I'm... Wonwoo."

You didn't respond, your expression unreadable. Slowly, you reached out, pressing your hand against the slats of the crate. Your fingers were slender, your nails neatly trimmed. Wonwoo hesitated before pressing his own hand against yours, the wood separating you.

"I'm here to take you home," he said, his voice soft.

You blinked, your ears twitching again. And for the first time, your lips parted.

"Home?" you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wonwoo sat on the couch, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You sat on the floor near the coffee table, your posture tense and ears twitching as you took in your new surroundings. You hadn't said much since leaving the warehouse, only responding with short nods or quiet murmurs when he asked if you were okay.

The silence was suffocating. Wonwoo cleared his throat. "Uh, are you hungry? Thirsty?"

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. "Thirsty... what's that?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Thirsty. Like... do you want water?" He stood and walked to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the tap. "Here."

You hesitated before taking the glass from his hands. Your fingers brushed his, and he noticed how cool your skin felt. Bringing the glass to your lips, you took a tentative sip, your nose wrinkling slightly at the taste.

"It's... plain," you muttered, setting the glass down.

Wonwoo chuckled softly. "Yeah, it's just water. I guess you're not used to it."

You shrugged, your ears flicking forward. "I don't remember what I'm used to."

That caught him off guard. He crouched down to meet your gaze, his tone careful. "You don't remember anything? Not even where you came from?"

You shook your head, looking away. "Just... flashes. Bright lights. Voices. Nothing else."

Wonwoo frowned, a pang of guilt settling in his chest. Whatever you'd been through, it wasn't normal. He couldn't shake the feeling that you'd been treated more like an object than a person.

"Hey," he said gently, "you don't have to figure everything out right now. Just... take it one step at a time, okay?"

You looked back at him, your wide eyes softening slightly. "Why are you being nice to me?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Wonwoo rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to answer. "I don't know," he admitted. "I guess I felt like I couldn't just leave you there."

Your lips curled into the faintest smile, and for the first time, your shoulders relaxed.

Later that night, as Wonwoo set up a makeshift bed for you on the couch, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching him. He double-checked the locks on the windows and doors, his paranoia rising. It didn't make sense; no one had followed him, and the pickup had been clean.

"Wonwoo?" Your voice broke his train of thought.

He turned to see you standing by the couch, your bunny ears drooping slightly. "Yeah?"

"Are you... afraid of me?"

The question hit him like a truck. "What? No! Why would you think that?"

You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. "Because... they were. The people before you."

Wonwoo's stomach twisted. He approached you slowly, hands raised as if to reassure you. "I'm not afraid of you," he said firmly. "Whatever happened before, it's over. You're safe here."

You studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Okay."

But as you lay down on the couch and he retreated to his room, he couldn't shake the unease creeping over him. Something wasn't right.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator. Wonwoo lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, but sleep refused to come. His thoughts kept circling back to you—your hesitance, your fragility, and the way your ears twitched slightly every time he spoke.

A soft creak pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned his head toward the door, catching sight of your silhouette in the faint glow of the hallway light.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, his voice low.

You hesitated before stepping further into the room. "I don't think I've ever slept on a couch before."

Wonwoo sat up, rubbing his face. "Oh. Sorry about that. I should've—"

"It's not bad," you interrupted, your voice soft. "It's just... quiet."

The words made his chest tighten. "Do you want to sit?" He patted the edge of the bed.

You hesitated, your eyes darting to the floor before you shuffled closer, perching on the edge of the mattress. The tension in your shoulders was unmistakable.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently.

You glanced at him, your ears twitching slightly. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever's on your mind."

A soft, humorless laugh escaped your lips. "You really want to hear it?"

He nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Yeah. I do."

You sighed, your gaze fixed on your hands. "I don't know who I am. I don't know why I was there or what they wanted from me. All I know is... every time I think about going back, it feels like my chest is caving in."

Wonwoo's hands clenched into fists. He hated the thought of you being scared, of someone putting you in a position where fear was all you knew.

"You're not going back," he said firmly.

Your head snapped up, your wide eyes meeting his. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I won't let it happen," he said, his voice steady. "I don't know how or why I ended up finding you, but I'm not going to let anything happen to you now that you're here."

The weight of his words hung in the air. Your ears lowered slightly, and for the first time, he saw a glimmer of relief in your expression.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Without thinking, Wonwoo reached out, his hand brushing against yours. Your fingers twitched but didn't pull away. It was a small gesture, but it felt monumental.

"You're not alone anymore," he murmured.

For the first time, the tight knot in your chest loosened.

The next morning, Wonwoo woke up to the smell of burnt toast. Groaning, he stumbled out of bed, rubbing his eyes as he made his way to the kitchen.

There you were, standing by the toaster with a frown, a slightly charred piece of bread in your hand.

"Uh, what's going on?" he asked, stifling a laugh.

You turned, your cheeks flushing pink. "I thought I'd try to... cook. But it's harder than I thought."

He walked over, taking the toast from your hand. "You're supposed to set the timer, not just guess."

You crossed your arms, your nose scrunching in frustration. "Well, no one told me that."

Wonwoo couldn't hold back his laughter this time. The sound startled you, and before you knew it, you found yourself laughing too. It was small and hesitant at first, but then it grew, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you.

It was the first time he saw you smile.

And damn, it made his heart stutter.

After breakfast—well, what could be salvaged from your experimental cooking—Wonwoo sat across from you at the small dining table. He had insisted on making the second round of toast himself, and now the two of you sat in companionable silence, nibbling on toast and sipping coffee (or, in your case, a very sugary cup that he'd adjusted after seeing you gag at the first sip).

