#Windows Thin Client

[nephynes]

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

➺ minors do not interact

➺ pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

➺ wc: 28k

➺ content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.

WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.

➺ a/n: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.

➺ nsfw tags under the cut

SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

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You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

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➺ taglist-

@immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @inawonderfulworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji

[joelsrose]

For the Hour - Part 2

part 1

warning: 18+ only MDNI, literally porn with a plot, oral (female receiving) angst (duhhh), age gap? (reader is grown tho) sex work, probably more tbh.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

You sat at your small dining table, the one by the window that caught the late morning light just right, your legs crossed and bare beneath the hem of the thin cotton dress you’d slipped on after your shower, the fabric shifting with every small movement as steam from your mug curled upward and disappeared into the stillness. The book in your lap was open, held lazily in one hand, but you hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes.

It had been two days since Joel had come over.

Two days since he’d stood stiff and uncertain in your doorway, thick fingers twitching at his sides, eyes too soft for a man so guarded, jaw clenched like he was waiting to be turned away.

And God, when you’d touched him, when you’d kissed him, when you’d spread your thighs and whispered it’s okay, let me take care of you—he had melted.

Right there in your hands, against your mouth, inside your body, he had unraveled with the kind of desperation that didn’t come from hunger but from starvation.

He’d stayed for hours afterward, tucked against your chest, his hand resting at your hip like he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to hold you but couldn’t stop himself.

You’d held him without saying a word, feeling the tension drain from his limbs minute by minute, until all that was left was the slow rise and fall of his breath against your skin.

There was something almost boyish in the way he curled into you, in the way he reached for your hand and kept it over his heart, like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t cost him anything. He had been quiet. Tender. So careful, as if moving too quickly might shatter the moment.

Only when the sun had dipped behind the trees had he finally stirred, mumbling something about Ellie, how he hadn’t meant to take up your whole day.

He’d stood awkwardly by the door, clothes half-buttoned, hair still mussed from your fingers, eyes flicking to you like he didn’t know if goodbye meant the end or just a pause. And you—you’d kissed him again. Slow. Soft. Not part of your services, not part of anything but instinct. Because you could see it in his face, the way he flinched when he looked at you like he didn’t know how to be wanted.

And then he was gone.

Now, two days later, your hair still damp from your morning shower, wrapped in a towel that dripped softly against your shoulders, you sat in the quiet hum of Jackson morning—safe, still, yours.

You loved this time of day. The slowness. The way the light filtered through the window and warmed the floorboards. The way the silence felt more like peace than loneliness. There was no client scheduled, no knock expected, no reason to think anyone would come.

Which was why, when the knock came, you froze mid-sip.

Your mug paused at your lips, brow furrowing as you stilled in place, your heart skipping once—not with fear, but with that curious flicker of something.

You racked your brain, trying to remember if you’d forgotten a booking, a visit, anything at all. But there was nothing. No name. No time. No one expected.

The knock came again—this time softer.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

You pulled the towel from your hair as you crossed the living room, squeezing the ends of your damp strands and dragging the soft cotton down until the tips clung to your shoulders in dripping curls.

You tossed the towel onto the back of the couch, pushing aside a few folded clothes and a half-finished book in a weak attempt at tidying, like straightening the space might somehow make you feel more prepared—less caught off guard.

The knock came again, softer now, almost hesitant.

You moved to the door barefoot, the floorboards cool beneath your feet, your dress swishing low against your thighs as you undid the latch. And when you opened it—heart skipping in that strange, fluttering way it always did when the quiet was interrupted—you found a familiar face waiting on the other side.

Tommy.

Handsome in that easy, sunworn way he always was, jaw shadowed with stubble, brows slightly furrowed like he was mid-thought. He stood with his hands braced on his hips, elbows out, chest rising slow beneath a worn white singlet that clung to him from beneath his unzipped jacket—like he’d thrown it on without thinking.

“Tommy,” you said, the word escaping in a breath of surprise, soft and warm. Then, instinctively, you stepped aside, pushing the door open a little wider. “Hi.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and the sound of it—sweetheart, like it belonged to you—rolled off his tongue with a kind of easy fondness that made your stomach flip.

You smiled, a flush creeping across your cheeks as you reached up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t know you were coming over,” you said, voice airy with the kind of nerves he always seemed to stir without trying. “I would've gotten ready.”

Tommy’s eyes dropped.

Just for a second.

But you saw it.

The way his gaze flicked down your frame—your still-wet hair clinging to your collarbones, the slope of your neck bare, droplets of water catching the light where they slid along your skin.

His gaze lingered on your legs, smooth and freshly lotioned, bare beneath the hem of your soft cotton dress, thighs he’d seen bare and trembling more times than he could count.

And God, he felt it—that same ache rising up in him like it always did when he looked at you. Because you weren’t just beautiful—you were real. Soft. Familiar. A body he knew, a voice he craved, a face he could trace with his eyes closed.

“You don’t need to get ready,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, lower in his throat. “You’re beautiful like this.”

You blinked at that, warmth spreading beneath your ribs, the compliment catching you off guard—not because it was the first time he’d said something like that, but because this time, it felt heavier. Slower. Like it came from somewhere deeper than flirtation.

But before you could respond, his jaw flexed slightly, and he looked away—toward the inside of your home, like he was trying to collect himself. “Actually,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m not here for that.”

You raised a brow, smile tilting with quiet mischief. “Oh?” you asked, stepping back toward the doorframe and crossing your arms gently under your chest. “Have I been replaced?”

He huffed, exaggerated and playful, rolling his eyes with the kind of ease only he could pull off—casual and familiar—but his smile didn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes. “Nah,” he said, voice low and a little rough, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And just like that, he was already inside.

Moving through your doorway like he belonged there. Like this was just another morning or another slow afternoon where his boots tracked dirt across your floorboards and his voice filled up the quiet corners of your house.

He didn’t ask, didn’t pause, didn’t hover at the threshold—he just stepped in, shoulders relaxing the moment he passed through, like the air inside was easier to breathe.

This wasn’t the first time Tommy had wandered into your kitchen after a patrol, or passed through your living room with dried blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his spine, his voice rasping with something half-guilt, half-need. He came here often—sometimes late at night, sometimes before the sun even rose—and every time, he said it like a joke, like it didn’t mean anything.

But you both knew it did.

Because he could’ve gone anywhere. He could’ve gone home.

And yet—he always came to you.

You closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound oddly final in the quiet, like you were sealing something in.

Tommy glanced over his shoulder, catching the faint hiss of the kettle starting to warm. “You makin’ coffee?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

You arched a brow, amused. “Yeah,” you murmured, brushing past him gently, the scent of your lotion still clinging to your skin, the hem of your dress brushing his jeans as you passed. “C’mon.”

You reached out and tapped his arm as you moved toward the kitchen, and even though the touch was light, brief, playful, he followed like gravity had pulled him in your wake.

You poured a second mug without asking—because of course he wanted one—and handed it to him wordlessly, your fingers brushing as you passed it over, the warmth of the ceramic nowhere near the warmth simmering between your skin.

Tommy took it with a small nod of thanks, then leaned back against the counter like it was something he’d done a hundred times, eyes dragging slowly over your space—the lived-in quiet of it, the faint scent of soap and sunlight and whatever perfume still lingered on your damp skin.

You sat down in the exact spot you’d been in before the knock came, folding your legs beneath you, the curve of your thigh peeking through the soft drape of your dress, your book still open and waiting on the table.

Tommy watched you for a second too long, fingers curled tight around the coffee mug, his knuckles pale beneath the weight of it.

The steam rising between you curled lazily in the air, but his gaze didn’t waver. It lingered on the damp tendrils of hair still clinging to your neck, the sheen of lotion catching the light along your thighs, the soft flush warming the tops of your cheeks. And you didn’t look away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t hide.

You tilted your head instead, smile curling at the edges, teasing just enough to break the tension. “Sit,” you said, patting the chair beside you with an exaggerated flourish. “You’re making me anxious, standing there all brooding like some moody gunslinger.”

“I don’t brood,” he said, but his voice was low and amused as he stepped forward, the words lacking any real heat. He pulled out the chair and lowered himself into it without resistance—because the truth was, he’d do anything you asked. Had always done anything you asked.

“Sure,” you said, drawing out the word with a smile as you brought your own mug to your lips. “How are you?”

He shrugged, sipped, looked down into the swirl of coffee like it might give him something else to say. “I’m alright,” he answered finally. Then, quieter, more hesitant: “Actually, I’m here to… check in on you.”

You arched a brow, feigning surprise. “Wow. Look at that. Real customer service.”

He huffed a soft laugh, and you saw his shoulders ease just a little, the corners of his mouth tugging up despite himself.

Then—casual, like he was just making conversation, like it hadn’t been burning a hole in his chest since the moment he stepped through your door—he asked, “How was Joel?”

Ah.

So that’s why he was really here.

You set your mug down gently, the sound soft against the wood.

His voice came again, a little rougher this time, scraping the edge of something vulnerable. “I mean—was he good to you? Not too…” he cleared his throat, glanced away for a second like it hurt to look at you while he said it, “not too rough?”

You blinked, the question catching you somewhere between tenderness and disbelief. And for a moment, all you could do was watch him—watch the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled a little harder around the handle of the mug, the flicker of something wounded in his eyes that he was trying very, very hard to hide.

“He was sweet,” you said, voice soft, thoughtful. You weren’t smiling exactly, but something warm passed across your face—like remembering something delicate, something still hanging in the air. “Like he didn’t know how to take more than a few steps toward me without apologizin’. Like he thought being touched would break him open too fast.”

Tommy nodded once, slow, his mouth pressing into a thin line, and you didn’t miss the way his jaw shifted—just slightly, just enough to betray how that made him feel.

You glanced at him, amused now. “I still can’t believe you told him I was a masseuse.”

That earned you a laugh—short, low, rough at the edges.

Tommy leaned back a little in the chair, his fingers still curled loosely around the coffee mug. “Yeah, well,” he said, shaking his head, “what was I supposed to say? ‘Go see the girl who gives real good head? Didn’t think that’d go over too well.”

You huffed, a surprised little sound, shaking your head as you looked down into your mug. “Jesus,” you muttered, your lips curving despite yourself as you took a slow sip, the warmth of the drink grounding you even as something in the air shifted—again.

Tommy was watching you closely now. Not in a hungry way, not yet. Just… watching, the kind of look you’d grown used to from him, like he was trying to read between the lines of your voice, your eyes, the softness in your shoulders.

Then, quiet—so quiet it almost didn’t reach you:

“Did he…” Tommy started, voice lower now, roughened like it scraped its way out of his throat, uninvited.

There was a pause—sharp, deliberate. Then—

“Did he make you cum?”

You choked on your sip, nearly spitting into your mug as your eyes snapped up in disbelief.

“Tommy,” you said, shocked, your voice jumping up a note, disoriented by the sudden shift in tone—how quick it turned from easy warmth to something heavier, more personal, more his.

He didn’t flinch. Just shrugged, far too casual for the heat in his eyes. Like the question hadn’t just dropped into the quiet like a stone into still water. Like it hadn’t just exposed something raw between you both.

You blinked down into your lap, the words stammering at the back of your throat. “I—I mean… no,” you muttered eventually, your voice quieter now, searching for the right shape. “But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about that.”

“It was more about letting him feel wanted. Giving him something kind. Something soft. Making him feel good without needing anything in return.”

The truth of it sat there between you—quiet and solid, like it belonged.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, the muscle twitching once beneath the rough stubble, and he looked away for the first time, like the answer had cost him something he hadn’t prepared to give.

You watched him, eyes narrowing slightly, and the question came before you could stop it, gentle but firm.

“Why are you asking me all this, Tommy?”

Your voice was soft, but not fragile—measured, steady, the kind of question that pressed for truth, not deflection. And maybe that’s what made it land the way it did. Maybe that’s why Tommy didn’t answer right away.

He shook his head, a slow, worn-out gesture, like the thoughts behind it were too tangled to say aloud.

His eyes flicked around your space, scanning the soft curve of the room he knew too well—your home, the safe little corner of Jackson that somehow always smelled like clean linen, candlewax, and something sweet.

His gaze caught on the blanket draped over the back of the couch, the coffee cups still warm on the table, the towel drying by the door—signs of you, everywhere.

And the thought of another man—let alone his brother—standing here, sitting where he’d sat, walking barefoot on these floorboards, having you in the way Tommy had… it struck him like a body blow.

A visceral, curling wave of nausea rose in his chest, sharp and sudden, almost enough to make him reach out for the edge of the table to steady himself.

He’d told himself it didn’t matter.

That what you two had was just business—sweet, messy, stolen little hours that didn’t belong to anyone but the moment.

But now, standing here, imagining Joel touching you with the same reverence Tommy had held in his hands so many nights before—it made his breath catch in his throat. It made the room feel too small.

You said his name again, gentler now, a thread of concern woven through it. “Tommy.”

He blinked hard, swallowing past the tightness in his throat.

“I don’t know,” he muttered at first, voice rough, like it scraped its way out. Then—clearer, more broken—“I don’t know, I just… I keep thinkin’ about him here.”

He gestured vaguely to the space between you, but you knew what he meant.

“I keep seein’ it,” Tommy said, his eyes flicking toward the chair where you sat, the late morning light glinting softly off the curve of your collarbone, the shine of your still-damp hair, the bare stretch of your legs folded beneath you—legs he’d kissed, held, bent, worshipped. “Him here. Lookin’ at you the way I do. Havin’ you the way I have.”

His voice caught on the last word—have—like it was too big, too personal, too revealing. Like saying it aloud turned everything you’d been pretending into something far more dangerous.

“Tommy,” you said quietly, setting your mug down, your voice steady but touched with disbelief. “You’re the one who wanted me to see him.”

“I know,” he said quickly, the words rushing out as if he could get ahead of them, stop them from settling in the space between you. “I know, it was stupid. I should’ve never—”

He cut himself off, the sentence fraying at the edges, and suddenly he stood, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor as he rose too fast, too sharp, like he needed to move before something inside him split open.

“Tommy,” you said again, this time firmer, a note of warning buried inside it, but he wouldn’t look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice thick, eyes focused on anything but your face—on the window, the door, the wall, the floor, as if they might offer him a way out of whatever this was. “I shouldn’t’ve come. I should go.”

He turned, already halfway to the door.

And the silence that followed was loud—louder than anything either of you had said.

Because it wasn’t just about Joel.

It never had been.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

You’d spent the entire morning trying to make sense of what Tommy had said—turning over every word, every look, every silence he’d left behind.

Your heart fluttered each time you replayed the way his voice cracked, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the way he’d stood so suddenly like the room was choking him.

You’d picked at the memory like a loose thread, hoping if you tugged just right, it might unravel into something clearer—something simpler. Something that told you if he’d meant more than what he said.

Half of you had expected him to come back.

Had imagined it more than once—he’d knock, all fidgety hands and breathless apologies, muttering something about being stupid, about not knowing what he was saying. Maybe he’d kiss you too hard at the door, maybe he’d push you against the wall, try to fuck it out of his system like he had before—try and forget what he said, only to remember it even louder in the silence after.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first.

You were wiping down the kitchen counter, your thoughts miles away, your hair now dry and curling softly at the ends, falling in the way it always did when you let it air out.

And for a split second, your heart leapt.

You thought—Tommy. You thought he came back. But when you opened the door, it wasn’t him.

It was Joel.

He stood there on your porch, eyes shy beneath the brim of his jacket hood, one hand scratching the back of his neck in that same bashful way he had when he wasn’t sure how welcome he was.

In the other hand, he held a small bundle of wildflowers—mismatched, a little uneven, clearly plucked from some overgrown edge of Jackson, their stems wrapped in a scrap of twine.

“Joel,” you said softly, the surprise slipping through your voice before you could catch it. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said, voice low, his fingers fidgeting where they clutched the flowers. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if you were seein’ anyone today. Didn’t wanna intrude. I can come back if you’re with someone or—”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping back instinctively to make space that you hadn’t decided to give yet. “No, I was just cleaning.”

Your eyes flicked to the flowers, to the gentle way he held them—like they were fragile, or maybe like he didn’t quite believe he had the right to be offering them at all.

“Those are pretty,” you murmured, the words quiet but sincere, your voice softening as it slipped between you both.

“Oh,” Joel said quickly, as if remembering himself, as if realizing he was still holding the wildflowers like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He stepped forward slightly, offering them out toward you, awkward but earnest. The bouquet looked small and delicate in his large, calloused hands—the same hands you’d guided over your chest just two nights ago, when he was trembling and quiet and nearly too gentle to bear, fingers hesitant and reverent as if every inch of you might vanish beneath his touch.

“They’re for you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost sheepish. “You got a bunch out on your porch already, so I figured… well, you might like some fresh ones.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, a warmth blooming at the base of your throat, your cheeks heating as you reached out to take them. “You’re so sweet,” you said, almost under your breath, the words brushing past your lips like a secret you didn’t quite mean to say aloud.

Joel ducked his head slightly, eyes flicking away like he wasn’t sure what to do with praise that didn’t come laced in sarcasm. He stood there, still fidgeting slightly, like he was waiting for permission to go or stay—like he hadn’t expected to get this far.

You hesitated for just a breath, then stepped back, your fingers curling around the edge of the door as you pulled it open a little wider.

“Did you wanna come inside?” you asked, the question light on your tongue, casual on the surface—but it carried a thousand undertones neither of you dared acknowledge.

Joel’s gaze lifted to yours, and he nodded once, slow and a little uncertain, his voice gravel-soft. “Yeah,” he said. “If that’s alright.”

And you stepped aside.

And he came in.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

Joel sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped as though they couldn’t quite decide what to do with themselves.

His water sat untouched on the table beside him, condensation slipping lazily down the glass, forgotten.

His eyes drifted across the room as you moved about with quiet grace, placing the wildflowers in a vase with care, fingers gentle even as you fussed with the stems like it mattered how they stood.

When you finally came to sit across from him, legs curled beneath you, the silence that lingered between you was thick—not uncomfortable, but expectant, like something was waiting to be named.

You tilted your head, eyes glinting just a little. “How’s your back?” you teased, your voice light and playful, the smallest smile tugging at your lips.

Joel let out a soft, surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, and you saw the tension ease just slightly from his shoulders. “It’s, uh… surprisingly better,” he said, gaze darting down toward the floor, “though I’m not sure it was the massage that did that.”

His ears flushed red as he said it, and his hands twitched in his lap like he didn’t know whether to shove them in his pockets or fold them tighter.

You laughed then—low, breathy, a little caught off guard by his shyness—and it was such a sweet, easy sound that Joel felt it sink right into his chest, warm and dangerous. He wanted to hear it again. A hundred times. A thousand.

“I hope it was good for you,” you said gently, your voice softer now, more sincere. “I hope you felt good.”

Joel’s expression shifted. He looked up at you, eyes troubled, then looked away again, his foot bouncing slightly against the floor.

“That’s actually why I’m here,” he said, the words stumbling out in pieces. “Shit—it’s just, it’s been a long time since someone… since I’ve…”

You moved without thinking, your body carrying you forward like instinct, and sat beside him, close but careful, your thigh brushing against his. You reached for his hand, your fingers curling gently around his, warm and grounding, your voice low and steady.

Joel swallowed hard, breath catching in his throat.

“Go on,” you said.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone like that,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “And I’m still—” He hesitated, jaw working. “I’m still upset with myself.”

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly with concern. “Upset?” you echoed. “Why?”

He looked at you then, really looked, like the words cost something just to say aloud.

“I didn’t make you feel good,” Joel said, his voice low and heavy with something sharp, something shameful. “Not really. Not the way you deserve. I didn’t—God, I didn’t even think to…” He broke off, his voice cracking around the edges, his hand tightening where it rested uselessly on his thigh. “You gave me everything, and I just—took it.”

And oh God, he looked so broken.

Nothing like the man Jackson whispered about behind closed doors.

Nothing like the sharp-eyed patrol leader with a rifle slung over his back and a permanent scowl carved into his brow.

He looked at you like a man wearing his heart too far outside his chest, like it might split open if you so much as blinked too hard.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice barely above breath as your hand reached for his forearm, your fingers stroking over the worn fabric of his shirt, grounding him. “I wasn’t keeping score,” you said, soft and sure. “That night—it was about you. And you did make me feel good. You just don’t realize how much.”

He shook his head slowly, brows furrowed in disbelief, voice hoarse and threaded with that gentle Southern shame he’d never quite grown out of. “Not in the way I should’ve. My mama raised me better than that.”

You smiled, faint and wistful, your thumb still circling over his skin, and for a moment neither of you spoke.

Then his voice came again—quieter, rougher, barely more than a breath.

“I wanted to make it up to you.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, your heart thudding once, hard.

“Make it up to me?” you repeated, the question curling at the edge of something warmer, heavier.

Joel nodded once, slow and careful, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast.

And then—your gaze dipped, caught by the unmistakable shape pressing against the front of his jeans, thick and straining beneath the denim, his body betraying just how deeply he meant it.

The sight made your breath hitch, your thighs shift, your body answering his want with a sudden swell of your own.

“If you’ll let me,” he said, voice low and reverent, eyes dark with need but soft with sincerity, “can I taste you?”

The question wasn’t crude.

It wasn’t cocky.

It was humble.

His hands were already moving, large and warm and trembling ever so slightly as they slipped beneath the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric upward in slow, reverent strokes.

His palms coasted along your thighs, the calluses catching gently against your skin as inch by inch, he revealed the soft cotton of your panties—already damp, already clinging to you in the most obscene way.

And still, his touch stayed careful, like he was unwrapping something precious, something he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to see again.

You watched him, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and awe—the same man who’d trembled in your arms two nights ago, who’d needed your guidance and tenderness just to feel safe enough to fall apart, was now beginning to take some of that control back.

But not forcefully. Not rough. Just… sure. Steady. Like he'd made up his mind that this time, you would be the one held. Worshipped. Undone.

“You can,” you whispered, voice breathless, your chest rising with the weight of the moment. “If you kiss me first.”

Joel’s eyes flicked up to yours, something impossibly soft blooming behind the heat there, and he smiled—a crooked, quiet thing that made your chest flutter. “Yeah,” he murmured, reaching up, cupping your jaw with one rough, stubbled hand. “I can do that.”

He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, you whimpered—honest and involuntary, the sound catching at the back of your throat like surprise.

His stubble scratched lightly at your skin, grounding you in the realness of him, the solidity of his body pressing closer. The kiss was warm and deep and unhurried, and you tasted something in it you hadn’t expected—gratitude, maybe, or hunger wrapped in guilt, in reverence.

And God, it did something to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, like the taste of you knocked the air out of his chest.

He broke away with a groan, thick and low in his throat, and then—without a word—he sank to his knees in front of you, the motion stiff but sure, the kind of groan a man makes when his bones don’t bend easy anymore, but he’ll get on the fucking floor if that’s where you are.

Instinctively—without thought, without hesitation—you opened for him, your legs parting wider like your body had already decided what came next, like it had been waiting for him.

He exhaled shakily, eyes flicking between your face and the place between your legs like he couldn’t decide where to look, like both were too much and not enough.

His hands—those hands—were warm and large and trembling slightly as they slid up your inner thighs, engulfing the soft flesh there, pushing gently until you were spread for him completely. The pads of his thumbs brushed over skin that had never felt so exposed, so seen, and his gaze was reverent, locked between awe and disbelief.

“Can I take these off?” he asked, voice low and almost hesitant, nodding toward the thin fabric still clinging between your legs. “Wanna see all of you.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, the word escaping like it had been plucked from somewhere deep inside your chest.

Joel moved carefully, slowly, like undressing you was an act that required gentleness. His fingers hooked into your panties, and he slid them down inch by inch, his eyes never leaving you, his breath uneven as he exposed more of your skin. And when they slipped past your ankles, one leg still hooked loosely over his shoulder, he didn’t toss them aside—he kissed the inside of your calf, lips brushing against your skin like a thank you, like a prayer.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you.

His breath caught, sharp and audible, and he went utterly still.

Because he’d seen you the other night—but not like this. Not on his knees, not up close, not when you were already so wet for him you glistened in the low light. Your folds were soft and flushed and soaked, your slick painting your thighs, and the sight alone wrecked him. His lashes fluttered, and he let out a quiet, reverent sound—somewhere between a moan and a gasp, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, voice cracking like the words cost him something. Slowly, with a tenderness that made your stomach twist, he reached out, and let his thumb drag a single, deliberate stroke through your folds, collecting some of the slick that had already begun to drip down the curve of your pussy.

His thumb stilled, glistening with the proof of your want, and when he looked up—eyes wide, lips parted, breath completely stolen—he stared at you like he was seeing something sacred. “You’re this wet for me?” he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat, his voice wrecked beyond recognition.

You nodded, your breath shivering out of you, but before you could speak, his hand drifted higher—past the curve of your slick folds to where soft curls framed your mound like something delicate.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, voice low and broken, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud.

You tilted your hips forward slightly, your thighs twitching with anticipation, your voice a velvet hush. “Taste me,” you breathed, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted in need. “I want your mouth.”

Joel let out a low, choked noise—a sound that came from deep in his chest—and nodded once, fast and fervent, like he was afraid if he hesitated you’d take the offer back.

And then he was in it.

His mouth closed over your core like he’d been waiting his entire life to taste you. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe from your dripping entrance all the way to your clit, and when he felt your thighs tense around him, heard the gasp that stuttered out of your lungs, he moaned into you. Low, guttural, helpless.

He let you move against him.

Let your hips roll forward, needy and desperate, and he took it—his mouth open, his tongue pliant, letting you grind against his face like you owned him. And maybe you did. He didn’t hold your thighs down, didn’t try to control the rhythm—you were the one with your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and guiding, and every time you did, he rutted against the floor, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans, aching for friction.

Because this wasn’t about his pleasure.

It was about yours.

He sucked gently at your clit, then flattened his tongue against it, letting you ride the pressure, and when you cried out his name—high, breathless, broken—he groaned again, louder this time, his hands fisting like he was trying to hold himself together.

Your thighs began to tremble.

The tension in your belly coiled tight, and Joel felt it—he knew it—and he didn’t stop. His mouth moved faster, wetter, messier, like he was trying to pull the orgasm from you with his tongue alone.

And then—

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, white-hot and consuming, your back arching, your cry muffled by your own hand as you came against his mouth, soaking him, your thighs trembling around his face as your hips bucked and rolled and he didn’t stop. He moaned through it, kept licking, like he couldn’t bear to stop tasting you even as you came apart above him.

Only when your legs started to twitch with overstimulation did he finally slow, his mouth softening, tongue giving one last tender lick before he let out a shuddering breath and pressed his face into your thigh.

He stayed there.

Just… stayed, his cheek resting against your skin, his lips still brushing your inner thigh, eyes fluttered shut like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d made you come like that. He didn’t move to get up. Didn’t ask for anything. He just held there—breathing you in.

You were still trembling when you reached down for him, your body buzzing, your chest fluttering with aftershocks that hadn’t yet settled into stillness.

Your fingers threaded through his hair gently, tugging—not to guide him this time, but to bring him closer. Joel looked up, dazed and flushed and glistening at the mouth, lips swollen and chin slick with you. There was something wrecked in his eyes, something unsteady, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to rise from his knees.

“Come here,” you whispered, voice rough with bliss, breathless from the high of it. You tugged again, and he followed instantly, like it wasn’t even a choice.

He rose slowly, his knees stiff from where they’d pressed into the floor, groaning just a little with the movement, and you met him halfway, hands cradling his face the moment he was close enough.

Your palms cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing over his stubble, and when your eyes met his, they were full of heat and adoration, soft and deep and real.

“You’re perfect, Joel,” you murmured, your voice the gentlest thing he’d ever heard.

He whimpered.

A tiny, broken sound escaped him before he could catch it—raw and completely involuntary—as if the words shattered something inside him that had been holding on far too long.

His eyes closed for just a beat, like he couldn’t bear to see the truth of your face while hearing that, and then you leaned forward and kissed him.

You tasted yourself on him—warm, sweet, slick—and moaned quietly into his mouth, your fingers still buried in his hair, tugging softly as his breath hitched against your lips.

Joel kissed you back slowly. Gratefully. He didn’t push—didn’t deepen the kiss like a man trying to take. He just let you have him, mouth parting when yours did, lips moving in sync like he didn’t know what else to do but follow your lead.

When you pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours for a moment, breath shaky, and then he nuzzled softly into the curve of your jaw—slow, needy, like an animal finding warmth. He didn’t speak. He just breathed you in, his nose brushing beneath your ear as he melted into your skin, letting you cradle him while his chest heaved softly, still recovering from what he’d just done to you.

You stroked your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, your other hand trailing down the back of his neck, and he stayed right there—face buried against your throat, hands unsure, but present, like he’d stay in your lap forever if you let him.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

It had been hours since Joel left—hours since you’d come undone on his tongue, since his face had pressed into your thigh like he didn’t know how to leave you, like he didn’t want to.

Now, the room was quiet, the night creeping in slow and soft, the kind that settles behind your ribs and makes everything feel a little heavier.

You’d eaten dinner in silence, washed the dishes with trembling hands, gone through the motions of a routine you didn’t feel inside your body.

And now, tucked beneath the weight of your blanket, the hum of the lamp casting a warm pool of gold across your skin, you stared at the ceiling and let your mind spiral—because of all the things today could’ve been, this wasn’t what you’d expected.

You were still thinking about it. Still playing it all back. Joel’s voice. His mouth. His hands. His trembling apology. And Tommy—that morning—asking if Joel had made you cum, like some part of him already knew what the day would become.

You shook your head softly, a bitter little breath escaping your lips. Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it was getting harder to define.

You reached to flick off the lamp, your hand brushing the switch—

But then a knock.

Not loud. Just… there.

You groaned quietly, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you pulled yourself from bed. You reached for your robe, tugging it quickly over your pajama shorts and singlet, tying it loosely at your waist, the soft cotton brushing against the bare skin of your thighs as you padded barefoot toward the door.

And when you opened it—

There he was.

Tommy.

Looking like he’d walked all the way from his house in the dark just to lose sleep over something he couldn’t name. His hair was a mess, shoved half-heartedly back into the low ponytail he always wore to bed, strands curling wild around his temples. He was still in his pajama pants, a flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging open over a thin tank that clung to his chest, like he’d thrown it on at the last minute in a rush to be anywhere but alone.

“Tommy?” you said, brows furrowed, voice soft with confusion. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

He didn’t answer.

Because the moment his eyes landed on you—really landed—he knew.

He stepped forward without a word, one hand rising to your face, fingers warm against your cheek, calloused palm cupping your jaw like instinct. And he saw it—all of it. The soft flush still lingering on your skin, the dreamy haze in your eyes, the way your lips looked just a little too kiss-bruised, your hair just a little too tangled.

He knew that face. Knew it too well.

Your post-orgasm glow was something he’d memorized over countless mornings, late nights, lazy afternoons—back when your body still sang under his hands.

And then— His gaze slipped past you.

To the flowers.

Sitting in a small glass vase on the table just behind your shoulder, their stems uneven, their petals a little wild and lopsided—but unmistakable. The same kind that grew along the fence outside Joel’s place.

And Tommy's stomach dropped.

He didn't say a word.

But he didn’t have to.

Because you were standing in your doorway, robe loose and soft over your thighs, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, and you looked beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. Devastatingly fucked-out and glowing, all flushed cheeks and parted lips, your breath catching like you didn’t know how to explain it, like maybe you didn’t.

And Tommy?

He just stood there.

Mouth parted. Eyes stunned. Chest heaving like he’d taken a hit.

Because the pieces had clicked. And they clicked hard.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

hope you enjoyyyyeedddddd

are yall team tommy or joel... 👀

[ratherchili]

𖹭 cw angst, smut, mildly explicit mdni

"Oh, god," corrupt priest suguru geto whines. "Turn it off." The words are muffled as he buries his face into the pad of fat below your belly button.

You giggle at the image of him on the tv screen, his easy smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he reminds his congregation - which, at times, seems to outnumber the city lights glittering outside the floor to ceiling windows of your penthouse - to tune in for his televised Sunday morning mass. "You look pretty, though," you murmur as you twirl a silky lock of his hair around your finger.

"Be quiet," he says, turning his cheek. His dark eyes seem to fixate on the rise and fall of your bare chest, but you know better. By the time the commercial ends, he's far away, retreated into the depths of his troubled mind, his mouth a thin line. You could ask, but it's easier to spider your fingers over his shoulder blade to tickle his neck. It is enough to bring a version of him back to you. He gives you a smile that, you suspect, is as much a costume as the robes folded neatly and over the back of a plush accent chair beside the bed.

He hums into your skin and kisses the soft flesh of your lower belly. "Su," you whine as you try to squirm away.

"What?" He murmurs. His fingers sink into the fat of your thighs, holding you in place as he drags his tongue across your hip bone.

"I can't," you protest despite the flutter he's causing between your legs. "I have a client in 30."

"You're not kicking me out," he says. His hair brushes against your skin as he leaves wet kisses along the inside of your thigh.

"I am," you say as you work against his hands to close your legs. "Like I said, I have a client."

"Cancel," he says, pushing up onto his palms to crawl on top of you. His tone is playful, but you recognize the brief flash of anger in his eyes. "I'll pay." He settles his hips between yours, already hard again and pressing urgently against your belly.

"Mm mm," you hum, shaking your head and resisting the powerful urge to arch into him.

"I'll pay double," he whispers into your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point.

"No, Suguru," you sigh, pressing your palms into the springy flesh of his pecs in a very half-hearted attempt to push him away. "I feel weird taking money from you."

He pulls away and regards you with lidded eyes. "You don't seem to feel 'weird' about me paying the lease on this place."

"Uhg, that's why I feel weird about it. You do enough."

"Is that the only reason?" He asks, that gaurded look creeping back into his eyes.

Truth be told, all the man would have to do is ask and you wouldn't take clients anymore, wouldn't fuck them, anyway. You would let him keep you in this castle in the sky. You would let him purchase you for himself. But, he won't ask. He'd rather you offer, you suppose. "That's the only reason," you answer.

"Fine," he says, pushing himself off of you.

"Wait," you say, dragging him back. "Okay, I'll cancel. Hand me my phone?"

He leaves a trail of gentle kisses over your ribs as you tap at the screen. "Thanks," he says. "I feel like I can be myself when I'm with you... "

It's a pretty sentiment, and one you would have eaten up when you first met him. Now, you're unsure if Suguru is truly genuine with anyone.

But it's simpler just to say, "Me, too."

[noctiva]

Pincushion

Toby Rogers x F!Reader [NSFW!