"So," Wonwoo said after a moment, breaking the silence. "Do you have a name?"

You froze mid-bite, your ears perking up. "A name?"

He nodded, his eyes soft. "Yeah. What do people call you? Or... did they call you anything?"

You frowned, the question pulling at a thread of memory that seemed just out of reach. "I... think it's Y/N," you said slowly, the name feeling both familiar and strange on your tongue.

"Y/N," Wonwoo repeated, testing it out. He smiled slightly. "It suits you."

A blush crept up your neck, and you quickly looked down at your plate. "It's just a name."

"It's your name," he corrected gently. "That makes it special."

You glanced at him, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his gaze. No one had ever spoken to you like this—like you were a person, not a thing.

"But," he added, leaning back in his chair with a playful smirk, "I think I'll call you Bun instead."

"Bun?" You blinked, your nose wrinkling slightly.

"Yeah," he said, his smirk widening. "You've got bunny ears, and it's cute. Just like you."

Your ears twitched furiously at the compliment, and you couldn't stop the blush from spreading across your cheeks. "You can't just—say things like that."

"Why not?" he teased, his voice light. "It's true."

You glared at him, though the effect was ruined by the way your lips twitched upward. "Fine. Then I'm calling you Woo. See how you like it."

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. "Woo, huh? I think I can live with that."

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a genuine warmth blooming in your chest—a feeling you didn't quite know how to name.

That evening, the two of you ended up on the couch, a random movie playing in the background as Wonwoo showed you how to navigate the TV remote. You had leaned closer to him, your curiosity outweighing your usual cautiousness.

"And this button changes the volume," he explained, his voice low.

You nodded, your face scrunched in concentration as you tried it out. The sound of the TV grew louder, and you quickly pressed the button again to lower it, a triumphant smile lighting up your face.

"See? Easy," he said, his lips quirking up as he watched you.

You turned to him, your smile fading slightly as you realized how close you were. His face was only inches from yours, his dark eyes steady and unreadable.

"Woo?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you so nice to me?"

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. "I already told you. You deserve to feel safe."

"But why do you care so much?" you pressed, your eyes searching his face for answers.

He hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "Maybe because you remind me that... not everything in this world is as cold as it seems. You're... different, Bun. And I want to protect that."

Your breath caught in your throat. No one had ever spoken to you like that—like you were something worth protecting, worth caring for.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the world had shifted.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Wonwoo's hand turned, his fingers curling gently around yours. "You don't have to thank me," he said softly. "Just... stay. That's enough."

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his words. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you had found a place where you truly belonged.

The night deepened, the warm glow of the living room casting soft shadows on the walls. Wonwoo had stepped into the kitchen to grab some water, leaving you curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your shoulders.

You tugged the fabric closer, your thoughts swirling. For the first time in forever, you didn't feel like you had to be on guard. You didn't have to hide or brace yourself for what might come next.

But that didn't stop the memories from creeping in.

"Bun?" Wonwoo's voice broke through the fog. He was standing in front of you now, holding out a glass of water. "You okay?"

You blinked, quickly nodding. "Y-Yeah."

He didn't look convinced. "You sure? You've been quiet for a while."

You hesitated, your fingers clutching the edge of the blanket. "I was just... thinking."

"About what?" he asked, sitting down beside you.

You swallowed hard, debating whether to tell him. But something in his gaze—steady, patient, understanding—made you feel like you could.

"It's about... me," you said slowly, your voice barely above a whisper. "What I am."

Wonwoo stayed quiet, giving you space to continue.

"I'm not like you," you said, your ears flattening against your head. "I don't just... exist like a normal person. There are... things about me—about my body—that I can't control."

He tilted his head slightly. "Like what?"

You took a deep breath, your cheeks burning with shame. "Like when I go into heat."

Wonwoo's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't say anything, waiting for you to explain.

"It happens every few months," you continued, your voice trembling. "It's... painful. And if it's not treated, it gets worse. But..." You paused, your chest tightening.

"But?" he prompted gently.

Your voice broke as you said the next words. "But the people who used to 'treat' me... they didn't care about the pain. They only cared about using me for themselves."

The silence that followed was deafening. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him, too afraid of what you might see in his eyes—disgust, pity, or worse.

But when Wonwoo finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady. "That's not going to happen again."

You blinked, glancing up at him. "What?"

He shifted closer, his expression firm. "No one's ever going to hurt you like that again. I promise."

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you quickly looked away. "You say that, but... what if it happens? What if I can't control it, and you—"

"Stop," he said, his tone gentle but firm. He reached out, his hand resting lightly on yours. "I'm not like them. I'd never take advantage of you."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. For the first time, you felt like someone saw you—not as an object or a tool, but as a person.

"Do you... do you really mean that?" you whispered.

He nodded. "Every word. And if you ever feel like it's too much, we'll figure it out together. On your terms."

You couldn't stop the tears from falling now, the weight of his words breaking down the walls you had built around your heart.

Wonwoo reached out, his thumb gently brushing away a tear. "Hey. It's okay. You're safe here, Bun."

For the first time, you believed him.

Wonwoo watched as you nodded off on the couch, your breathing evening out, though your grip on the blanket was still tight. Even in your sleep, it seemed like you were holding onto years of fear and mistrust.

He sighed softly, standing to grab the glass you'd left on the coffee table. The sound of his footsteps was faint, careful not to wake you as he moved to the kitchen.

It wasn't like him to get involved in something so... complicated. He usually preferred simplicity—quiet evenings alone, a book in hand, the hum of his PC in the background. He didn't go out of his way for people, not because he didn't care, but because people rarely gave him a reason to.

But you? You were different.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed as he stared at the glass. There was something about you that tugged at his attention, something beyond the strangeness of finding you on a marketplace. You were guarded but vulnerable, sharp but soft. It made him want to protect you, even if he wasn't sure why.

When he returned to the living room, you were awake, your wide eyes watching him from beneath the blanket.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, his voice low.

You shook your head, your ears twitching slightly. "No. I just... I couldn't sleep."

He sat down on the armchair across from you, his movements slow and deliberate. "Something on your mind?"

You hesitated, your fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. "It's just... strange," you admitted. "Being here. With you."

He tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to elaborate.

"I'm not used to this," you said quietly. "Not used to... feeling safe."

Wonwoo's gaze softened, though his expression remained neutral. "You don't have to get used to it all at once," he said after a moment. "Take your time."

Your lips parted slightly, surprised by his words. Most people didn't give you time—they expected things from you, demanded things you weren't ready to give. But Wonwoo? He was different.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugged, leaning back in the chair. "I don't know. Maybe I just like rabbits."

A small, breathless laugh escaped you, and his lips quirked into a faint smile.

"I mean it," you said, your tone soft but insistent. "You don't even know me."

"You don't know me either," he pointed out. "Maybe I'm just trying to get on your good side so you don't eat all my snacks."

You laughed again, the sound lighter this time. "I don't think that's how this works."

He shrugged, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Maybe not. But if it makes you laugh, I'll take it."

For a moment, the room was quiet again, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence you were used to. It was... comfortable.

"Wonwoo?" you said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," you said, your voice barely audible.

He didn't respond right away, his gaze steady as he looked at you. Then, with a small nod, he said, "You don't have to thank me, Bun. Just get some rest."

You smiled faintly, your heart feeling a little lighter as you settled back into the couch.

And for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the living room. You stirred awake, stretching slightly under the blanket. Wonwoo was already up, sitting at the dining table with his laptop open, headphones on, and a cup of coffee in hand.

His attention was glued to the screen, his expression calm but focused. You watched him for a moment, feeling a strange sense of peace.

"You're up early," you said, your voice soft.

He glanced over at you, pulling one side of his headphones off. "Couldn't sleep much," he replied. "Thought I'd get some work done. How about you? Did you sleep okay?"

You nodded, sitting up and clutching the blanket around you. "Better than I expected. Thanks for... everything."

He gave you a small nod before returning his attention to the screen.

As you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, you realized something: you hadn't had a proper bath in... well, you couldn't remember how long. Your ears twitched slightly at the thought, and you stood, glancing toward the hallway.

"Wonwoo?" you called hesitantly.

"Hmm?" he replied, not looking up.

"Where's the bathroom?"

He pointed down the hall without breaking his focus, but when you hesitated, he finally looked at you. "Everything okay?"

"I..." You fidgeted with the hem of the blanket, avoiding his gaze. "I don't really... know how to do it myself."

That caught his attention. He blinked at you, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. "You don't know how to... take a bath?"

You shook your head, your cheeks warming. "I always had someone help me before," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stared at you for a moment, processing your words. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright. Come on."

"What?" You looked at him, wide-eyed.

"You said you need help, right?" He stood, closing his laptop. "Let's figure it out."

Your ears twitched nervously as you followed him down the hall, clutching the blanket tightly around you.

When he opened the bathroom door, you peeked inside. It was clean and simple, with a glass shower and a bathtub on one side. Wonwoo turned to you, his expression unreadable.

"Alright," he said, crossing his arms. "What do you need me to do?"

You hesitated, your cheeks flushing. "I don't know... maybe just show me how it works?"

He nodded, stepping into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, adjusting the temperature and letting the water fill the tub. "It's pretty straightforward," he said. "You just..."

He trailed off when he noticed you still standing by the door, fidgeting nervously. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's just... a little overwhelming," you admitted. "I'm not used to doing things on my own."

He sighed again, softer this time. "Okay. Look, I'll help you get started, but you're going to have to trust me, alright?"

You nodded, biting your lip.

He grabbed a fluffy towel from the rack and handed it to you. "Here. Wrap this around yourself and let me know when you're ready."

You stepped inside, closing the door halfway before wrapping the towel around you. "Okay," you called out nervously.

Wonwoo stepped back in, careful to keep his eyes on the faucet. "Alright," he said, his voice calm. "You can sit on the edge of the tub for now. I'll show you how to use the showerhead and the soap."

You followed his instructions, perching on the edge as he adjusted the water. He handed you a bottle of soap, explaining how to lather it and rinse it off. His voice was steady, patient, and somehow soothing.

When you fumbled with the soap, he caught your hand gently, guiding you. "Like this," he said, his fingers warm against yours.

You glanced up at him, your heart skipping a beat. For someone so quiet and reserved, he had a way of making you feel... safe.

"Got it?" he asked, his eyes meeting yours.

You nodded, your cheeks flushing. "Yeah... thanks, Wonwoo."

He gave you a small smile, standing up. "I'll give you some privacy now. If you need anything, just call me."

As he left the bathroom, closing the door behind him, you couldn't help but feel a strange warmth in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, this new chapter in your life wouldn't be so bad after all.

It started out small.

You didn't even notice it at first—just a faint, restless warmth in the pit of your stomach. It was subtle, ignorable even, as you moved through the rest of the day. Wonwoo had gone back to working on his laptop while you explored the apartment, your curiosity keeping you distracted for a while.