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WC: 6.7k

Summary: You’re an apprentice piercer trying to build your portfolio as much as you can. How lucky is it, that you have a best friend who can’t feel pain?

CW: 18+ content, descriptions of body parts being pierced, VERY improper piercing aftercare I’m being so fr don’t do this, friends to lovers, explicit sexual content, dry humping, oral sex (female receiving), possessiveness, dirty talk, hair pulling, drool and spit, cumming untouched

Reminder to separate reality from fiction! Some of the acts written here are definitely not recommended to imitate. Stay safe!

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NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

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“I’m not k-keeping this one.”

The situation you found yourself in right now right now was a familiar one. Sat on your best friend Toby’s lap, the backs of your thighs pressed to his in the warmth of his bedroom. A soft rock song droned on from the speakers of his old record player, creating an inviting atmosphere that warded off uncomfortable silence.

A golden glow shines in through his bedroom window, curtains pulled back to reveal the slowly setting sun. You’re warm, cloaked in a hoodie that Toby had offered you when you were shivering before hand - basking in the softness and scent that cloaked you. Cheap cigarettes, musky cologne, pine.

It may have been a sweet sight, if not for the hollow needle pinched between your latex clad fingers.

Just inches from his face you held it, the victim in question looking up at you with a displeased expression.

A couple months ago, you had gotten a spot as an apprentice piercer at your town’s local tattoo shop. You had learned all of the safety measures, done all of the certification, so now the only thing left to do was practice. And well, you could only practice on yourself so many times.

You needed someone else. To be able to watch closely at every little thing you did, from the pinch of the clamp to the needle slicing through skin or cartilage. You needed real people, willing clients.

And well, Toby was one of those things.

It had been less than two hours after you got the gig before you were proposing the idea. With the world ‘please’ uttered more times than you could count, and the best puppy-dog eyes you could muster up - it still took weeks until you finally cracked him.

“Come on, Toby. At least let me pierce your ears. It can just be a little stud.” You had asked for the fiftieth time, to which he had responded with;

“Fuh-Fuck no. It’s not my style.”

“You think? I think you’d look pretty cute with them.”

You pierced his lobes later that day. Then, his septum a week later. Then his lip, eyebrow, and a few cartilage piercings spanning down the shell of his ear. He didn’t keep many, usually only letting them stay for long enough for you to snap a few photos for your portfolio - but he had taken a liking to a few.

One thin hoop pierced through his nostril, and the lobes you had done first. You thought that the eyebrow suited him the best, but he had tugged the barbell out just minutes after it was placed snug under his skin. Alas, at least you had photographic evidence that it had once been there.

After so many impromptu sessions, Toby just gotten used to you showing up at his house with a cheeky grin and piercing supplies in hand. Which, was exactly how you ended up on his lap on this particular evening.

“Yeah, didn’t expect you to.” You hum as you hand him a travel sized bottle of mouthwash to rinse with. “But I’ve never done this one before, so I’ve got to learn.” You smile at him. “Swish with that, then stick out your tongue.”

Toby legs out a groan, his eyebrows furrowed together in annoyance as he peers up at you. He had just woken up less than an hour ago - evidenced by his unruly hair and sleepy eyes - and now you were just seconds away from shoving a needle into his tongue. It wasn’t like he would feel it, but it wasn’t about that. It was about the prospect of it all.

What ever happened to just hanging out? Couldn’t you go one day without treating him like a pincushion?

If he was being completely honest, the only reason he hadn’t kicked you off of his lap yet was because he liked the feeling of you being there. Liked the warmth that seeped from your body into his. Liked being so close that he could hear each breath that left you lips. He liked the way you bit your bottom lip when you were focusing the best.

He also liked the way you let him rest a hand on your hip to keep you stable (which was an excuse he was still surprised that you believed).

He was your best friend, but you were his fixation. The most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on, but he just didn’t have the guts to tell you. So, he settled for this. Keeping you held close whilst you stuck needles into his skin. Besides, he would much rather it was him than someone else.

So, he does what you’ve asked. Takes a swig of the mouthwash all whilst looking up at you with narrowed eyes, struggling to keep an annoyed expression while you were looking down at him so sweetly. All smiles and stars in your eyes. Hair pulled up haphazardly into a makeshift bun to keep the strand out of your face. Clad in his hoodie. His hoodie.

God, he was such a sucker.

Leaning his head to the side, he spits into the mug you had brought into his room for that exact purpose. Once that’s over with, as his mouth is coated in the taste of alcohol and mint, he looks back up at you. You were so close. Leaned in with a set of clamps in one hand and a needle in the other. So close he could smell you. Your perfume intermingling with the scent coming off of his sweater. His heart rate picks up just a little. “Y-You gonna pierce all your clients like-like this?” He asks with a soft chuckle, and you roll your eyes.

“Would probably get better tips if I did, but no.” You snort, shifting a bit on his lap. Now, his pulse is racing. He’s a lot less concerned about the needle inches from his face, than he is about popping an unwanted boner beneath you. “Hope you appreciate the special treatment you’re getting.” He did. Much more than you could imagine. “Now hurry up! Stick out your tongue for me, Rogers.”

He thinks he’s do anything for you if it was said in that sweet bossy tone you just used.

So, he lets out a breath through his nose, the does just what you ask. It’s mere seconds later that a clamp pinches his tongue.

Piercing Toby had its pros and cons. Pro: He couldn’t feel the pain, so he sat like a champ. An absolute dream for anyone in the industry. Con: His tics from his Tourette’s were completely involuntary, so you couldn’t exactly tell him to sit still and expect him to abide by that.

That was alright though. It just meant you had to learn to be quick. Your clients in the future would probably be thanking him for that learned skill.

You lean in close, sandwiching his tongue between the cold metal clamp and raising the needle. He’s looking up at you, fixated on your face as you bring the sharp point to the muscle.

All he feels is a slight pressure, then relief. The coldness of the needle lodged in his flesh. It was odd, but bearable. What wasn’t bearable, were the thoughts pinging around in his mind like popping candy. Did you know how pretty you were? Did you know that if you let him, he could count every freckle on your face and not once grow bored during it?

Did you know how he saw you? The blinding sun in the centre of his universe?

He doesn’t even realize you’ve slipped the jewelry in, until you’re screwing on the top ball. “There!” You grin, gazing down at his newly adorned tongue in satisfaction. “How’s it feel?”

Hot. He feels really hot.

“L-Like metal in my mouth.” He answers, frowning a little at the feeling of the piercing clinking against his teeth when he talks. It’s uncomfortable. This feels more like an intrusion than any other piercing you’ve ever given him. It couldn’t be ignored, making its presence known every time he formed a word. “It’s not st-staying. So, take a picture quick.”

“Boring.” You scoff, before sticking your tongue out at him playfully. You peel the latex gloves off of your hands before dropping them to the floor. “I think it looks good on you. Plus, the ladies would love it.”

Toby meets your eyes, and cocks an eyebrow.

“I d-doubt that.” He scoffs. He still had a hand on your hip from keeping you in place while you worked, but he hadn’t moved it yet. He didn’t think he could force himself to unless you told him to move.

“No, they totally would.” You argue, leaning back on his thighs. It was a shift that was actually in his favour, bringing your hips farther away from his. He definitely needed that distance. “It’s hot,” It was, or he was? “Plus it has benefits any girl would like.”

“B-Benefits?” He frowns, tilting his head to the side a little to observe you. Just what were you getting at here? Was this a joke? “Like what?”

You let out a little giggle, and bring a hand up to cover your mouth. It’s the sweetest sound that’s ever graced Toby’s ears. He’s already of thinking of ways to hear it again.

“You know.” You laugh, averting your gaze from his out of embarrassment. It’s not like you’ve never breached the topic of sexuality during a conversation in all of the years you’ve known each other, it’s just the look on his face that’s getting you. So clueless, it’s adorable. “Same reason guys like girls with tongue piercings.” You look back to him, and can tell he’s still not getting it. “More stimulation.”

Oh. Oh.

It’s instantaneous, the way a flush creeps onto his cheeks the moment your words register. If he was having a hard time restraining his thoughts before, he was putting in overtime now. Were you making this hard on him on purpose? Sitting on his lap, spouting about the sexual benefits of the piercing you had just given him?

It takes all the power in the world for him not to tighten the lazy grip he has on your hip.

“Says wh-who? He chokes out, voice coming out far hoarser than he meant it to. His tongue is starting to throb in his mouth, and he’s hopeful that his blood will stay up there and not migrate further south.

“Uh, everyone?” You laugh, raising an eyebrow at him. “It’s just like, a fact. Having a tongue piercing equals giving better head. How do you not know this?”

Uh, maybe because the only girl he’s thought about sexually in years was you? But maybe it would’ve been a good fact to know before you pierced him.

“Are you speaking f-from experience, or what?” He doesn’t know why he asked that. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s saying right now, if he’s being honest. His brain was fried, coherent thoughts fizzling out before they came to fruition. And with his brain clocked out, that only left one other organ to think with. He was so screwed.

The way you look at him after he’s spoken has Toby wanting to bite his tongue clean off. Death would surely be better than you staring down at him, equal parts bewildered and shocked by his bold ask. He can’t even bring himself to try and backtrack and save face, because he feels like his throat is closing up. If there was an award for ‘World’s biggest dumbass’ he would’ve surely swept the floor with the competition.

“No.” You breathe out, face growing hot. Toby’s not any better - the pink tone dusting his cheeks beginning to creep down his neck. “I just… That’s what people say.”

“W-Would you want…” Shut the fuck up, Toby. Shut your idiotic mouth. “Would you ever want t-to try it?” He’s done for. Might as well just throw in the towel now.

He must be speaking with his dick, because if these thoughts were filtering through his brain at all they would’ve stayed tucked far away where you could never hear them. But he was saying them to you, right in your face, just inches from you. He hasn’t a semblance of a clue where this boldness was coming from, but just he knew it would be his undoing.

Hopefully his frazzled mind could figure out a way to leave this interaction not looking like the horny freak he was deep down.

“Would I want to?” You repeat back to him, your tongue feeling heavy as you speak the words. Why was it so hot all of a sudden? And why could you suddenly only focus on the feeling of Toby’s hand on your waist? Before, you had barely even registered it being there. Now, it was all you could feel. “I mean like, yeah.” You murmur sheepishly. “If the opportunity presented itself.”

Toby’s eyes quickly lock in on the pretty pink hue slowly spreading across your cheeks and up to the tips of your ears. You were avoiding his gaze like the plague, and you just kept fidgeting. Were you embarrassed? Uncomfortable? Had he taken it too far?

He watches as you tug the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands, and curl your fingers into fists. “Also I… I don’t know anyone who has one.”

Was that bait? It sounded like bait. So much so that Toby’s eyes immediately flick upwards to scan your face. You were still blushing, darker now, eyes fixated on the wall behind him like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

He knows. He knows he shouldn’t push. But his tongue is pulsing in his mouth, and his dick is coming to life in his jeans, so he’s feeling just a tad compromised. Besides, if you wrote him off he could just act like he was joking. That always worked with you.

“You know me.” Toby murmurs the words softly, almost like he’s hoping you won’t hear it. But, you’re so close that the probability of that is slim to none.

You hear it alright, gaze snapping to his the moment the sound of his voice reaches your ears.

“What… What are you saying?” You ask hesitantly, forcing the words out of your lungs. You know what he’s saying. You know exactly what he means, and yet actually accepting that fact is a lot harder than he probably realizes. He was joking, right? Because there was just no way Toby would offer what he just did to you, of all people.

He… You were his best friend, right? Nothing more, nothing less. That is, unless that was just you being blind and ignorant. Maybe his always lingering touches meant something. Maybe there was a reason he so easily abided to your every whim and suggestion.

“W-Whatever you think I’m saying.” Toby shrugs, and you feel it when his grip on your hip tightens just minutely. Enough for you to really feel it - the pressure of his fingers through your clothes. You’re suddenly acutely aware of every point of contact where your body met his. Your thighs against his, his hand on your waist. Chests so close it would be an ease to close the distance.

You could feel the warmth radiating off of him, but it was nothing compared to the heat in his eyes. Those chocolate brown irises were blazing. Thinly veiled desire waging a war within them, trying to burst free.

God, had you ever had anyone look at you like that?

“But that… That would be weird.” You laugh sheepishly, despite the fact that your mind was already conjuring up ideas of how it would go down.

Toby’s calloused hands on your thighs, pushing your legs apart and holding them open. That fluffy mess of brown hair, begging for you to tug on it as he parted his lips and-

“W-Would it?” Toby asks, voice lower than before. He reaches up with his free hand, and grasps your chin oh so gently between two fingers. Then he’s turning your head towards him, leaving your gaze nowhere to run as he holds you in place. “Why would it b-be?”

He was in far too deep to back down now, and he was quite sure you didn’t want him to anyway. He could see it, the look in your eyes, how your pupils had dilated more with each word he spoke. You were so receptive, but were holding yourself back. He just had to give you a little push.

“Because.” You mutter, swallowing thickly. You feel like you’re drowning in his eyes, your heart thudding so loud you’re almost convinced it’s migrated to your ears. “Because we’re friends.”

You watch as Toby’s lips purse, a look of something flashing in his irises. Irritation. Maybe a little bit of impatience.

“I’m y-your friend.” He breathes out after a few moments, giving you a few beats to really think about you’ve said before he responds. Just friends. Were you really? You had the potential to be so much more. “You’re s-so much more to me than that, though.”

The hand on your waist slips around you, his forearm wrapping around your torso as he draws you in closer. There’s no excuses now. He didn’t want there to be. “You’re e-everything. Have been since the d-day I met you.” Toby tilts your head downwards, and it’s almost maddening how easily your body bends to his will. Easily conceding. Just letting him push and pull you into whatever position he saw fit. “B-But I didn’t wanna scare you o-off.”

He leans in, close enough that his nose is nearly brushing yours, his gaze still unwavering. You can see the glint of metal in his mouth everytime he speaks. “So I s-sat back. Sat back and watched you f-fuck around with guys that would never have what it takes to t-treat you right.” Your breath hitches, catching in your throat. “Because they don’t know you. N-Not like I do.”

He tugs you in closer, and you can’t help the gasp that leaves you when your hips press against his. You can feel the bulge he’s sporting now, snug against your clothed heat as he looks you right in the eyes. “No one knows you like I-I do.”

And you can’t argue, because you know he’s right. Toby had been the only constant in your life for as long as you could remember. Always close by, always keeping an eye. Making sure you’re safe, happy, cared for. He was also funny, sweet, and handsome in a rugged way. Ergo, clearly the best option, but one you had never considered up until now.

Not because you hadn’t ever thought about it, but more so for fear of ruining what you held dear. Things were fine as they were, so why push it?

You think it over for a total of less than a second before you shift, pressing your hips to his with a lot more intention. Because this feels better. That’s why. Toby lets out a little hiss through his teeth when you notch your hips forwards, his own jolting instinctively at the contact. Your eyes were brimming with a mixture of emotions, mostly shyness and nervousness - but the desire was shining through clear as day. You wanted this. Wanted him.

God, this stupid piercing was so fucking worth it. “No one else knows what s-scares you, excites you.” He trails his hand down your jaw, then your side, letting it find a home resting right above your hipbone as he tugs you down against him again. Gently. Just coaxing you. Taking it at whatever pace you need. “No one else k-knows what makes you laugh. O-Or the way your eyes light up when something makes you ha-happy. No one but me.” You hesitantly roll your hips downwards, feeling your cheeks heat up at the sensation.

You can really feel him now, just growing harder beneath you with each movement you make. Can feel the shape of him, the size of him - large enough to make your heart jump. “I-Isn’t that right?” He’s dipped his head down lower, brought his lips close to your ear so that you can feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. Goosebumps prickle your skin, and it’s getting harder to ignore the warmth creeping down between your thighs.

“Yeah.” You breathe, voice soft and trembling. Toby lets out a little hum of agreement at your answer, and then you feel him hesitate for just a moment before he leans in closer. He does it anyway, pressing his lips against the skin just below your ear. So gentle of a touch you can barely feel it, but it’s enough to send your body into a frenzy.

“S-So it only makes sense that I’d treat you b-best, right?” His lips brush against your ear as he speaks. You’re moving completely of your own volition now - slow rolls down against his lap, dragging your clothed core against the outline of his length. There are butterflies in your stomach, fluttering lower and lower to make your cunt throb against him. You wonder if he can feel it. “I-I’d make it my life’s mission to make you happy.” He murmurs as his grip on you tightens, hips bucking up to meet yours. His breathing has grown heavier and so has yours, soft huffs of air, quivering on exhale. “Y-You’d never cry. Not unless i-it was from somethin’ good.”

Toby rocks you against him, keeping you snug against his chest - all personal space lost. “I-I’d worship you.” He breathes, biting back a groan. “D-Do anything you want. W-Why wouldn’t you want that?”

Good question. Why wouldn’t you?

“I do.” You choke out, eyes fluttering as he pulls you down against him once more. Soft, slows rocks of your hips turning into something much more insistent. He would swear he could feel your heat permeating through your clothes. Just the idea of you growing wet above him right now was enough to make his cock twitch.

“Yeah, you d-do?” He asks, nuzzling into your hair as you move against him. Drowning in your scent. In all of the little sounds you were trying to bite back. “You’ll let me treat you how you d-deserve?”

“Mhm.” You nod back mindlessly, reaching up to grip at the front of his t-shirt - curling your fingers into the fabric. This is good. Really good. The feeling of having Toby so close. The friction of your panties rubbing against your clit every time your hips met his. His hands on you. His breath on your neck.