But as the hours dragged on, the warmth grew. It wasn't just in your stomach anymore; it spread through your chest, your arms, and your legs, like an itch just beneath your skin that you couldn't quite reach.

By evening, you found yourself sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, biting your lip as you tried to focus on the TV. But it was impossible. The sensation was overwhelming now, and your ears twitched uncontrollably as you fought to keep your breathing steady.

"Hey," Wonwoo's voice pulled you out of your thoughts. He stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed as he looked at you. "You okay?"

You didn't trust yourself to look at him. Your cheeks burned as you nodded quickly. "I'm fine," you mumbled, your voice tight.

He didn't look convinced. Wonwoo stepped closer, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. "You don't look fine," he said. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head, curling up tighter. "It's nothing," you insisted. "I just... need a minute."

But he didn't leave. Instead, he crouched down in front of you, his dark eyes scanning your face. "You're warm," he said, his voice soft but concerned. "Do you have a fever?"

You flinched as he reached out, his hand brushing against your forehead. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, and you jerked back, your ears flattening against your head.

"It's not a fever," you said quickly, your voice trembling.

Wonwoo tilted his head, his gaze narrowing. "Then what is it?"

You hesitated, your cheeks burning as you tried to find the words. "I... I think it's my heat," you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Your heat?"

You nodded, burying your face in your hands. "It's normal for hybrids," you explained, your voice muffled. "It happens every few months. But I didn't think it would happen so soon..."

Wonwoo was silent for a moment, and you dared to peek at him through your fingers. He looked... surprisingly calm.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, his voice steady.

Your heart skipped a beat at the question. You hadn't expected him to take it so seriously. "I don't know," you admitted. "It's usually... manageable. But it's worse when I'm alone."

He nodded, standing up and holding a hand out to you. "Come on," he said.

You stared at his hand, confused. "What?"

"You said it's worse when you're alone," he said simply. "So don't be alone."

Your cheeks burned as you hesitated, but eventually, you reached out and let him pull you to your feet. He led you to the couch and sat down, patting the spot next to him.

You sat down tentatively, your heart racing as the warmth in your chest seemed to grow even stronger. Wonwoo didn't say anything, but he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding.

"Better?" he asked after a moment.

You nodded, leaning into him slightly. "Yeah... a little."

As the evening went on, you found yourself growing more comfortable in his presence. The warmth was still there, but it was less overwhelming now, tempered by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the gentle weight of his hand.

For the first time since the heat had started, you felt like you could breathe again.

Your whole body was burning. It wasn't just the heat in your stomach anymore—it was a desperate ache that throbbed with every passing second, pooling low in your core. You squirmed against the couch, trying to find some relief, but it only made it worse.

Wonwoo's hand was on your head, his fingers lazily stroking through the fur at the base of your ears. The slow, comforting rhythm sent shivers down your spine, but instead of soothing you, it only stoked the fire inside you.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore it, trying to focus on anything else. But the longer you sat there, the harder it became. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, your body instinctively searching for some kind of release.

Wonwoo noticed.

"You're fidgeting," he said quietly, his deep voice cutting through the haze in your mind. "Are you okay?"

You froze, your ears twitching at the sound of his voice. "I-I'm fine," you stammered, even though you weren't.

He didn't buy it. His hand moved from your ears to your shoulder, gently turning you to face him. His dark eyes searched yours, and the concern in his gaze made your heart ache.

"You're not fine," he said softly. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

You bit your lip, looking away. How could you possibly tell him? How could you explain this unbearable, shameful need that was consuming you?

"It's... it's my heat," you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's bad this time."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on your shoulder tightened, grounding you. "How bad?" he asked.

Your cheeks burned as you avoided his gaze. "It hurts," you murmured. "My body... it's aching. I feel like I'm going to explode."

Wonwoo was silent for a long moment, his hand still resting on your shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady, but there was an edge of something else—something you couldn't quite place.

"Have you ever... had anyone help you before?" he asked carefully.

You nodded, your throat tightening at the memory. "Other hybrids would help sometimes," you said. "But it was never... gentle. They only cared about... breeding."

His jaw tightened, his expression darkening slightly. "And the men?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

You hesitated, your ears flattening against your head. "They didn't care about me either," you admitted. "They just used me for their own pleasure."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken anger and something else—something softer, more tender.

"You deserve better," Wonwoo said finally, his voice firm. "You deserve to be cared for."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. "Wonwoo..."

His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "If you'll let me," he said softly, "I want to take care of you."

Your breath caught in your throat. The heat in your body flared at his touch, but it wasn't just physical anymore. There was something deeper, something that made your chest ache just as much as your body did.

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

He nodded, his dark eyes holding yours. "I want to help you," he said. "But only if you want me to."

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, your cheeks burning. "Okay," you murmured.

Wonwoo's lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. "Good," he said. "Just tell me if it's too much, okay?"

You nodded again, your heart racing as he leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing against your skin.

Wonwoo's hand stayed on your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle. His thumb grazed along your skin, grounding you even as your body trembled. The ache inside you was unbearable, but somehow, his presence made it a little easier to endure.

"I'll go slow," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, as if he could sense your nerves. "Just trust me."

You nodded, swallowing hard as his other hand came to rest on your waist, pulling you closer. Your knees pressed into the couch on either side of him, and you felt his warmth radiating against you. It was overwhelming, but it wasn't bad. It was... comforting.

His fingers slid to your ears, brushing over them in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn't help the small, breathy sound that escaped your lips, and his eyes darkened slightly at the sound.

"Does that feel good?" he asked, his voice soft yet weighted.

You nodded, biting your lip as your hands instinctively gripped the fabric of his shirt. "Yeah," you whispered, your voice shaky.

His lips curved into the faintest smile. "You're sensitive," he murmured, his fingers continuing to trace along your ears. "I'll be careful."

The way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you—like you were something precious, something worth protecting—made your chest ache almost as much as your body burned.

"Wonwoo..." You didn't even know what you were asking for, but his name slipped from your lips like a plea.

"I know," he murmured. "I've got you."

His hands slid down your back, pulling you flush against him. Your forehead rested against his shoulder as his fingers traced small, soothing circles along your spine. It wasn't enough to stop the heat, but it was enough to make you feel safe.

Slowly, he tilted your chin up, his dark eyes searching yours. There was no rush, no impatience. Only warmth and care.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his lips brushed against yours—tentative at first, testing the waters. But when you leaned into him, he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you steady.

The heat in your body flared, but this time, it wasn't unbearable. It was electric, sparking to life with every touch, every movement.

His lips left yours to trail along your jaw, down the column of your neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. You couldn't stop the small, breathy noises that escaped you, and you felt him smile against your skin.

"Still okay?" he asked, his voice rougher now, laced with something deeper.

"Yes," you whispered, your fingers curling into his hair. "Please... don't stop."

He didn't. His hands explored your body with a gentleness you'd never experienced before, his touch careful and measured. He was patient, never rushing, always watching your reactions to make sure you were comfortable.

Your body moved instinctively against his, searching for relief, and he guided you through it, his voice a soothing constant in your ear.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "I've got you. Just let go."

And for the first time, you did.

Wonwoo's gaze softened, his fingers gently retreating from your trembling body. He leaned closer, cupping your flushed face with his hand. "You're lying," he murmured, his deep voice steady yet filled with concern. "Your body's still burning up."

You avoided his eyes, embarrassed by how the heat in your core seemed to intensify again, worse than before. It wasn't something you could control, and you hated feeling this vulnerable in front of him.

"It's... just how it is," you whispered, your voice shaky. "I'll be fine. I don't want to bother you—"

"Stop that," he interrupted, his tone firm but still gentle. "You're not a bother, and I told you I'd take care of you."

His words made your chest tighten, a strange warmth blooming there, different from the feverish heat that raged through the rest of your body. You looked up at him, your ears twitching slightly as his thumb brushed over your cheek.

"But... I've never done this with anyone I trust," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I don't know what to do."

Wonwoo's lips quirked into the faintest smile, his hand moving to gently stroke your ears again, as if to soothe you. "You don't have to do anything," he reassured you. "Just tell me what feels good, and I'll handle the rest. Okay?"

You hesitated for a moment before nodding, your fingers clutching onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling back to meet your eyes. "Let's try to make this a little easier for you," he said, his hands moving to carefully lift you into his lap.

The shift in position sent a jolt of warmth through your body, and you instinctively buried your face in his shoulder, your arms wrapping around his neck. His hands settled on your waist, holding you securely as he whispered against your ear.

"Just relax," he said softly, his breath warm against your skin. "Let me take care of you."

His hands began to move again, trailing down your sides, his touch firm yet unhurried. The contrast of his cool fingers against your heated skin made you shiver, and a soft whimper escaped your lips as he dipped lower, tracing the curve of your thighs.

"Wonwoo..." His name left your lips in a breathy plea, and he responded with a low hum, his lips brushing against your temple.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice steady and comforting. "I've got you."

As his hands worked their way back to your aching core, you felt your body tense in anticipation, your breath hitching when his fingers slid between your folds once again. He was slow, deliberate, as if he was determined to learn exactly what made you feel good.

You couldn't stop the soft moans that spilled from your lips as his movements grew more confident, his thumb circling your clit in a way that made your entire body tremble. He watched you carefully, his dark eyes filled with a mix of concern and fascination, as if he couldn't get enough of the way you responded to his touch.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said softly, his voice laced with something deeper, something that sent a shiver down your spine. "Don't hold back. Let me hear you."

His words broke through the last of your hesitation, and you let yourself fall into the sensation, your head tilting back as waves of pleasure rolled through you. But even as your body tensed and finally released, you could feel the heat building again, stronger than before.

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead resting against his shoulder as your ears drooped slightly. "Wonwoo... it's not stopping," you admitted, your voice trembling with frustration and embarrassment.

He tightened his hold on you, his fingers gently brushing through your hair. "Then we'll keep going," he said simply, his tone unwavering. "I'll stay with you until it's over."

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and filled with uncertainty. "You... you'd really do that for me?"

He smiled, the kind of soft, reassuring smile that made your heart ache. "Of course. I'd do anything for you."

The desperation in your voice, the way your trembling body clung to him—it was enough to make Wonwoo's self-control unravel. He brushed your tears away with a gentle hand, his dark eyes meeting yours, searching for any hesitation. When he saw none, only the pleading desperation in your gaze, he nodded softly.

"You sure, bun?" he asked, his voice thick with restraint, but the nickname rolled off his tongue like honey.

You could only nod frantically, your hands gripping his arms. "Please," you whispered, the ache too unbearable to handle any longer.

Wonwoo moved carefully, lowering himself between your legs, his broad shoulders holding your thighs apart. His fingers slid down to spread your folds again, his touch deliberate, making sure you were still ready for him. The sight of you, wet and needy, made him groan low in his throat, his cock straining against the last layer of fabric between you.

He pulled his underwear down in one swift motion, his length springing free. You gasped at the sheer size of him, the heat in your core only intensifying as you realized what was about to happen.