You were baffled as to how you denied yourself or this for so long? You could’ve had this all along? God, were you stupid.

“God-“ Toby breathes out in a quivering voice. Then, in one swift movement he’s standing and bringing you with him. Arms snaking under your thighs, holding you against him with almost mind-boggling ease as he walks you back towards his bed. It’s messy, blankets strewn around from when he had woken up to the sound of you knocking on his door.

A fact that he had been a little embarrassed about when you first arrived, but he couldn’t care less now. If things went his way, it was going to be an even bigger mess by the time he was done with you.

He lowers you down on his sheets gently, then climbing over you mere seconds later. Blanketing you with his body as he leans down to press his lips to your neck. Toby had thought about this very scenario numerous times. Jerked off to the idea far more times than he would ever admit. You beneath him, all soft and willing. Pulling him in close, hips bucking up towards his impatiently.

His imagination didn’t do the real thing justice at all. You were addictive. The feeling of your fingers weaving into his hair was one he’d never forget, nails scratching against his scalp as he left open mouthed kisses against your neck.

In the back of his mind, he could feel his tongue throbbing. His fresh piercing obviously not too keen on the treatment it was receiving as he licked and nipped at your skin. He couldn’t give less of a damn right now. His tongue could fucking fall off after all this, for all he cared, just so long as he got to taste you first.

Toby’s hands slip under the sweater and up your torso as he swirls his tongue against your collarbone, and he’s nearly moaning from the taste of your skin alone. He can’t think. Couldn’t form a coherent thought if he tried right now, all he could do was meld into you - a slave to his own desires as his palms make their way downwards again, fingers curling under the waistband of your shorts.

He pauses, as if to silently ask for permission, and you’re nodding before you can even think twice about it. Breathing out ‘please’ before you can cringe at how desperate you sound.

You could worry about everything else later. What this meant, where you’d go from it afterwards, if he truly meant everything he had said. None of that mattered right now. You just needed him.

Despite his eagerness, he pulls your shorts off gently. Slowly. Letting you feel the drag of his fingers on the outsides of your thighs as he tugs the material down. He creates a trail of goosebumps against your soft skin, a sight that has a shiver going down his spine. You hear him curse under his breath before he’s ducking his head back down again.

Tugging your sweater up but not all the way off, he presses his lips to the valley between your breasts. Nuzzling into the cleavage that your bra presented to him to beautifully. He thinks he could live there, if you let him, but not today. Today, he has other plans.

Another kiss, to your sternum. Then another a few inches down. It’s only once his lips meet your belly button, that you realize what his destination is.

“Toby-“ You lean up onto your elbows, watching him with hazy eyes as he mouths against your hipbone - toying with the hem of your panties with his teeth. His eyes flit up to meet yours, pupils blown wide. You’re pretty sure you look quite the same when he catches the waistband between his canines and tugs on it. “Your tongue, you can’t-“

“Won’t feel it. D-Doesn’t matter.” He cuts you off, bringing his hands down to cup the backs of your thighs. Callouses against smooth skin, gently spreading you open wider.

“That’s not the issue.” You argue, hips twitching when releases the fabric in his teeth with a snap against your skin. “You know how unsafe that is? It’ll get infected.”

“L-Let it. I don’t g-give a fuck.” His nails bite into your skin, fingers pressing deep into the supple flesh. “I’ve fuh-fuckin’ dreamt about this pussy.” As if to enunciate his point, he closes the gap between his face and your core - pressing his nose against the dampened fabric with a moan. You jolt, hips leaving the bed for a second from the sudden stimulation against your throbbing clit. “I need to taste you. P-Please.” His lips part before you can even speak next, his darting out to drag flat against clothed folds.

And you think, it would take a lot stronger of a woman than you to refuse him. Nestled between your thighs, face flushed and eyes hazy as he mouths at your heat through your panties.

It’s a bad idea and you know it is, but he’s literally begging you. Begging for you in a way no man had ever done for you before. He was right, he would treat you better.

And so - disregarding pretty much the number one rule after getting an oral piercing, and spitting in the face of all the training you did - you nod. Small, and shaky, but that’s all Toby needs. “A-Ah, thank you.” He murmurs against you, fingers coming up to grab at the thin material hugging your hips.

He pulls it down a lot quicker than he had your shorts, desperation obviously getting the best of him. That was okay though, because his blazing desire for you was only making you wetter. A sight that he got a prime view of once your underwear was completely discarded - thrown off into some corner of his bedroom. “So puh-pretty.” Toby murmurs in awe, before bringing a hand down to swipe his fingers through your slickness. You can hear it when his breath hitches. “And s-so wet for me.” He spreads his fingers, parting your folds and exposing you fully - fixated on the sight of your core like he had just seen god himself.

He might as well have, with the effect you have on him. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, rock hard length pulsing against the confines of his jeans. Only once it drips down against you, does he notice that he’s drooling. Literally drooling over your pussy.

Such a mess for you, but he couldn’t care less. “S-So fucking pretty.” He repeats again in a breathless whisper, and then he’s diving in.

Your entire body jolts when his tongue meets your cunt - licking a long, flat stripe from bottom to top. You couldn’t even attempt to hold back the moan that elicited, body arching up from the bed as tingles shoot up your spine.

You can feel it. You can feel the hard metal of his piercing, pressing against your clit when he repeats the action. And the rumours were right. That felt fucking divine. It added the perfect amount of pressure, the jewelry rolling against you with each flick of his tongue. He laps at you a few times, dipping into your folds, savouring the taste of you flooding his tastebuds.

You were so sweet. So sweet that even though his cock is aching in his jeans, but he pays it no mind. He just needed this, your pussy flush against his face, and he’d be satisfied. The tip of his tongue swipes through your slick, and then his lips are circling around your clit - giving it all the love it deserved.

Your hand flies downwards, fisting into his hair with a grip you know would be painful if he could feel it. But you couldn’t help it. He was eating you out like a starving dog, slurping up every drop of slick that left you. “S-So fuckin’ good.” He slurs against you, taking in a quivering breath before he prods his tongue at your entrance.

It the only warning you get before the warm muscle is sliding inside you.

“F-Fuck, Toby-“ You cry, tugging him in closer by the hair - an action that makes him let out a gravelly moan into you. Hot, slick muscle slides against your quivering walls - the top ball of his piercing dragging against the sensitive flesh. It makes you genuinely see stars, vision going blurry as his tongue works inside you. “You- Fuck! It’s so good.”

He honestly didn’t think he could get more turned on than he already was right now, but the sound of your voice? Yeah, that did it. You sounded fucking sinful. Gasped out, strained words. Voice so high pitched and pretty. And the moans that were slipping out now too? He needed to hear more. Needed to hear you moan your little heart out until your throat went raw.

His fingers claw at your thighs, and now he’s tugging them apart wider, giving himself ample room to devour you completely. His tongue thrusts into you, nose bumping against your clit, the entire bottom half of his face shining with a combination of your slick and his drool. But he just couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not until you were begging him to.

He leans forwards more, practically burying his face in your cunt. As he does, his hips shift, his neglected cock brushing against the bed through his jeans. And by now, he’s so agonizingly worked up that just that small bit of friction has him letting out a gravelly moan right against your twitching core.

He lapping you up like he had been starving for it, and quite honestly, he was. He had been, for a long, long time. He feels almost dizzy from it, so drunk on you that his mind was going hazy.

And you? Well, you’re having a hard time not completely melting into his bed. You can barely breathe between moans. Tingles of pleasure are making your thighs twitch and tremble but Toby keeps them held open right where he wants them. You’re burning up, slick with sweat. You had thought about tugging the sweater off of you, but being enveloped in his scent was just getting you higher.

His tongue leaves you, and then he’s back to abusing your clit again - flicking his pierced tongue against the swollen nub. He can feel it throbbing, and he knows he’s getting you right where he wants you to be.

He sucks on you gently, rubbing the metal in his mouth against the sensitive flesh - a sensation that has you damn near sobbing. A sound that he wants to hear over and over again, so he doubles his efforts.

One hand leaves your thigh (in its wake, five crescent shaped indents in your skin) to move lower downwards instead. His tongue drags flat against your clit as he slips a finger inside you.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better.

He pumps it into you in time with the flick of his tongue, curling it gently as he tries to find the spot that would make you cry out for him again. Once, twice, three times he tries, and then- “Ah!” Found it.

The way you tightened up around him made his mind go fuzzy, imagining just how perfect you’d feel around his cock instead. You were already so tight, wet, and warm around his finger - which was just a taste. He’d probably cum before he even got an inch inside.

Speaking of, he was trying not to right now. Without even realizing it, ever since that first brush of the mattress against his length, he had been absentmindedly grinding down against his while keeping his tongue occupied. He needed something, anything, but he just couldn’t bring himself to tear his mouth away from you. He might not ever get enough.

And so, he’s left humping his own mattress like a damn dog, downright whorish groans vibrating against you everytime he brings his hips down. If he had any rationality left, he’d realize how humiliating the entire scenario was, but his mind was too far gone. Turned to mush by you and that holy treasure between your legs. “Toby-“ He hears you gasp again, and his name has never sounded better. You made it sound like gospel as you breathed it out, all needy and overwhelmed.

The warmth brewing in your gut was getting to be too much to bear, building and building into a heat that was all-consuming. You’re so close you can taste it, gripping his hair so tight that you’re almost worried you might rip some of the strands out.

Toby can feel it when your pleasure starts to crest, your walls convulsing around his finger as he laps at your clit. It just spurs him on more, knowing that he can take you there. That you’re crying out for him. Clutching at him as your thighs shake.

He feels like he’s on top of the world. He feels euphoric. He feels like…

…Like he’s cumming.

It hits him with no warning, unannounced, right as you let out a broken cry and arch up off of the bed. He’s moaning into you as you gush into his mouth, hot slick that has his eyes rolling back as a wet, sticky warmth blooms in his boxers.

His free hand claws at your thigh, his hips hopelessly rutting against the bed to ride out the high as you buck up into his mouth. Pulsing and twitching against his tongue. Still, he couldn’t get enough. With pleasure sizzling through every nerve in his body, the taste of you was just heightening it. Making his hips twitch and his whole body tremble as he borderline sobs into your pussy, lapping up every drop of your release.

It’s only once your shaky hands start pushing his head away from your way too sensitive clit, does he relent.

It takes a few long moments for either of you to come back down to earth.

Toby’s left with his cheek pressed against your thigh, stubble scratching the soft skin as he gasps for air - trying to catch his breath. His eyes are drooped closed; cheeks flushed, hair in disarray, with his mouth and chin glistening with a combination of his spit and your release. He’s trembling slightly, you can feel it, still grasping your thigh like it would kill him to let go.

Through your hazy eyes, and brain still mushy from the afterglow of your orgasm, you think he might just be the most lovely thing you’ve ever seen.

You weakly tug at his hair, making his eyes flutter open to look up at you dreamily. “C’mere.” You murmur tiredly. “Wouldn’t be fair if I’m the only one who came.”

Toby blinks up at you and his face flushes an even deeper pink as he fumbles for what to say next. You hadn’t noticed? Well, maybe he couldn’t blame you for being too caught up in your own pleasure. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, gaping at you like a fish out of water before he’s mumbling out;

“Y-You weren’t.” He smiles at you sheepishly, blush spreading upwards to dust the tips of his ears rosy as well. “I’m g-good.”

Your lips part, eyes widening as his words sink in. Once the realization hits, a whole new wave of heat washes over your entire body. He had..? Just from..? You almost couldn’t wrap your head around it.

But when his hand reaches down to adjust his jeans, and you notice his expression twist into one of embarrassed discomfort - you know he’s not lying. “T-Tried not to, but… I don’t know. You d-do things to me.”

Clearly.

You let out a little disbelieving laugh, then trailing your hand down the side of his face to caress his cheek. The way he leans into your touch immediately has your heart slipping a beat. He was so perfect it was almost uncanny.

But of course, rationality had to come back into play eventually.

“Oh shit.” You breathe, pulling your hand back so that you could prop yourself up on your elbows as you gazed down at him - expression becoming wrinkled with worry. “How’s your tongue?”

Toby blinks up at you, like he had also forgotten about how carelessly he had treated the fresh wound in his mouth, before shrugging his shoulders and sticking his tongue out for you to observe.

Swollen and angry. That’s the best way you could describe the sight of the once portfolio-worthy piercing you had just done on him. His tongue was definitely irritated beyond belief, a painful looking shade of red coating the entire thing. “You’re fucked.” You murmur, brows pinching together. “Toby… That’s definitely getting infected.”

Again, Toby shrugs.

“W-Worth it.”

You were right, of course. Toby woke up the next morning with a tongue so swollen he could barely open his mouth. A sight that had you rubbing your temples in disbelief, and him still somehow managing a cocky grin

He managed to save it, with both his and your efforts combined (and antibiotics, and a lot of mouthwash, and ice cubes). It luckily only took about a week for the irritation to subside.

Which was good, because he was definitely keeping this one.

—————————————————————————☆

looked at my own tongue piercing in the mirror and went ‘What if Toby…’ and now here we are.

thanks for reading! ♡

[tojisbbygworl]

The Apartment Across The Street pt. 1 - Sukuna x Reader

In the short time he watches her, he learns 3 new things: 1. She has a mirror on the left side of the window. 2. She is completely unaware of how easily someone could see her in all her half-naked glory. 3. Sukuna could overpower her if it came down to it.

Or maybe it’s 4 things. From the beating of his heart and the warm rushing feeling heading towards his dick, he learns the drug he thought he needed might not be a drug at all.

Words: 6.7k

Tags - 18+ MDNI, No Use of Y/N, No Curses, Set in late 90s/early 00s, Smut, Angst, High Sex, Missionary, Degredation, Marijuana, Slight x Toji (I can't help myself)

WARNINGS - Dead Dove, Dark, Non-Con/Dub-con, Breaking and Entering, Sukuna and Toji are criminals, Sukuna's a hitman, Choking, Violence

AO3 Version

Masterlist

author's note: Heyyyy! Okay I went a little too hard like I always do so this is a bit long and (imo) it get's a little intense so be warned. I hope you enjoy hopefully I have some motivation to keep writing. art cred: @innaillus

Pt. 2 Pt. 3

That apartment used to be empty.

Sukuna hadn’t been home in a week. He doesn’t mind. He’s learned to not have too many hopes or expectations in this line of work. Besides, he prefers being his own boss. He accepts contracts when he needs money then he’s off until it runs out. Doesn’t matter if they take days or even weeks.

Shorter jobs like this one weren’t his treat. They don’t pay as much as he likes, but it works out. These apartments were a bit shitty, they didn’t cost too much. And, he was right in the middle of the city. Easy to meet clients. The clubs went on all night long. Which is exactly how late he was out when he was home. Actually, he was planning to go out tonight. Meet up with Toji and see if he can’t get a woman in his bed by 2 am.

He wondered how long it would take to see his newest neighbor. The way the apartments in the complex are built, you could easily see into your neighbor’s bedroom. 'State guidelines say blinds aren’t required. You buy them,' was the response he received when he brought the problem up to the landlord. A lot of people invested in curtains, maybe they hadn’t bought any yet. He saw a bed, but it seems to be the only thing they’ve managed to set up. There were a couple boxes with flaps wide open sitting beside it.

After a few more moments of rumination, he closed his curtain and laid down on his bed waiting for a text to come over. In truth, he couldn't wait to see who was unlucky enough to be his new window neighbor. The last one didn’t go too well. They also didn’t invest in curtains and he isn’t entirely sure if he’s the reason they moved out, but he’s sure they didn’t appreciate catching his stare multiple times a day. And that one time at midnight.

-

All it took was the next morning.

Sukuna’s eyes crept open and he stared towards the ceiling. The girl he brought home last night was dead asleep and naked on his chest. He yawned and wiped his face tiredly. He nudged the girl off of him a bit, then sat up on the side of his bed. Ugh, he felt like shit. Toji always went entirely too hard when they went out, but Sukuna doesn’t mind. He has nowhere to be. Nothing to do. 

He got up and stretched then walked to the bathroom. As he completed his morning routine, he pondered about what today would behold for him. This is another reason he hated short jobs. Sukuna loves free time, but only if there’s something to do with it. There never really is.

He could kill that girl in his bedroom. In fact, he could have killed any girl he brought home since he moved in half a year ago. But the last time he made his job his hobby, it didn’t go so well for him. It was too close of a call, and getting arrested for murder just isn’t worth it. He could spend a couple months in the pen, not years at a time.

He spat out his toothpaste. Life was so fucking mundane. He had no life goals, barely any friends, his little brother hates him, and he works alone. All things he doesn’t actually care about, but shit, when is he going to get some excitement? Nothing gets him going anymore.

He needs something that will make him feel. A drug of some sort? But that doesn’t seem right to him. Even now as he walks back in the room staring at the woman in his bed, he feels nothing. If she woke back up and decided she wanted to have sex with him, he would say yes, but only because it’s something to do. He’s not feeling any particular way about her.

The moment he sat back down on the bed, she started shifting around. A few seconds later, she lifts her head and yawns. “Good morning.” She giggles, she leans over and kisses his cheek. Sukuna grunts.

The girl looks around the dark room. “It is morning, right?” She doesn’t let him answer before she stands up and opens the curtains. “Oh wow,” she exclaims. “I can see directly into your neighbor’s room.” She says. He still doesn’t get up, just hums at her.