"I'll go slow," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. The tip of his cock teased your slick folds, and you whimpered at the sensation, your hips bucking instinctively.

The moment he started to push in, you moaned loudly, your body arching as the stretch sent a wave of pleasure and pain through you. He froze halfway, giving you time to adjust, his hand stroking your side in soothing circles.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and restraint. "Relax for me, bun. I don't want to hurt you."

His words melted into your ears, and you tried to relax, focusing on the way his hands steadied you. Slowly, he pushed in further, filling you inch by inch until he was fully seated inside you. You let out a breathy moan, your hands clutching at his shoulders as the overwhelming fullness consumed you.

"God, you're so tight," he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "So perfect."

The heat in you was relentless, but the way he stretched and filled you brought a strange sense of relief, as if he was the only thing that could soothe the ache. When he started to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, your body reacted instinctively, your hips lifting to meet his.

"Wonwoo... faster," you begged, your voice trembling as the pleasure began to overshadow the pain.

He didn't hesitate, his thrusts growing faster and deeper, each one hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out his name. The sounds of skin against skin filled the room, along with your soft cries and his low, guttural groans.

"You're so good for me," he rasped, his lips finding your neck, kissing and biting softly as he pounded into you. "Taking me so well."

Your ears twitched at the praise, and your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Every movement, every thrust seemed to push you closer to the edge, the heat in your core intensifying until it felt like you might explode.

"Wonwoo, I—I'm close," you whimpered, your nails digging into his back as your body tensed beneath him.

He nodded, his pace quickening as he held you tighter, determined to bring you over the edge. "Let go, bun. I'm right here. Let go for me."

His words were all it took to push you over, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You cried out his name, your body shaking as the heat finally broke, leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms.

Wonwoo followed shortly after, his thrusts growing erratic as he buried himself deep inside you, groaning your name as he came. The feeling of his warmth filling you made your body relax completely, the last remnants of your heat fading away.

He stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. His hand came up to stroke your ear gently, his touch soothing as you leaned into him.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah... I feel so much better now. Thank you, Wonwoo."

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You don't have to thank me. I'll always take care of you, bun."

Wonwoo's arms stayed wrapped around your waist as you sat perched on his lap, your legs straddling him. His forehead rested lightly against yours, and he let out a soft hum, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your lower back. You were still catching your breath, your body trembling slightly, but the closeness between you was soothing.

"You're adorable," he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss, as if testing the waters.

Your hands slid up his chest instinctively, clutching at his hoodie for balance. "Says the guy who just—" you paused, cheeks warming, "—made me feel things I didn't think were possible."

Wonwoo smirked faintly, his hands resting on your hips. "Well, I guess we both learned something new today," he teased, leaning in to capture your lips again.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, like he was savoring the taste of you. His hand wandered to the small of your back, holding you securely in place as you pressed your body closer to his. The warmth between you both was intoxicating, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn't exist—only the two of you tangled together on the couch.

You broke the kiss, panting softly, your forehead resting against his. "Wonwoo..." you whispered, voice shy yet yearning.

His eyes searched yours, filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "What is it, bun?"

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against the nape of his neck. "I feel... safe with you," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His heart swelled at your words, and he pressed another kiss to your lips, gentle and reassuring. "You'll always be safe with me," he said firmly, his hand stroking your ear affectionately, earning a soft whimper from you.

As the heat of the moment lingered, Wonwoo shifted slightly, careful not to move too much and overwhelm your still-sensitive body. The weight of the intimacy between you felt heavy but comforting, like a quiet promise unspoken.

"You're really something, y'know," he muttered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You let out a quiet giggle, your cheeks flushing. "And you're not so bad yourself," you teased, nuzzling against him, your ears twitching slightly from the affectionate strokes of his fingers.

He let out a quiet laugh, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Guess we make a good pair then."

The two of you stayed like that, wrapped in each other's arms, sharing soft kisses and whispered words. The tension from earlier was gone, replaced with a warm, unspoken connection that neither of you wanted to let go of.

Wonwoo let out a soft groan, his hands firmly gripping your hips as you shifted slightly on his lap. The motion sent a jolt through both of you, and you gasped, your body still sensitive from earlier. His length was still buried deep inside you, and the intimate connection left your cheeks flushed and your heartbeat erratic.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice low and strained, the warmth of his breath brushing against your cheek. "I'm trying to take it slow, but you're making it hard."

You bit your lip, your hands braced on his shoulders for balance. "I-I wasn't trying to do anything," you whispered, your voice shy yet laced with a tinge of mischief.

He smirked at your flustered state, his hands sliding up to your waist to hold you steady. "Sure you weren't," he teased, leaning in to kiss the corner of your lips.

Your ears twitched slightly at the sensation, and you couldn't help but let out a soft whimper, your body instinctively clenching around him. The reaction drew a deep groan from Wonwoo, his grip on you tightening as his self-control teetered on the edge.

"You're going to drive me insane," he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours.

You giggled softly, a shy smile playing on your lips. "Maybe I like seeing you like this," you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wonwoo's eyes darkened slightly at your words, a playful smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, is that so?" he asked, his tone dripping with mock challenge.

Before you could respond, he shifted his hips slightly, the movement sending a spark of pleasure through your body. You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your breath hitched.

"W-Wonwoo!" you stammered, your cheeks burning.

He chuckled softly, his hands guiding your hips to keep you steady. "Relax, bun," he said gently, his tone soothing yet teasing. "I've got you."

The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—made your heart flutter. You leaned in, capturing his lips in a tender kiss, your body instinctively responding to his touch. The warmth between you was overwhelming, yet you couldn't bring yourself to pull away.