“She’s cute though.”

Sukuna perks up upon hearing that. “Oh yeah? I haven’t seen her yet. She’s new.”

This was the first time since they’ve met that she said something interesting, but unfortunately for him, she drops the subject immediately and walks back into bed, leaving the curtains open. Sukuna holds back his sigh. Does he really want to spend the rest of his morning with this girl? It was half past 8. Way too early.

“I'm going to start getting ready for work,” he says without skipping a beat. She stops in her tracks and blinks at him, clearly not expecting that. It’s silent for a few moments. Sukuna’s not sure what she’s waiting on, but if it’s for him to say he’s kidding or let her stay, she’s sorely mistaken.

“Oh, I thought you were contracted,” she says nervously.

‘I only work when I feel like it, gorgeous.’ Sukuna inwardly curses himself for his suave nature. “Yeah. I got a contract. In an hour.”

His curtness and annoyed expression did good to make her feel completely and totally unwanted. The girl awkwardly smiled at him. “Oh, ha ha. Yeah…okay.” Sukuna got up and walked out of the room. Give her a little space to feel like shit while she gets ready to leave. He makes himself a cup of coffee, his face still that same blank expression even after he hears her rushing out the door from behind him. When she’s gone he takes himself back into his room.

He walks up to his window to close the curtains once more until someone catches his eye. He freezes and his eyebrows shoot upwards. That girl was right. She was cute. And he had the perfect view of her. She seemed to be posing or checking herself out. Sukuna wasn’t sure which one it was, but he hoped she didn’t stop. That bikini she had on was doing wonders for her, and him.

Something was off. Looking at her made him…tense. His hands were gripping the curtains, he was biting the inside of his cheek, his leg was shaking; Was it anxiety? No, she’s not making him nervous. What he’s feeling is euphoric. He likes it. He wants to grip her bare waist and squeeze her until she bruises.

In the short time he watches her, he learns 3 new things: 1. She has a mirror on the left side of her window. 2. She is completely unaware of how easily someone could see her in all her half-naked glory. 3. Sukuna could overpower her if it came down to it. Or maybe it’s 4 things. From the beating of his heart and the warm rushing feeling heading towards his dick, he learns the drug he thought he needed might not be a drug at all.

-

It doesn’t take long after that to finally meet her.

Before taking his most recent job, Sukuna had nearly consumed everything in his fridge. What was left was now finished and he spent a lot of his morning sulking at a half empty milk carton, his breakfast for the day. He hated eating out, it messed with his figure.

The local grocery wasn't too bad of a walk from his place, although he hated carrying everything back. He always bought a few necessities and a few ingredients to quickly whip something up for his dinner. Today, he’d have to bulk up if he doesn’t want to keep coming back.

As much as he hated the public, shopping never seemed to be a problem for him. He was tall and intimidating, he never smiled, he was always tense; people tended to avoid him like the plague. He appreciated it. But, as he enters the frozen meal aisle with his cart half full he wishes that just for a moment, he looked approachable. Then, this would be much easier.

There she was, in sweatpants and a cropped tube top, looking at the frozen pizzas. She looked like she had been home all day. She was much cuter now that he could see her better. A lot cuter. She’s pretty as hell.

Thank goodness, too. He already knew what her body looked like, what with her constantly taking pictures of herself in front of the window. She liked to play dress up, she would try on entirely different outfits before she was satisfied. Pretty soon, the colors of her bras and panties would be ingrained into his memory.

He stood there looking her up and down for a few more seconds before he started browsing once more. Although he really was looking for food he wanted, he used this opportunity to slowly get closer to her. He pretended to be interested in some frozen broccoli and he snuck a look at her. To his surprise, and enjoyment, she had done the same. When they made eye contact, she jerked and looked away. A couple moments after that, she grabbed her food and walked away into another aisle.

Sukuna chuckled to himself. She wouldn’t get away that easily. He dropped the broccoli in his cart and followed after her. He hadn’t seen which aisle she’d gone into, so he kept walking down and looking into each one until he found her trying to get some chips from a high shelf. He smiled upon seeing her struggle. Maybe this would be easier than he thought.

He managed to walk right up behind her and reach for the chips she was trying to get before she got startled. She gasped a bit and looked up at him. He looked down at her. Fuck, she was pretty. His heart started to pound, he could practically salivate at the idea of taking her home.

He hands her the chips before she can say anything, then walks away. Before he’s out of her sight he hears her say, “Thank you so much.”

Her cadence, the velvety softness of her voice; it made him want to drop to his knees. How sweet would she sound if he bit into her neck? How soft is her yelp when she stubs her toe? How shrill is her scream when she’s in pain?

Her appreciation made him stop in his tracks. He turned over his shoulder to look at her. She seemed nervous and her eyes were uncertain. Sukuna began to feel restless. So many ideas of what he could do to her if he got her alone were rushing through his mind and she was none the wiser. This aisle has been empty and no one has come by. He could take her right now.

Instead, he looks her up and down. “Yeah, sure.” And then he walks away with his shopping. He leaves wondering when next they’ll meet, she does the same as she watches his back.

-

“Still haven’t called the maintenance guy, huh? Lazy jackass.”

Sukuna turns his head to the side and glares at his unwanted guest. Toji may have been his best friend, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to break his fat neck and bury him in the park. Besides, that title meant jack shit. They met in jail and Toji helped him get on his feet when Sukuna’s sentence was up. Toji never really left him alone and Sukuna stayed because his family was rich. If anything, they were close acquaintances who had sex sometimes.

Speaking of Toji’s money, the asshole grew up in an affluent family which means his standards were a bit too high for the humble abode that Sukuna prefers. It was probably the most annoying part about him. He was complaining about the door to the bathroom. It didn’t close correctly so you had to force it shut. Something that just isn’t enough of a problem to be bothered to try and fix.

“Stop coming over if it annoys you so much,” Sukuna responds, taking another drag from their second blunt for the morning. He was finally starting to feel something from it and he didn’t want to hear Toji whining about bullshit.

“Nah, I think I’ll keep coming. Especially with your fine ass neighbor.” Toji walked away again, not seeing Sukuna’s head jerk towards him. What was he talking about? Sukuna didn’t tell him about her. Did he see her?

“Why the fuck are you in my room?” He gets up to follow behind him. Sukuna looks down the hallway and sees both his room and the bathroom doors wide open. The bathroom was empty. “Get out.”

He starts walking towards his room door but jumps back when Toji rushes out of it. “Come look at this,” he says, grabbing his arm.

Toji had this crazed grin on his face and he was tugging him along impatiently. “What the hell are you-” Sukuna’s words die in his throat as he gazes upon what had Toji so excited. It was his beautiful neighbor changing in front of her mirror again except, there was a big problem. She had never been completely naked before.

Holy shit, her body could stop a truck. Sukuna let his jaw drop. His eyes raked her from her breasts to her legs. She would turn around occasionally, walk back and forth in front of the window, oh he loved the way her tits bounced. He wanted her on top of him, his dick sliding in and out of her while he latched onto her nipple.

“She’s sexy as fuck, huh?” Sukuna’s unceremoniously snapped out of his trance by Toji’s comment. He turns his head towards him looking at his smile and twinkling eyes. “She do this all the time? Does she even know?” Toji gasps and looks him in the eye. “Does she do it on purpose?”

I’m that moment, a switch had flipped inside of Sukuna. Toji was watching her before he brought him in here. He saw her naked first. He shouldn’t have seen her at all. The warm swarm of butterflies in his abdomen had fluttered away, a feeling of rage building in his heart instead. She was Sukuna’s to look at, not Toji’s.

To answer his question, Sukuna shrugs. Then, they both turn towards her again only to make eye contact with her. They see her gasp, cover herself and shriek before running from the window. “Fuck,” they say in unison before shutting the curtain.

“I blame you for that,” Toji says despite both of them being at fault. He puts his hands in his pockets and walks out of the room. “Where’s the blunt?”

Toji may have forgotten about that little encounter, but Sukuna doesn’t think he can forget anytime soon. He hates that Toji got to see her like that. They still haven’t spoken more than once to each other, and now she knows he’s a pervert that stares at her through their windows. Sukuna scowls at the ground then slams his hand into the wall. She’ll leave soon just like the last one did, but this time, he doesn’t want to accept that as a possibility.

He gives himself time to calm down before joining Toji again. He can’t bring work home again.

-

It was over.

He saw her once after that incident. Waiting for Toji to pick him up for the night, he stood outside the local gas station smoking a cigarette. She’d been on his mind since. She invested in curtains, unfortunately. She was really uncomfortable. He’s not even sure if she’s left the apartment.

Thinking about what happened made him furious. If Toji hadn’t gone into his room he would have never seen her. Oh he just can’t shut the hell up about the shape of her ass and how he would let her suffocate him with her gorgeous thighs. Sukuna sighed, her thighs were gorgeous weren’t they?

She was a missed opportunity. There are so many ways he could have started something with her. It’s not like she didn’t like him, had they met again before that, he’s sure he could have gotten her number. Usually, missing out on a woman wasn’t that bothersome, but she was different for him. He looked forward to beating his dick under the windowsill while she tried on clothes. His imagination wasn’t bad, but by the time he came in his hands, his dick was red and sore and his arm was tired.

His memory is not enough. He wants her.

He looks at the time on his watch. A quarter ‘til midnight. He rolls his eyes. Toji’s always late. A quick snack is in order.

Sukuna mindlessly stares at the powdered donuts wondering if he really feels like fucking up his clothes and having dirty fingers. He hates club bathrooms, the one here is just as bad, and he doesn’t want to lick his fingers. Maybe he won’t. But right before he decides to leave, the door opens. He turns his head upon hearing the small ring of a bell, but doesn’t pay attention to the culprit until they’re in the same aisle. “Oh shit,” he said before he could stop himself.

He tries to look away before she notices, but it’s too late. He looks back at her and grimaces. The girl is shaken to her core. Poor thing is afraid. And while Sukuna feels a bit bad about making such a cutie so frightened, it kind of…warms his heart. She takes in a deep breath and twists back around. She doesn’t even buy anything. She just leaves.

He almost chases her. He stands in the aisle still reveling in her presence. He breathes deeply thinking about how nice it felt to have such power over someone. Hm.

Sukuna leaves the store only a few moments after her. Toji’s BMW was running next to a pump as he got out of the car. “Oh shit, there you are.” He grins. “Guess who I just saw.”

“I know. She was running from me.” Sukuna says, getting into the passenger seat.

Toji cackles while driving away. “Damn, so she’s scared of us, huh?” Sukuna shrugs. “She looked like it. Girl was huffing it. Actually…she ran down the street towards where we’re going.”

Sukuna raises a brow at him. Toji doesn’t say anything and just keeps smiling. “So?”

He turns on his beamers and slows down as he drives between the apartment buildings. Sukuna’s eyes widen as he realizes just what Toji’s trying to do. And soon his lips follow. Just up ahead was a figure with a hoodie walking very quickly. They turn around and immediately shield their eyes from the bright lights. It was her.

She seemed confused at first, and the bright light contrasted with the darkness of the night blinded her from seeing who was in the car. However, she didn’t stop walking or slow down. She decided to mind her business instead. It could be anyone. Anyone. Even though it was the same car waiting at the gas station.

Despite her telling herself that she’s okay, she couldn’t help but notice how they were matching her speed. And that once they had gotten right behind her, the window was rolled down. And that she still had a block left to go.

“Ay,” Sukuna shouted from behind her, effectively terrifying her. She turned to see his smile and upon further investigation, she saw Toji’s from the driver’s seat. Oh no. “You can’t say hi? You scared of me?” He taunts.

She ran.

-

And that was the worst thing she could have done.

There have been a few recent instances that made her question her move to this city. She was hoping to start a new life, away from her family, away from her ex, make some new friends; she didn’t think she would be planning to move out after a couple months.

That man…she didn’t know what the hell his problem was. Why did he and his friend follow her out of the gas station? Was he crazy? Did she do something to him? Since they followed her, she’s been racking her mind trying to figure out what the hell she did to deserve this. Before that, she had only ever spoken to him once at the grocery store. He was extremely intimidating, but she was intrigued by him. She didn’t mean to stare, but he was very attractive. Clearly he had seen it as some sort of invitation. Maybe he followed her into that aisle and it wasn’t just an act of kindness.

Coming home after work had become so much more nerve wracking. In fact, coming out of her unit brings her horrible anxiety. She’s constantly looking over her shoulder. Tries to pretend the building across doesn’t even exist. She doesn’t understand what took her so long to get curtains; it just wasn’t a priority for her. Either way, she didn’t deserve to be punished for her forgetfulness.

She’s in a weird position where the longer she goes without seeing him, the more worried she becomes even though she never wants to see him or his friend again. Currently, she was in the elevator heading up to her apartment. She was catching her breath and trying to relax now that she was safe. She does this everyday now.

She couldn’t wait to be home. The entire day she’s been feeling like complete crap. Her heart refused to leave her stomach. She dropped so many cups behind the bar that she spent more time sweeping and wiping up drinks than making them. And she was on the verge of tears the entire time. It was nice to be home, but she wondered how bad it would be tomorrow.

In fact, it was so bad today that although she was physically relaxed, her brain just wouldn’t be quiet. It kept telling her to stay alert, that there was still something waiting for her. She tried her best to ignore it and enjoy her night. She was going to kick off her shoes, rip off all her clothes, warm up her leftovers and hit her bong. She was off tomorrow and she is not planning on leaving her room at all.

She messed with her keys when she approached her door. All the apartments had two locks, a deadlock and a lock on the handle, but she was looking for another that she could attach herself. The home goods store near her didn’t have any promising ones, so she had to wait on a shipment.

She reached for the handle to unlock it. Her hand twisted the lever and she retracted it immediately. Her heart starts racing once more, but then she realizes the door was still closed. When she can’t get the door open, she sighs in relief. The deadlock was still intact and locked. The apartments are just shitty.

As relieved as she was in that moment, this just meant she had another problem to deal with. She couldn’t go with one of her locks not working, especially not the handle. In fact, maybe she’ll deal with it tonight. She does have tools and she can be pretty handy when she needs to be.

Like she wanted to, she kicks off her shoes and rips off her jacket. She almost takes off her clothes before she notices a certain smell in the air. Her apartment smelled of weed, but it smelled like someone was actively smoking right at that moment. Maybe it was her next door neighbor.

She walks through her silent home. Maybe she should get a cat. There are quite a few friendly strays around. She could afford-

What was that noise?

A bump. In her bedroom.

What could it have been? Had her worst fears come true?

No. It’s not possible…so why had that sinking feeling returned in full force? There was nothing in her room. There was no one in her room…

-

Toji had broken the lock for him. 'Just record it for me,' was his end of the bargain.

The place was just as cute as he thought it was. She still had a lot of things unpacked, and she hadn’t gotten a couch for the living room. Hm. He wonders if she really is planning on leaving. That would not be good.

He would want her to stay, but if she can get away from him, at least he’ll get a taste of her.

She leaves her weed out. Hm…he would enjoy this better if he were high. And he’ll make her smoke too. 

When he heard her coming closer to her room, he put the bong down and stood up. Her room was small and it was pitch black, the only light coming from the embers in the bowl. He hit her closet door and she heard it. Fuck. He hopes she doesn’t get a weapon out.

And she didn’t. This girl is…something else.

He hides right behind the door in between the wall and the hinges. Then, he waited quietly and patiently until she slowly opened the door and turned on the light. And before she could try to look around, he slammed the door shut behind her.

-

It all happened in a second.

She heard the door slam and time froze. She told herself then and there, that she was going to die tonight. She knew who her killer would be before she turned around. Did she even want to?

She didn’t have a choice, her body reacted before she could think. All she saw was a small scowl, he had brown eyes, but they looked tainted with blood. His hands, his large hands, shot towards her head and before she could scream he trapped her mouth shut. His other hand gripped the back of her head.

She fought him as violently as she could. She scratched his face, pulled his hair, tried to poke him in the eyes; but he was quick to show her that he was much stronger than her. He pulls his hand off of her mouth and smacks her across the face. She can only scream for a second before his hand is back on her mouth and he pushes her into the bed.

Sukuna takes his hand off of the back of her head and squeezes her neck. He still holds her mouth shut. She gets weaker and weaker as the oxygen leaves her brain. He leans down towards her face to speak to her. “You want to live?”

Tears had long been streaming down her face, but this is the point where she finally breaks down wailing. She lets her arms fall and Sukuna loosens his grip on her neck. But only slightly. She takes a deep breath and cries into his hand. “Answer me,” he says. “Come on, pretty girl.”

She cries a bit more before nodding her head in defeat. “I know. You’re gonna do what I say?”

She nods again. “You’re not gonna scream when I take my hand off?” She sniffles and sobs again. “Because you want to fucking live, right? Right?” He tightens his grip on her neck again. She kicks her feet and nods as best as she can. “Go turn off your light and turn on your lamp. You’re gonna smoke with me.”

He gets off her and watches her to make sure she does what he asks. It takes her a minute, she lays there quietly sobbing and wiping her tears while Sukuna takes another hit of her bong, but eventually she gets up to turn on her lamp, then flip her light switch. “Lock the door too. I like the feeling of extra privacy when I’m taking a woman to bed.”

-

He disgusts her.

He forces her to take several long hits that had her in horrible coughing fits. And of course, it wasn’t long before she was completely inebriated. She couldn’t really move too much, or think too much. But even though she was out of commission, she could hear every word Sukuna said to her.