As the two of you stayed locked in each other's embrace, the world outside faded away. It was just you and Wonwoo, connected in a way that felt deeper than words could ever describe.

Wonwoo's hands slowly roamed up your back as you remained seated in his lap, the warmth between your bodies making you feel like you were melting into him. His lips brushed against yours in a slow, lazy kiss, and the intimacy of the moment made your ears twitch slightly.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his thumb brushing soothing circles on your hip.

You nodded, nuzzling into his neck, but your body betrayed you. The heat still lingered, subtle but growing again, your sensitivity making you squirm slightly. Wonwoo's hands tightened their hold on you, sensing your restlessness.

"Still not enough, huh?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with understanding.

"I-It's not..." you trailed off, too embarrassed to finish your sentence, but he tilted your chin up, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle, reassuring gaze.

"I'll take care of you," he promised, his lips brushing yours softly before his hands gripped your hips. With a slow movement, he adjusted your position, and the subtle shift made you moan quietly.

Wonwoo leaned back on the couch, guiding you to move at your own pace, letting you take control. You slowly lifted yourself before sliding back down, and the stretch had both of you exhaling in unison. The intimacy of it—the closeness—made your chest tighten with an overwhelming mix of emotions.

You began moving with his help, finding a rhythm that had you both panting softly. The warmth of his hands on your waist, his whispered words of encouragement, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered made your heart race.

"Wonwoo..." you moaned softly, your hands braced on his chest as you moved.

"You're doing so good," he praised, his voice strained but tender. His hands guided your movements, his thumbs brushing over your skin in soothing strokes as he watched you lose yourself to the moment.

The pace gradually increased, your movements becoming more desperate as the pleasure built higher and higher. Wonwoo met you with soft thrusts, his control evident in the way he moved to match your rhythm perfectly.

When you finally reached your peak, your body trembled in his arms, and he held you close, whispering soothing words as you rode out your release. He wasn't far behind, his grip tightening as he followed you over the edge, his groan muffled against your shoulder.

You both stilled, panting heavily, and Wonwoo's arms wrapped around you to pull you into his chest. The weight of exhaustion mixed with relief settled over you, and you nuzzled into him, feeling safe and cherished.

"I think you're trying to kill me," Wonwoo joked softly, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

You giggled, your ears twitching slightly as you leaned into him. "Sorry," you mumbled, though your tone was anything but apologetic.

He chuckled, his hands gently stroking your back. "Don't be. Just... don't move for a while. Let's stay like this," he whispered, his voice filled with affection.

And for a moment, everything felt perfect. But as the heat of the moment faded, the reality of your situation began creeping back in. The two of you had crossed a line, one that could never be undone.

Still, you stayed curled up in Wonwoo's arms, savoring the peace before the world outside the walls of his apartment could interfere once more.

The soft sunlight filtered through the curtains, warming your skin as you stirred awake. You blinked sleepily, the ache of last night still lingering in your body. The weight of his arm around your waist was grounding, protective. Wonwoo was still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to admire him. His face looked softer in the morning light, his sharp features relaxed into something impossibly gentle.

Your bunny ears twitched as his grip tightened slightly, pulling you closer even in his sleep. It was... cozy. Too cozy. You weren't used to this—waking up somewhere that felt safe. You almost didn't want to move, afraid that it would shatter whatever fragile bubble the two of you had formed.

But the warmth between your legs made you squirm slightly, a reminder of everything that had happened the night before. Your face flushed at the memory. You'd never been cared for like that—never had someone look at you like you were more than just... something to use. And yet, there he was, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Your ears perked up when you felt him stir. His hand flexed on your waist before his eyes fluttered open. His gaze was hazy, still heavy with sleep, but it softened immediately when he saw you.

"Morning," he mumbled, his voice deep and gravelly.

You nodded shyly. "Good morning."

His thumb traced lazy circles on your skin, and you could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks again. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.

"I'm okay," you murmured, though your voice wavered slightly. "A little... sore, maybe."

Wonwoo's brows furrowed slightly. "Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head quickly. "No, no! It's not that. I'm just... not used to it. To... someone being gentle."

He didn't respond immediately, but the way his hand tightened on your waist said enough. "You deserve gentle," he said quietly, his tone firm like he wanted to make sure you believed him.

Your chest tightened at his words, and you looked away, unsure of how to respond. This was all so new—too new. And yet, you didn't want it to stop.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand. Wonwoo sighed, reluctantly letting go of you to grab it. His eyes scanned the screen, and you saw his expression shift slightly—his jaw tightening.

"What's wrong?" you asked softly, your ears drooping slightly at the sudden tension.

He hesitated for a moment before setting the phone back down. "Nothing," he said, though his tone betrayed him. "Just... work stuff."

You tilted your head, unconvinced, but you didn't push. Instead, you sat up, pulling the blanket around you. "Do you have to go?"

"No," he said quickly, sitting up to meet your eyes. "I'm staying right here."

His hand reached for yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The look in his eyes was steady, reassuring. But you couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was on his phone wasn't just "work stuff."

Still, you smiled softly, letting yourself believe him for now. "Okay."

"Why don't we get some breakfast?" he suggested, his tone lighter now. "I'm sure you're starving."

You nodded, your stomach rumbling at the thought of food. As the two of you got up and started moving around the apartment, you couldn't help but wonder—what exactly was he hiding? And how long would this little bubble of safety last before reality came crashing in?

Wonwoo's lips brushed against the crown of your head as you curled up in his lap, his arms wrapped securely around you. The soft blanket he had draped over your shoulders kept you warm, but it was his steady heartbeat under your ear that gave you real comfort.