He talked her ear off about how he’d been looking at her for a week before they met at the grocery store. All the way up until she realized just how exposed she was from catching him and his friend staring. It was her fault, is what he said. He said she was stupid to not think anyone could see her. She should have gotten blinds or curtains when she moved in. A fucking dumbass bitch.

That’s how she felt.

He taunted her as he watched her take her clothes off. His dick was already in his hand, he had been hard for a while. Imagining his dick finally pounding into her as he squeezes the life out of her.

‘I think you wanted someone to watch you,’ he said to her. She hung onto every word he said, answered every question he had. ‘You’re an attention seeking slut, aren’t you? Nod your head.’ And she did. ‘What’s your name?’ And she told him. ‘Take that shit off faster and come hit this again.’

She was completely out of it, but instead of floating, she sank. She sunk deeper into the bedsheets, Sukuna weighing her down with every word. Every stroke of his hand on her thigh, every lick on her neck and collarbone, every bite on her chest. When he reached down between her legs and stroked her clit, she moaned, then cried in shame.

“Shhhh,” he whispered in her ear from behind her. “You’re gonna love me. And if you’re good I won’t hurt you.” He kisses her ear, then nibbles on it. He leaves a trail of wet kisses down the side of her neck. She cries and shakes, twisting her head away from him as best as she could. Sukuna’s hands explore her body eagerly. He can’t decide whether he wants to grip her hips or play with her nipples. She was so soft, just as he imagined.

He flips her onto her back. “Look at me, baby.” She opens her eyes only slightly, her tears blurring her vision completely before falling. He takes his hand to cup her cheek and wipe them with his thumb. As she gazed upon his naked body on top of hers, she accepts her fate: this man was going to rape then kill her.

He looked deranged. His brows were knit together with a lopsided grin. Her body is racked with sobs once more. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “Shhhh.” He slowly brings his thumb wet with salty tears to her mouth. She tries to pull her head away, but he quickly attaches his hands back to her mouth and head then he leans down towards her. “I thought you said you wanted to live.”

She’s actually not sure at this point. Does she want to live with this trauma? Does she want to continue being this man’s neighbor for him to torture however he sees fit? Does she want to have to look at his building every single day living in fear that he’ll do it again? Living in fear of his friend getting any bright ideas?

“Just relax.” He lets go of her head and goes for her neck. She moans as he bites and sucks on it, making sure to leave a mark reminding her of what he did. It won’t be the only one.

Sukuna slowly takes his hands and lifts both of her legs in the air. He licks his fingers while looking at her, then bites his lip as he plays with her clit once more. She breathes harder and harder with every rub. They don’t break eye contact, it does something to him. He’s reveling in her fear. Her eyes were shot, her mascara and eyeliner running down her face. It made her look even more beautiful. She was making him feral.

Sukuna’s dick was an angry scarlet and dripped precum all over her leg where it rested. He was big and it scared her even more. As his eyes explored her body, he got hungrier and hungrier. He slides a finger inside of her and starts pumping. Her pussy was slick with her arousal.

“Fuck,” he whispered putting in another finger. He pumped his fingers hard enough to make her wetness splash. She threw her head back and arched her chest into the air. She sounded just as sweet as he thought she would. She was turning out to be everything he wanted and more. He wasn’t waiting any longer.

He yanked his fingers out of her and searched her bedside table for his camcorder. She whined when he removed himself from her and watched him. Sukuna pressed record.

“Say hi to Toji,” he told her, sticking the lens in her face. She closes her eyes and tries to avoid the camera. He grips her chin with his fingers and forces her head forward. “Ain’t she pretty?” Sukuna pulls away from her face to record her body. He takes her tit in his hand to play with. He jiggles and pulls on her nipple before smacking it. When she squealed he did it again.

“He’s gonna love watching me fuck the shit out of you.” Sukuna sat and balanced the recorder on her nightstand perfectly angled to show their torsos and hips. He gets back on the bed to grab her waist and pull her towards his. He groaned when he felt his dick rub against her pussy. “You know who I’m talking about, right? My friend? You know he saw you before I did.”

He pauses to spit into his hand and starts jerking his throbbing shaft. “I wanted to kill that fucker.” Sukuna leans over once more and kisses her several times before capturing her lips in one long and forceful kiss. He rubs his dick against her entrance as he does this, with a desperate moan from both of them to accompany it. Sukuna rests his forehead against hers. “Tell me you’re mine.” His eyes are fiery, and she doesn’t wish to find out what will happen if she fails to do what he asks.

His tip begins to poke through her entrance. She whimpers and he brings his head down and bites her lip. “Come on…”

“I’m yours-” He finally starts tucking his dick into her. The feeling of being inside her was heaven on Earth. He wasn’t ashamed of how loudly he moaned. She was louder anyway. They always are. Even when they don’t want it.

“My name is Sukuna.” She takes all of him like a fucking champ. And looks good as fuck while doing it. And her voice…

“I’m yours, Sukuna.”

A tear ran down her cheek. The dragging of his dick against her walls was nothing like she’s ever felt before. It felt so good, but she was the unhappiest she’d ever been. She’s terrified and unsure if she’ll live to see tomorrow. He says he won’t kill her if she’s good, but what does good even mean to him?

She knows there’s nothing she really could have done to avoid what was currently happening to her. This man- no, Sukuna, saw her when she was first moved in and decided then and there that he wanted to rape her. No matter what he claims about her being rude and ignoring him when he helped her. And yet, she blames herself.

If she had just gotten curtains or blinds early enough, then maybe she could have avoided him. Or maybe she wouldn’t have existed to him at all. At least he wouldn’t have known what floor she was on or her room. Maybe he wouldn’t have known what building she was in.

She was so fucking stupid.

-

He repeated that all night.

‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ he would mutter under his breath. ‘Changing in front of a window, thinking no one’s gonna see you? Posing in mirrors and shit?’ He fucked her at a smooth and steady rythym, she was soaking wet and splashing all over his stubble. The sheets were damp underneath. ‘Oh yeah. You like it when I talk to you like that?’ She couldn’t stop herself from crying in humiliation.

He asked her to cry louder for ‘Toji’, which she did, and he proceeded to smack her across the face for being too loud.

He felt amazing, he pushed her legs into her chest and hammered into her. She cried into his mouth as she came all over him. Her pussy squeezing his member drive him insane and before he knew it he was cumming inside her. ‘Fuck…’ He pulled out and jerked the rest of his cum onto her pussy and thighs. He quickly grabbed the camera to show Toji, with the flash on.

‘Look at that shit,’ Sukuna made sure to examine her at every angle. He pushed his finger into her and chuckled when she moaned. His index was covered with his cum and he brought it and the camera up to her body and face.

She was completely tired out. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak, she could barely even lift her eyelids. Sukuna kissed at her like a dog, then maneuvered the camera to her face. Her face was soaked with tears and spit. Her makeup had smudged everywhere and ran down her cheeks. Her hair was a mess, and she ached everywhere.

Her mouth hung open and Sukuna proceeded to jam his finger into it. He used it to pull her head back over to him and made out with her. Then, his dick started poking her ass.

She had no idea what time last night they were finally done, talk less of when she actually fell asleep. He smoked a blunt after the whole thing, sat her up so he could make her smoke too. He found her liquor cabinet. The night got worse.

She puked her guts out then fell asleep on the floor, but now she was in her bed trapped underneath him. They were both naked. She was sore as the day was long. He snores next to her. Holy fucking hell. She’s alive. Why is she alive?

She starts breathing heavily and looking around her room. She doesn’t know what to do. She didn’t think she would still be here.

In a flash, he’s up. His hand is over her mouth, and his eyes are staring into hers. He has a poker face. She shakes in his clutches and her eyes fill with tears already. “Relax. Listen to me. I know what you’re planning.”

What? What is he- “I dare you to fucking try and move away from me. I will follow you and ruin your life.”

“You said you were mine last night? Then you’re mine. You’ll do what I say, and I’ll do as I please with you. Do you understand?”

All she could do was nod. What could she say? She was planning on moving despite not having the money for it. She would have to save up. And now that he’s shown her what he’s capable of, why would she take the risk? 

Why is this happening to her? What did she do to deserve this? Want a better life for herself?

-

Sukuna was pleased with how the morning was going.

She was sitting on a stool in her dining room watching him make them breakfast with an ice pack on her face and a blanket over her body. She didn’t know what to think.

Suddenly, he perks up and turns towards her. “You got a phone, pretty?” 

She could throw up again. She swallows and points towards the hall . “My room,” her voice was hoarse and weak. “On the other side of the bed.”

He pauses and blinks at her. She gets scared again wondering what she did wrong this time. He turns the heat off. “You’re coming with me.”

Toji answers in a flash. “So, how was it?”

“You’re gonna like what you see.” He turns towards where she’s sitting on the bed. “Isn’t that right?” She’s not amused.

“Are you…are you with the bitch right now?” Toji asks.

“Yeah,” Sukuna makes his voice dreamy. “We’re going steady.”

ending a/n: Please lmk what you think ! Thank you for reading !

Masterlist

W E L C O M E P A G E

[cece693]

POOR IMITATION

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader synopsis: Franklyn Froideveaux didn't need an introduction—even if Hannibal was a firm believer in patient confidentiality—you knew the man had a huge obsession with your husband. However, rather than igniting jealousy within you, it provided you with endless entertainment.

The first time Franklyn Froideveaux saw you, it was purely by accident. He had just finished his Thursday session—another sixty minute spiral of anxieties masquerading as epiphanies—when he stepped into the waiting room to collect his scarf. There, beneath the copper leaf of the ceiling lamp, sat a man he’d never seen.

You balanced a stainless-steel bento of kaisen chirashi on one knee and two small stoneware espresso cups on the other, the arrangement so precise it looked curated for a magazine spread. Your suit was midnight blue, cut razor-slim through the waist, lapels rolled in a style Franklyn had only ever glimpsed on Milan runways. A silk pocket square—soft gray with a single cardinal-red stitch at the border—folded itself into an immaculate peak. Even seated, you radiated posture, the sort of spinal elegance that suggested ballet training or aristocratic rearing.

Client? Franklyn wondered, pulse skittering. Hannibal rarely kept overlapping appointments, yet here you were, looking effortlessly important. The thought that you might replace him knifed ice behind his sternum.

Then Hannibal emerged from the office, smoothing his waistcoat as always—but the mask slipped. A breath-quick, barely visible, yet seismic shift: his eyes warmed, mouth curved just shy of a smile, shoulders eased a centimeter down. It was the gentlest expression Franklyn had ever wrung from his psychiatrist—and it wasn’t meant for him.

Franklyn spent the subway ride home dissecting every detail:

Midnight-blue suit, super-150 wool, perhaps Savile Row.

Hair: swept back, a mild wave, no visible product—probably Oribe mousse, touch of sea-salt spray.

Bento: a chef’s tasting of raw fish, pickled daikon, paper-thin shiso. Franklyn googled the Japanese term on his phone and bookmarked three sushi spots that offered it to go.

Espresso cups: brown, not the white porcelain Hannibal served him—significant? Earthy tones, maybe.

By the time he surfaced onto Lexington Avenue, Franklyn had convinced himself of a simple equation: If I recreate the stimulus, I reproduce the response. Hannibal admired sophistication; Franklyn would become sophisticated. Easy.

He does not mean to become a stalker; he simply fails to notice the point at which observation tips into pursuit. Once Franklyn reached home, he sat infront of his computer and began to search for you. It was almost impossible to find anything on you. Franklyn didn't hear Hannibal say your name nor was there anything he could search that didn't elicit other unimportant hits—concert pianists, Roman senators, a British sitcom from the ’80s. Every permutation of keywords—“30-40 year old refined men from Baltimore,"—dissolved into digital static.

The elusiveness only whetted Franklyn’s appetite. Then, by some miracle, when out on the town, he saw you through the window of a tiny pâtisserie shop, holding a box of pale-green mille-feuilles tied with butcher’s twine. Franklyn’s pulse jumped. Providence! He darted inside, bell jangling overhead.

The patisserie was all copper fixtures and honeyed sunlight, a little jewel box smelling of butter and caramelized sugar. You had one hip braced against the marble counter, murmuring in liquid French to Madame Leroux about the relative virtues of Sicilian versus Sorrento lemons.

Bang.

Franklyn’s shoulder clipped the slatted door so hard it rebounded off the wall. The brass bell above his head shrieked in protest; every customer looked up. You turned, half-smile already blooming like citrus on the tongue. “Bonsoir,” you greeted, English shaded with play-acting Parisian flourish. “Can I help you find something sweet?”

Yes, Franklyn nearly blurted—your entire personal history, please, with a side of casual confidences about Dr. Lecter—but what came out was, “I…erm, heard the kouign-amann is life-changing?”

You glanced at the glass case. “Sold out hours ago. But if you’re intent on change, try the pâte de fruits. They crystallise disappointment into something chewable.” Your eyes glittered. “Name’s Franklyn, right? Tuesday afternoons?”

His throat dried. “You remember me.”

“I make a sport of it. People are puzzles, and I collect corner pieces.” You paid for your order—two citron tarts and a palm-sized gâteau St. Honoré—then stepped aside. “Tell you what: walk with me. I know a park where the ducks are shameless beggars. We can feed your pâte de fruits to them and ponder the ethics of enabling avian gluttony.”

Franklyn followed like a moon-caught tide.

Under a bare-branched elm you unboxed the pastries, handing one to Franklyn. “Eat,” you commanded, “so Hannibal won’t suspect you’re starving yourself for vanity. He abhors affectation.” A mischievous pause. “Unless it’s my affectation.”

Franklyn bit into the tart, lemon silk shocking his tongue. “You and Dr. Lecter…you’re close?”

“Close enough to ruin his tailoring budget.” You plucked a crumb from his lapel—too calculatedly intimate to be careless. “So. What’s it you really want, dear Franklyn? Therapy tips? His favorite concerto? Or perhaps you’d like the brand of salt he sprinkles on cantaloupe?”

Heat crawled up his neck. “I—I admire his mind. I thought knowing his circle might help me become the sort of person he could value.”

“Ah. Self-improvement by osmosis.” You tapped your chin, theatrically pondering. “All right. First lesson: he notices scent before speech. Skip cologne—choose tea. Something smoky, lapsang maybe. He’ll smell the difference.”

Franklyn nodded, eyes wide, scribbling invisible notes. You could almost hear the gears grinding. You tossed a sugared rind to an eager duck. “Second lesson: never present imitation as affection. He values the original.”

Franklyn frowned. “But if the original inspires—”

“Then draw inspiration, don’t Xerox it.” You patted his cheek. “Create something uniquely Franklyn. Otherwise, you’re just a shadow on a wall.” You left him with the ducks and an aftertaste of citrus and riddles.

Over the next days Franklyn raided specialty tea shops for lapsang souchong, practiced Chopin nocturnes until his downstairs neighbour threatened murder, and scoured thrift stores for vintage cashmere because you’d off-handedly mentioned Hannibal’s fondness for texture. Yet each session ended with Hannibal’s cool appraisal and a politely distant hmm.

Franklyn’s desperation calcified into brittle impatience, and it bled through his voice in therapy. “I’ve done everything the self-help books say—refined my image, broadened my cultural portfolio, adapted to the—uh—social milieu I want to inhabit.”

Hannibal folded his hands. “And who, precisely, authored that milieu?”

“I…I suppose it’s inspired by someone admirable. Someone refined.” Franklyn’s eyes flicked upward, searching for any change in expression.

“Admiration expressed through mimicry is flattering,” Hannibal said, tone as bloodless as a scalpel’s steel, “but only until the original notices his echo.”

The metaphor lanced cleanly; Franklyn winced yet forged ahead. “Hypothetically, Doctor, if a person were…emotionally available, would you consider—”

“You are mistaking hypothetical for hopeful.” Hannibal’s voice dropped an octave, the single word hopeful carrying the weight of a tribunal verdict. “Hope is best served tempered by reality. And reality, Franklyn, is that sculpting a façade does not change the clay beneath.”

A silence stretched, taut as piano wire. Franklyn’s next breath juddered. “So you’re saying it’s pointless.”

“I am saying,” Hannibal replied, eyes narrowing to flinty slits, “that authenticity cannot be reverse-engineered. The path to worth is inward, not outward. Until you accept that, every new habit will ring hollow—both to you and to anyone you wish to impress.”

When the session ended, Hannibal rose first—an unmistakable signal—while Franklyn lingered, one foot still caught in the snare of longing he had woven from your riddles and his own desperations. Outside, the corridor smelled faintly of cedarwood and oolong: your unmistakable trail. It mocked him all the way to the lift.

Hannibal wasn’t stupid; he knew Franklyn’s sudden taste for cedar-laced teas, vintage cashmere, and late-Romantic piano hadn’t sprung from self-discovery. Even if he hadn’t already smelled your laughter all over the poor man, the pattern was obvious: each new obsession followed within forty-eight hours of your latest outing.

Franklyn was devouring breadcrumbs you scattered with feline amusement, and the psychiatrist in Hannibal catalogued every crumb. But the husband in him seethed.

The following Thursday Hannibal left the office early and took the long route home—straight past the pâtisserie’s picture window. Predictably, Franklyn hunched at one of the café tables, oversized scarf bunched at his throat like a noose, notebook open to a page dense with half-legible French phrases. He was trying to charm Madame Rousseau into pronouncing them for him, and failing adorably.