"You're awfully quiet now," he murmured, his hand absentmindedly stroking between your bunny ears, earning a soft hum from you. "Is something on your mind?"

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze. His expression was gentle, almost serene, but his dark eyes held an intensity that made you feel bare yet safe all at once.

"It's just... I don't know how to say it," you admitted, chewing on your bottom lip.

"Try me," he coaxed, his fingers shifting to lightly pinch your ear, a smirk tugging at his lips when you squeaked.

You hesitated, feeling heat creep up your cheeks. "I... don't think I've ever felt this safe before. Like... you actually see me as me. Not just some... hybrid with—"

Wonwoo silenced you with a soft kiss, his lips lingering just long enough to melt away your worries. "You're not just anything, Y/N," he said quietly, his forehead pressing against yours. "You're you. That's what matters."

Your heart swelled at his words, and before you knew it, your arms were wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. "Thank you, Wonwoo," you whispered.

"For what?"

"For being... this," you said, leaning back just enough to gesture at him, though you didn't really have the words to explain.

His lips quirked up in that understated smile of his, the one that made your stomach flip. "I guess you're welcome, then."

The moment felt too perfect to break, but your stomach had other plans, growling loudly enough to make you both pause.

Wonwoo chuckled, his chest rumbling against you. "Hungry?"

"...Maybe," you mumbled, your ears drooping slightly in embarrassment.

"Well, let's fix that." He shifted, preparing to stand up with you still in his arms.

"Wait! I can walk!"

He raised an eyebrow. "And miss the chance to carry my cute bunny to the kitchen? Not a chance."

You couldn't fight the grin that spread across your face as he carried you bridal style toward the kitchen, his teasing making your heart feel lighter than it had in years.

After a warm meal that left you feeling full and happy, Wonwoo guided you back to the couch. The evening air had turned cooler, and your soft pajamas were still in his room, far away from where you wanted to be—next to him.

"Here," he said, reaching into the basket of clean laundry he had yet to fold. He pulled out one of his shirts—a soft, oversized black one that smelled distinctly like him, that comforting mix of woodsy cologne and something warm, like coffee.

You blinked up at him, tilting your head. "That's... yours?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, holding it out to you. "You'll be more comfortable in this for now."

"But it'll smell like you."

"And that's a problem because...?" He gave you a lopsided grin, clearly enjoying the slight pout on your lips.

"It's not a problem," you muttered, cheeks warming as you tentatively took the shirt from his hands.

Wonwoo turned away to give you some privacy, though he couldn't help sneaking a quick glance over his shoulder as you slipped into the shirt. It draped over you like a dress, the hem brushing just above your knees, the sleeves far too long for your arms. You tugged at the collar nervously, your bunny ears twitching as the fabric enveloped you in his scent.

"Cute," he said simply, his voice soft but filled with affection.

You froze, your cheeks heating up. "Y-You think so?"

Wonwoo stepped closer, his hands gently landing on your shoulders before he tugged you into a hug. "Of course," he murmured, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. "You smell sweet, like always. But now..." He took a subtle inhale, his arms tightening slightly around you. "Now you smell like me too. I like it."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but snuggle closer, your head pressing into his chest. "I... like it too," you admitted shyly, your voice muffled against him.

He leaned back just enough to tip your chin up, his dark eyes meeting yours. "Good," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "You should get used to it."

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. "You're so smooth sometimes, you know that?"

He chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Only with you."

The warmth of his shirt enveloped you like a snug cocoon, and with the soft scent of him lingering on the fabric, you couldn't help but feel a little dazed. Wonwoo's shirt was oversized on you, the hem brushing against your thighs as you shifted your weight on the couch. The mix of his scent and the subtle sweetness you naturally carried made the air feel warm and comforting.

He pulled you close again, his large hands gently resting on your waist as he settled back into the cushions. You melted into him effortlessly, his solid chest a perfect pillow. Wonwoo's heartbeat was steady under your cheek, grounding you in the peaceful silence.

"You smell like me now," he murmured, his deep voice low and laced with affection. His lips ghosted against your temple, lingering there in a gentle kiss. "I like it."

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your cheeks flushed from his tender words. "That's unfair," you teased, voice soft as you traced a finger along the line of his jaw. "You keep saying things that make me weak."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and his lips quirked into that small, crooked smile that made your heart flutter. "Only because it's true. You look perfect like this." His arms wrapped around you tighter, pulling you into his lap effortlessly.

You let out a happy sigh, curling up against him, your legs draped over his as he rested his chin atop your head. "I don't think I've ever been this comfortable," you admitted, your voice muffled against his chest.

"Good," he replied simply, his hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers. The gesture felt as natural as breathing, his thumb idly stroking your knuckles as the two of you relaxed into each other's warmth.

Sleep was tugging at your eyelids now, the day's tension melting away with every gentle kiss he pressed to your forehead, your hair, and even your bunny ears. You nuzzled closer, letting out the smallest, most content hum, which made Wonwoo's heart skip a beat.

As your breaths evened out, he couldn't resist murmuring, "I'll keep you safe, always." He didn't know if you were awake enough to hear it, but it didn't matter. The words were true, and they hung in the quiet air like a promise.

His shirt wrapped around you, his scent lingering on your skin, and his strong arms holding you tight—it was a kind of peace you hadn't known existed.

And as the night stretched on, the two of you stayed that way—wrapped in each other, hearts beating in perfect rhythm.

a/n: let's all thank anon for the request, especially if you liked it (hope you did) mwa's

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