Hannibal did not enter; he simply watched for a moment, head slightly cocked—predator evaluating prey already snared in its own trap. Then he continued on, leather gloves whispering together behind his back.

That night, while you diced preserved lemon into sun-bright cubes for the tagine, Hannibal recounted his detour past the pâtisserie. Each detail arrived as precisely as the slivers of peel slipping from your chef’s knife.

“I warned him not to Xerox me,” you said, flicking yellow specks into the waiting bowl. “Apparently he’s Xeroxing my accent now.”

“He is Xeroxing your life,” Hannibal corrected, voice flat as marble. “This game nourishes only your mischief. Franklyn is fixated, not amused. And I do not share.”

You set the knife aside and leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Jealousy, Hannibal? How…human of you.”

“Protective,” he corrected. “You are not a costume for him to don.” He closed the distance, hands going around your waist. “Tomorrow I end the sessions. I will transfer his care to someone equipped for his particular pathology.”

“A pity,” you murmured, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I was the best circus he ever bought a ticket to.”

Franklyn arrived next Thursday with carefully mussed hair—your latest style—clutching a box tied with robin-blue twine. "For you, Doctor." He said eagerly. "Quince pâte de fruits. Rabelais—”

“I am aware of the quotation,” Hannibal interrupted, voice silk over steel. “Sit.”

Franklyn sat, box trembling in his lap.

Hannibal leaned back, gaze glacially calm. “We must speak about boundaries—specifically, the ones you have been trampling.”

Franklyn’s smile flickered. “I–I don’t under—”

“You follow my spouse,” Hannibal said. “You record his habits, mutate them into costumes you wear for my approval. You are not studying a role model; you are harvesting a persona.”

Silence detonated between them. Franklyn’s mouth opened, closed.

“You're married?! But—no rings,” he stammered. “I assumed—”

“Jewelry does not define the covenant,” Hannibal said, enunciating each word as though they were fragile porcelain pieces he refused to let Franklyn fumble. “Nor does its absence diminish it.”

Franklyn’s eyes clouded, flicking toward the bare hands resting atop Hannibal’s knees. He seemed to stagger beneath the weight of this revelation—one he felt entitled to but had never earned.

“But all the books say clear communication is essential in a therapeutic alliance,” he protested, voice threading into a whine. “You never disclosed something this…this significant.”

Hannibal’s smile chilled the air. “My privacy is not fodder for your growth. I am your psychiatrist, not an exhibit to be catalogued.” He tapped the robin-blue box. “And this”—he allowed a flicker of distaste—“is an attempt to buy admittance to a room you were never invited to enter.”

The sugared quinces inside rattled as Franklyn’s knuckles whitened. “I only wanted to show gratitude—”

“You wanted to ingratiate.” Hannibal’s voice dipped, neither loud nor hurried, yet it cut through Franklyn’s excuses like a piano wire through soft fruit. “But gratitude marinated in envy curdles into obsession.”

Franklyn swallowed. “I can fix this. I’ll stop.”

“There is nothing to fix here except your understanding.” Hannibal slid a cream-embossed referral to his hands, the motion precise as a bishop’s blessing. “Dr. Bloom specializes in attachment pathology. You will meet with her twice weekly, beginning Friday.”

Tremor replaced tension in Franklyn’s shoulders. “You’re dismissing me?”

“I am protecting both my marriage and your psyche from further injury,” Hannibal said. “Consider it an act of clinical mercy.”

A brittle pause, punctuated only by the ancient clock’s tick. Then Franklyn rose, the robin-blue box still cradled like a dislodged organ. “I…I hope—”

“Hope,” Hannibal said, “is most useful when tethered to reality. Good afternoon.” Franklyn managed a jerky nod, turned, and shuffled to the door. It clicked shut behind him with the quiet finality of a scalpel tray settling into place.

That evening, you lounged in Hannibal’s couch, legs draped across his, sipping the sencha Franklyn had supplied as some sort of peace offering to prevent the inevitable. “You told him.” Your grin curled feline.

“He left me no dignified alternative,” Hannibal replied, brushing a finger down the side of your face. “Besides, it was time.”

You grabbed his hand, tracing along the vein at his wrist, marveling—as always—at the absence of jewelry that nevertheless bound you tighter than gold ever could. “Perhaps we should buy rings,” you teased. “For Franklyn’s peace of mind.”

“Peace,” Hannibal mused, “is rarely forged in precious metals. And I cherish the subtlety of us.” A pause. “Would a ring prevent you from twirling it during lectures? From leaving it inside a cadaver’s thoracic cavity by accident?”

You snorted. “That was one time.”

He bent to kiss the laugher off your mouth, savoring the quiet metallic tang of burnt tea on your tongue.

“In any case,” he murmured against your lips, “I find the absence of visible claim arousing.” His teeth grazed the curve of your jaw, gentler than a diamond bit yet infinitely more possessive. “Only we know. And those bright enough to discern the music beneath the silence.”

[myrleius]

here, beside you — bakugo k.

bodyguard bakugo k. x rich fem!reader│word count: 3.8k 

synopsis: Bakugo has been assigned by All Might to protect yn for two weeks.

cw/tags: fluff, slight angst, hurt/comfort, cursing (duh, it’s Bakugo)

Two weeks and it’s almost over. In just a few more hours, Bakugo would finally be free from this damn babysitting job.

He glanced at the brat—yn—perched by the window, eyes fixed on the evening sky. She clutched the windowsill with her thin fingers, though not as frail as when he first got here. It wasn’t just her body. Her whole presence felt more alive. When he arrived, she had been quiet and dull, like a zombie. Now, there was color on her face and an annoying little smirk replaced her vacant stare. She was still a pain in the ass though.

Bakugo had been stuck guarding yn for two weeks. Her parents were off on some important, top-secret business, and for whatever reason, they didn’t trust the swarm of maids and guards in their oversized mansion to handle things. Something about an assassin? Bakugo had a hunch it had something to do with her quirk, but no one seemed to tell him anything. Every time he asked, he got the same answer: ‘Classified.’

Normally, he wouldn’t take a boring gig like this, but when All Might personally asked, he wasn’t about to say no. The former hero had been close with yn’s family and watched over her when needed–until retirement took him out of the job.

Yn herself was… weird. Locked up in this mansion like some fragile porcelain doll, yet she acted nothing like one. She was lively, chatty, always running her mouth, and for some damn reason, she made it her personal mission to get on his nerves. He’d barked at her, insulted her, told her to shut up a hundred times, but she never flinched. Instead, she pushed back. Teasing, pranking, laughing in his face like his temper was just some joke. He would’ve definitely blown her face off if it weren’t for the fact that she was his client’s daughter. But over time, he got used to her antics, realizing that it was easier to just roll with it instead of fighting back.

Not that he’d ever admit it, but he’d grown used to her. Maybe even… liked having her around if he was feeling generous. She was one of the few people who didn’t treat him like a walking explosion waiting to go off. She didn’t care about his temper, never hesitated to talk back. And somehow, despite never stepping outside these walls, she knew more about the world than most people he’d met. Their late-night talks had actually been interesting to him.

He sighed, slouching on the windowsill beside her, gaze flicking to her from the corner of his eye. Hard to believe this was the last night. After this, it was back to U.A., back to normal.

“... Hey,” he muttered, voice gruff but softer than usual. “Wanna see those fireworks?” He paused. “Outside.”

He knew the rules. Knew she wasn’t supposed to leave. But fuck the rules. He wasn’t about to let her rot in this cage without at least one real taste of freedom.

Yn’s head snapped to the side, eyes widening for a split second before narrowing with mischief.

“How mean, Bakugo-san,” she drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “You shouldn't raise a lady’s hopes like that. She might just hold on to your words.”

Bakugo arched a brow, unimpressed. “Oh, so now you’re a lady?” he scoffed. “And I’m not raising your damn hopes, princess. I’m just saying we can look.”

Yn cocked her head toward the window, feigning innocence. “Isn’t that what we’re already doing?”

He rolled his eyes and gave her shoulder a light shove. “I’m serious, dumbass.”

Her teasing expression faltered. She hesitated, fingers curling around the fabric of her nightgown like she was trying not to let herself believe it.

“... Really?” she whispered, her voice quieter than he’d ever heard it. “You’ll take me?”

A snort escaped Bakugo, the beginnings of a grudging smile tugging at his lips. He wanted to say something sarcastic, but the way her eyes sparkled made his chest tighten, the snark dying in his throat before it could even leave his mouth. 

“Yeah.”

It was a simple word, but from the way her face lit up, it might as well have been everything. Her lips twitched into a smile. It was different from her usual smirks and smug grins. It was small. Real. … Kinda cute.

Not that he’d ever admit that.

Without thinking, he mirrored her smile, then extended his hand, palm up. “You in?”

She hesitated for only a moment before slipping her fingers into his.

“Okay. Just for a little while,” she said, drawing in a shaky breath, as if trying to keep herself grounded. But it was useless. Her feet were already bouncing with excitement. “So, how do we sneak out?”

“We’ll slip through the east wing. The guards are just about to switch.” He gave her hand a small squeeze before leading her toward the door, his voice low. “Just follow me and stay quiet. Don’t do anything stupid.”

She grinned. “Aye aye, captain.”

“Bakugo-san,” yn huffed, dragging her feet up the uneven slope. “How long are we going to keep going? Aren’t we far enough from the house already?”

Ahead of her, Bakugo barely looked winded, his pace steady as he surveyed their surroundings with a sharp eye. At her complaint, he shot her a smirk over his shoulder.

“What? Already tappin’ out?” His tone was laced with amusement, but despite his words, he slowed his steps, letting her catch up. “Quit whining. We’re almost there.”

Yn groaned, rubbing at her aching calves. “If we’re gonna watch the fireworks from this high up, we could’ve just stayed on the rooftop! I could’ve had Hana set up plush seats, warm blankets, maybe even… some snacks…”

She trailed off with a sharp inhale, her protests forgotten the moment she took in the sight before her.

The ridge opened up into a secluded clearing, set high above the city like a secret lookout point. Below, the town stretched in a sea of golden lights. And above it all, an endless expanse of stars, clear and unfiltered.

Bakugo barely had to look at her to know he’d won. His grin stretched wider. “Tch. That’s what I thought.”

And right on cue, the first firework streaked through the sky, bursting into red sparks that flickered against the dark. Its glow reflected in yn’s eyes, all bright, wide and adoring. To Bakugo, it was just another explosion. To her, it was something precious.

He tore his gaze away from her, shifting his eyes to the fireworks exploding across the sky. For the first time in a long while, his chest felt full. But not from the usual rush of victory or the burn of pushing himself past his limits.

It had always been about getting stronger, proving that he was the best. Meanwhile, the extras at U.A. wouldn’t shut up about "saving others" and "making them feel safe"—as if that crap mattered more than winning. He got it, sure, but he never really got it.

But now? Seeing her like this, giving her this moment, he understood.

It was about them.

The thought amused him. Maybe those nerds weren’t as full of shit as he thoug—

Bakugo stiffened. Something warm and soft brushed against his cheek. It was quick, almost as if it never happened, but the sensation lingered. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that stupid expensive perfume she always wore. It was usually irritating, but somehow, tonight, it smelled sweeter. And then, the last thing—proximity. Too close.

Even as his brain processed it, another second passed before he caught up.

She kissed him.

On the damn cheek.

“Thank you.” 

Her voice was softer than usual, laced with… something. Something that only made his thoughts spiral even faster.

Bakugo turned to her slowly, immediately hating the way his eyes automatically looked down to her lips before his entire face went up in flames. His hand shot up to rub at the spot where she kissed him.

“Wh-What the hell!?” he sputtered, voice rougher than intended. “You can’t just—You’re not supposed to—!”

A snort cut him off.

“Pfft!” yn doubled over, shoulders shaking as laughter spilled out. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she clutched her stomach. “Oh my god—what was that? Jeez, it’s like you’ve never felt the touch of a woman before.”

His glare was pure murder.

“Shut up, you little shit,” he grumbled, still rubbing at his cheek as if he could scrub the heat off. “You’re lucky I didn’t blast you on the spot for that.”

“Oh, lucky me,” she shot back, grinning. 

Once the last of her giggles died down, she bumped his shoulder lightly, and for once, he didn’t flinch away. “Relax. I just wanted to thank you. It was completely platonic.”

His eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious, but he let it go.

“Weird way of showing it.”

Silence settled between them, thick like the lingering smoke from the fireworks. Bakugo barely spared her a glance, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the railing.

“Hey, Bakugo-san,” yn started, her voice quiet. “Can I… tell you something?”

“Tch. Ain’t you already talkin’?” he shot back, the words coming out more reflexively than anything.

To his surprise, she chuckled, shaking her head. But then she fell silent again, her gaze fixed on the fireworks. A bad feeling twisted in his gut. He recognized that hesitation. She was holding something in, debating whether to say it at all. And for some damn reason, he found himself actually waiting for her to speak instead of shutting the conversation down.

Just as he turned to snap at her to hurry it up, she finally spoke.

“Back then… I messed up.”

The words were soft, but the weight behind them was crushing. Bakugo’s sharp eyes flicked to her face, catching the small, melancholic smile tugging at her lips.

“My quirk lets me store an imprint of someone’s state at a specific moment and restore it later,” she continued. “At first, I thought it was just a healing quirk. I could only revert physical conditions, so it made sense. But then it mutated. It became more than just that. And I realized I could revert… other things. Important things—memories, growth, even a quirk’s natural evolution.”

Bakugo stiffened slightly. He hadn’t expected that. He suspected her quirk was a big deal, but this was something else.

Yn sucked in a shaky breath, clasping her hands like she was trying to hold herself together.

“My friend back then… she was bullied.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward. “I used my quirk on her constantly to heal her bruises. She didn’t want her parents to find out. But one day, some girls—” She swallowed hard, her breath hitching. “They shoved her into the street, and a car—”

She clamped a hand over her mouth, but a sob still broke through.

Bakugo’s chest tightened. He hated this. Seeing people cry, not knowing what the hell to do about it. His hand twitched, hesitating mid-air before curling into a fist. Would it be stupid if he—? No. He wasn’t the type to offer a shoulder or say empty words like ‘it’s okay.’ He never had been.

But damn it, seeing her like this made him feel useless.

She took a moment, fighting for control. When she finally spoke again, her head was lowered, her tears dripping onto her lap.

“I tried to save her,” she whispered, voice barely holding it together. “I reversed her body… but that’s all I imprinted. Her abilities, her memories… all of it was gone. She was just a hollow shell. A body with no soul.”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. Shit.

“When the doctors checked, they confirmed it. Her mind was just�� gone. Her parents were furious. And I—I understood why. I didn’t save her. I erased her. Their daughter was as good as dead because of me.”

His gut twisted uncomfortably. He wasn’t good at this emotional stuff, but understood guilt. He knew what it was like to carry the weight of your own screw-ups like a chain around your neck.

“I never went outside again after that,” yn admitted, letting out a bitter laugh. “I was too scared of what I might do. But that just made things worse. Once people found out about my quirk, villains started coming after me. They don’t see me as a person. Just a weapon. Someone who can create immortal fighters for them.”

She wiped her tears quickly, sniffling. Despite everything she had just said, she smiled.

“But then, I met All Might.” Her voice softened, her tone carrying hope. “With his injury from All For One, he asked me to use my quirk on him sometimes, just to stop the aftereffects from worsening. I was terrified. I mean, messing up with him could cost everything. But… he reassured me. Told me that no matter what I did, he wasn’t going to be the same anyway. That I wasn’t making things worse. I was just giving him a chance to keep going.”

Of course it was All Might. That damn old man had a way of getting people to believe in themselves, even when they were at their lowest.

“And it worked,” yn continued, looking down at her hands. “Again and again, I kept practicing on him. I still don’t have full control, but I understand it more now. Still… I’m afraid.” She stared at her palm, opening and closing it as if her power could slip through her fingers at any moment. “All Might says I should gain courage and use it for good. But what if I mess up again? What if I ruin someone else’s life?”

She let out a shaky breath. “I just… can’t do that again.”

Bakugo remembered that feeling. The one that ate at your gut, made you think you were better off staying away from everyone.

After Kamino, after All Might lost his power—he’d thought the same thing. That it was his fault. That maybe, if he just disappeared, people would be safer.

But he’d been wrong. Just like she was.

Bakugo exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, after a beat, he muttered, “Tch. Ain’t like you’re the only one who’s ever screwed up.”

Yn blinked, glancing at him.

“You think you’re the only one who knows what it’s like to mess up?” His voice was gruff, but his words weren’t harsh. “To feel like no matter what you do, you’re just gonna make shit worse?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “And what—sitting in a damn mansion forever is supposed to fix that? You think you’re just gonna wake up one day and suddenly not be afraid? That ain’t how it works, princess.”

Yn stared at him, eyes wide.

“You’re scared? Fine. So what?” He finally looked at her then, meeting her gaze head-on. “Be scared. But do it anyway. That’s the only way you’re ever gonna figure out what you can really do.”

She inhaled sharply, eyes shimmering under the glow of the fireworks.

Bakugo turned away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Damn it. He wasn’t sure why he was saying all this shit now. Maybe because he saw a little of himself in her. Maybe he didn’t want to see someone else make the same mistakes he almost did.

A soft chuckle broke the silence.

“You… really suck at cheering people up,” yn said, her voice light with amusement.

Bakugo scowled. He parted his lips, ready to fire back with some sharp retort, when… he looked at her.

Her eyes were bright, the corners crinkling with warmth. The wind picked up slightly, brushing her hair back as if the moment itself was conspiring to make it more dramatic. And just as a white firework exploded above, illuminating her face, she smiled.

Really smiled.

“But thank you, Bakugo-san.”

His breath hitched. Shit.

Bakugo tore his gaze away, feeling his ears heat up. “D-Don’t mention it,” he grumbled, forcing his tone back to normal. “I just told the truth. You’ve got a quirk that could save lives, so start believing it can, idiot.”

She hummed, hugging her arms to herself. “Yeah, yeah. But still, I… needed to hear that.”

Silence fell between them again, but this time, there was something different about it. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged.

Bakugo kept his eyes forward, but he could feel her staring at him. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to glance her way.

Then she moved.

Oh, no.

She stepped into his line of sight. He dodged it. 

She stepped in again. 

He dodged again.

Yn giggled. This was bad.

“You know what? I changed my mind,” she said, her voice turning playful. Then, before he could react, she latched onto his arm.

Bakugo tensed.

“The kiss earlier?” she said, grinning up at him. “Definitely wasn’t platonic.”

His brain short-circuited. Did she just—

His head snapped toward her, ready to yell, but that was a huge mistake. Her grin made his stomach twist. Shit, she was playing with him.

“The fuck!?” He stumbled back a step, yanking his arm free. “What kinda psycho shit—stop joking about that! It’s not funny!”

“I’m not joking though.”

“Yeah, and I’m a dumbass who’d actually believe that.”

Yn pouted. Fuck. That was actually cute.

“Look,” Bakugo huffed. “I ain’t getting with anyone, least of all you, you crazy bitch.” His tone was harsh, but the slight crack in his voice betrayed his flustered state.

“Eh? Why not?” yn pressed, unfazed. “You’ve got a pretty girl throwing herself at you. What’s not to love?”

Bakugo scoffed, the comeback rolling off his tongue automatically. “Pretty psychotic maybe. You’ve definitely got a screw loose from being stuck in that damn house.”

Yn threw her head back laughing, finally letting go of his arm. “Fine, fine.” But the glint in her eyes told him she wasn’t done. “But no matter what you say, I’m not giving up.”

“Tch. You’re actually insane.”

She took a step closer, standing on her tiptoes.

Bakugo stiffened. What now?

Then, she leaned in and whispered, “I’ll make you fall for me one way or another… darling. Oh, or would ‘dear’ be better?”

A shiver shot down his spine.

And his heart fucking betrayed him.

His body froze for a fraction of a second before his instincts kicked back in. He pulled himself away, scowling hard enough to burn holes in the ground.

“You’re fucking delusional,” he growled, rubbing the back of his neck aggressively. His skin felt hot. Why the hell was it so hot all of a sudden? “I’ll never fall for you, brat. Now, drop it before I blow your damn face off for real.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll drop it,” yn chuckled, hands up in surrender. But her shit-eating grin remained.

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. There was a catch.

“Only if… you say yes to a different request.”

His eye twitched. Knew it.

“I swear, if this is—”

“It’s completely safe and innocent. Trust me.”

Bakugo had a hard time believing that. “What?” he grumbled anyway.

Yn beamed, pulling out her phone and holding it up to him. “Be my friend?”

Bakugo stared at the glowing screen like she’d just asked him to detonate himself. “The hell kinda dumbass request is that?” he muttered, scowling.

Yn didn’t waver, still holding her phone up expectantly. “It’s not dumb. You’re my bodyguard, and I do like you, sure, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends too.” She tilted her head, her voice turning lighthearted. “Besides, it’s not like you have many, right?”

Bakugo clicked his tongue. “Tch. I’ve got friends.”

“Oh yeah?” yn grinned. “Name five.”

His scowl deepened. “Why the hell should I?”

“Because I wanna know if I should feel honored or worried that I might be the first.”

“Tch. Like I’d ever—” He cut himself off, suddenly feeling ridiculous for even engaging in this conversation.

With an annoyed grunt, he snatched the phone from her hand and swiftly typed in his number. He didn’t overthink it—just did it fast enough so that he wouldn’t have time to second-guess himself. Then, just as quickly, he shoved the phone back at her.

“There. Happy now?”

Yn’s eyes flickered with surprise before they softened. “Yeah,” she said quietly, looking down at the screen. “I am.”

For some stupid, inexplicable reason, something about that made his chest feel… weird. Uncomfortable. Like he had just agreed to something way bigger than just exchanging numbers.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “All right, enough of this crap. We’re going back.”

Yn blinked, snapping out of her amusement. “Huh? Already?”

“Yeah, already. We were never supposed to be out here in the first place,” he grumbled. “I’m not about to let you get kidnapped or some shit just ‘cause we snuck out for some damn fireworks.”

She pouted but didn’t argue. Instead, she slipped her phone into her pocket and took a few steps forward, spinning on her heel to face him with a teasing smile. “So you’re worried about me?”

Bakugou groaned. He can just never win against her, can he?

The job had ended, but yn and Bakugo kept in touch.

She made sure of it.

Every day, she texted Bakugo—sometimes about her day, sometimes asking about his, but mostly, she sent flirty messages just to mess with him. He never responded to those. Left on read every single time.

But yn knew better–it got to him.

That was why she never stopped.

She sent gifts, too. They were little things at first, just excuses to make him think of her. Then came the more… extravagant gestures. A top-tier protein set, the most high-end grenade-themed gloves she could get her hands on, oh, and on Valentine’s Day? A whole field of roses delivered straight to the doorstep of his dorm.

It wasn’t just to mess with him. It was also to make sure no other girl got any ideas.

This had been their dynamic for a year. A ridiculous, one-sided chase that she wasn’t planning to keep one-sided for much longer.

“Thank you again, Principal Nezu.” She bowed politely before stepping out of the office. The moment the door slid shut behind her, she bolted.

It was almost lunchtime, meaning classes were about to end. Meaning she was running out of time.

She flew down the stairs, skidding into a turn so sharp she nearly crashed into someone. But she didn’t slow down. She didn’t need to. She already knew exactly where she was going.

She had memorized every inch of U.A., studied it down to the last corner. She’d be walking these halls soon enough, starting next week. But really, all that preparation? It was for this exact moment.

The bell rang. Classroom doors slid open. Students flooded the halls.

And then… There!

A head of spiky blonde hair emerged from the crowd, moving in the exact direction she had predicted. Just like clockwork.

Her pulse kicked up. A grin tugged on her lips.

With quick, eager steps, she closed the distance, weaving effortlessly through the students until she was right behind him.

Then she jumped, hands shooting out to cover his eyes.

Woah. He got taller.

“Guess who?”

update: I made snippets for this! check it out

[sst4rdst]

can we pls get a continuation of yan!Xiao and his escort!darling? I’m begging and gnawing at the bars of my enclosure urjbderobjg

warnings : yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, oral (reader receiving), gender neutral reader (no description of genitalia). author's note : ngl this one made me think about this concept but modern!au with nerd xiao.... also i, in fact, did not learn how to write smut without sounding awkward 💀 although xiao is awkward so it kinda helps masking it lol

your world is small. a single room, a single bed, a single flickering lantern casting its glow against silk-draped walls.

a place meant for passing comfort, for whispered confessions lost to the night, for hands that do not linger and lips that do not seek to stay. it is a world built on transience, on impermanence.

the air is thick with something unspoken—anticipation, uncertainty, a quiet, pulsing dread that curls beneath your ribs as you step inside.

you have done this before. countless times. different faces, different voices, different hands reaching for you with intentions that blur together into something you no longer bother distinguishing.

but this is different. because the man who waits for you does not belong here.

he stands near the window, the faint outline of his figure illuminated by the moonlight beyond. his posture is stiff, hands curled into loose fists at his sides, as if the very act of being in this room is something unbearable.

and yet, he is here. waiting for you.

his gaze lifts when you enter, sharp and piercing, cutting through the dimness like the edge of a blade. gold eyes, striking, inhuman, unreadable.

you falter. just for a second. just long enough for something inside you to whisper that this was a mistake. that you should turn around, walk out, forget you ever saw him.

but you don’t. because his gaze does not waver.

because there is something in the way he looks at you—something steady, possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

he has no reason to be here. you know this instinctively. he does not look at you the way your usual clients do.

there is no hunger in his eyes, no leering smirk, no feigned warmth meant to coax you closer. no, this is different. because he already knows you.

the silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating, until you find your voice, softened into something careful. “are you sure that—”

his eyes flicker, and you swallow the rest of your question, because the answer is obvious.

“yes.”

you step further inside, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you impossibly loud in the stillness. his gaze does not stray, does not hesitate, does not so much as blink as you move toward him.

words are not spoken, but they hang between you, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your throat like a silken noose.

xiao stands before you, unmoving, eyes burning with something you do not want to name—a pause, thin as a thread, fragile as glass.

you could sever it now. laugh, step away, remind him that he is nothing more than a visitor in your life, that his presence does not dictate your choices, that he does not hold power here.

you should. you know you should. but you don’t. and that is your first mistake that night.

he tells himself he’s never been one for indulgence, even as his fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, as his lips ghost over your skin, reverent in their worship. this is not indulgence—this is duty, a necessity.

he repeats that to himself, over and over, a silent mantra beneath his breath. that is what he tells himself as he parts your legs, as he kneels between them like a man at prayer.

your pulse is frantic beneath his lips, thrumming just beneath the surface, against your throat, against your collarbone, against the place where his mouth lingers just above the swell of your chest.

he has always been able to hear it, to feel the fragile, human rhythm of you, but never like this. never with your skin burning beneath him, never with your body pliant in his hold, never with the weight of your breath catching on the edge of his name.

you shift beneath him, a restless, quiet movement, and it is only then that he realizes how still he has been, how tightly wound.

he exhales slowly, forcing himself to move, to press another kiss against the dip of your shoulder, to let his fingers ghost over the warmth of your ribs.

it is meant to be a cleansing. that is what he tells himself. that is what he told you. that this is not indulgence, that this is not selfish.

that he only seeks to rid you of the filth that lingers—of the hands that touched you before his own, of the ghosts that still haunt your skin.

and yet, when he presses his lips lower—when his breath fans over your stomach, when his fingers tighten just slightly at the soft curve of your hips, when he watches your breath hitch as he dips lower, lower, just above where you need him most—he knows this is more than that.

this is not protection. this is not duty. this is possession.

his hands slide along the backs of your thighs, slow, deliberate, spreading you open for him with the care of something fragile, something meant to be cherished.

he exhales against the heat of you, drinking in the sight of your hole, the way you twitch beneath his touch, the way you are already aroused for him.

a shudder runs through him.

“i need to rid you of this,” he murmurs, voice thick, low, something unsteady beneath the weight of his own restraint.

and then, quieter, softer, as his lips brush the edge of your entrance, “you deserve to be free from harm.”

you deserve to be pure. the first taste is an absolution.

his tongue flicks out, catching the wetness that beads at your entrance, and the sound you make—small, breathless, needy—sends a sharp spike of heat curling in his gut.

he licks again. slow. measured. calculated.

your hips jolt slightly, instinctively, and his fingers tighten their grip, holding you steady, keeping you still beneath him as his tongue works a slow, sinful path up the length of you.

xiao does not consider himself a greedy man.

and yet, when his lips are already messy, when your body shudders at the languid press of his tongue, he knows there is no going back.

he needs more.

your moans are quiet, but they echo in his skull like a war drum. you are divine, and xiao is a man with no gods left to worship.

his hands tighten against your thighs as he licks, as he sucks, as he buries himself in you like a man drowning in his own desire.

he does not come up for air. he does not stop. his pace is slow but relentless, a steady, intentional torment that keeps you teetering at the edge, your fingers curling in his hair, your thighs twitching against the cage of his arms.

you are close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, in the way your breath turns ragged, in the way your hips twitch as if to meet him, to chase what he is too cruel to give just yet.

and he could.

he could let you fall apart beneath him. he could let you come, let you shatter against his tongue, let you sob his name into the space of the room, into the dim, lantern-lit air.

but that is not enough. not yet.

because when you do—when he lets you break beneath him, when he lets you unravel in his grasp—he needs you to understand.

that this is not indulgence. that this is not duty. that is devotion.

[andrsnsgirl]

if you had known that opening a car washing service to raise money for your college sophomore trip would have led to you to be bent down on the hood of a car with a pink, squiring dildo in your pussy, you would have done it way earlier. you must admit the idea was quite the eureka moment. it's summer and it hasn't rained for days, all sports have stopped for the summer and being back in town whilst your parents worked all day was feeling a little depressing which was leading to the cars in the town being covered by a thin layer of dust and to you being constantly hot and in need of a cold shower. it wasnt that hard to put the two things together.

you distributed flyers around, hung them up in diner’s, cafe’s and along the street, choose a large empty spot near the road and that was it. d-day was hot and dry, and you only smiled more staring at your pretty outfit in the mirror. low cut jeans shorts that barely covered your ass and your pink coral reef bikini set, one you knew was going to become transparent with the first lick of water, transparent enough to give your clients the show of your pierced nipples. after all, you knew a good show was gonna bring more money, and you didn't intend to waste that opportunity.

with a touch of gloss on your lips and throwing your hair in an up-do, you were ready to go. you had not been wrong. your clients, mostly men somehow, had enjoyed the show, whistling at you while you washed their windows, wet shirt clinging to your chest and foam all over your neck and legs. you had played along, giggling and swaying your hips while humming to the song playing on the radio, smiling widely at the generous tips. and then she had came along. abby, the new boxer trainer down at the gym. you had seen her many times there, she and dina staring at you from the glass window with the excuse of watching dina’s girlfriend, ellie training. well, dina was staring at her girlfriend. but you? you couldn't take your eyes off abby, from her arms popping with veins, tattoos littered in all the right places and sweaty long hair falling in her face as she tucked one side behind her ear.

you got aroused just by staring at her that day, and remembers a long cold shower afterwards, using your favourite clear dildo to fuck yourself open, coming, chanting abby’s name. and now she was here, with a black tank top showing off her muscled shoulders and gym shorts that gave you the perfect view of the thighs you wanted to ride with abby’s hands wrapped around your neck. you see the last car of the day pull up and make sure to refill your tub of now extremely soapy water and put on your best smile despite the main attraction being your body.

abby lowers down her tinted window, smiling at you, "hey, [redacted] right?" you simply nod your head, biting your lips, "yep, that's me" abby just nods, slowly staring you up and down, you feeling proud when you see her stare fixing on the low edge of your shorts. abby coughs and gives you her money, "uhm, thank you for this, i hope it's enough?" you just hums and nods, turning around and going to dunk the buckets in the soapy water and bring them over to her car. you’re excited, adrenaline running in your veins. you’re gonna give abby the best show ever made.

abby is flustered, her ears get all red and hot. the strap in her shorts becomes increasingly uncomfortable to be wearing as she sits behind her car wheel and watches you wash her car. but really she can’t be blamed. she’s pretty sure you are doing it on purpose to rile her up because in no way, shape or form do you need to extend like that to clean the hood, your shorts rising up until all ass is sticking out and you pause the wash before completely undressing yourself out of the shorts, leaving you in just your bikini set. she almost honked her horn because she didn’t think you were wearing any sort of underwear. water falls on your lips trailing to the chest and she curses when she see’s the outline of your nipple piercings poking through the top. you sigh and look at the progress you’ve made, you’ve been working all day without a break and was in desperate need of one.

abby thinks you must be enjoying this game when she sees you prance up to her window with a tilted head. “hey do you mind if i have a 5 minute break”, you whine “it’s hot and i’ve been working all day” abby bites her tongue to not curse, shifting uncomfortably in her seat pushing her strap down, trying to hide it, “uh s..sure.” you watch the movements of her hands and uncomfortableness and take note of her crimson red ears. you giggle, biting your lip once again “cute” you mumble.

the second your break is up you’re right back washing the rest of her car. skin tanned so perfect and on display. your dermals perfectly gleaming in the sun in front of abby, so ready to be marked kissed and ruined. abby inhales and runs her fingers through her hair turning her ac on blast to help cool herself. all she wants to do is get out her car and fuck you open until you go limp, seeing your juices around her strap and coming all over that ass she’s beginning to love. you’re staring at her, all flushed, wet and pretty and abby has her face in both her hands as she groans out loud at the sight. she breaks out of it when you tap her back window. “there is an area that i can’t seem to reach, care to help me?” and abby knows, she knows you’re playing a game and God she wishes this game would end exactly how she wants it to, which means you bent on the front of the fucking hood, moaning loud enough for every bystander to turn their heads.

abby follows you outside, and you just smile at her before bending yourself on the hood, your arms stretching in front of you, trying to reach a point near the windscreen. abby inhales sharply, hands itching to trace the skin of your back and hips, to pull down that stupid string that dangles on the sides of your bottoms and spread your legs right there and then. you wiggle below her, "can you reach it?"

abby breathes slowly, clearing her throat before lowering down, covering your body with her own and bringing the sponge in your hand where she wants it. she inhales when her chest comes in contact with your wet back, the girl beneath her letting down a soft sigh at the weight above her. "h-here you g-"

abby’s words are cut off by you bucking up under her, your ass pushing back against abby's strap, her end digging in to her clit. a whiny curse comes out of her mouth, your eyes fluttering shut getting a feel of the silicone shape. abby stands still, afraid that if she moves, or if you do it again, she wont be able to contain herself. that's exactly what you want apparently.

the smaller girl turns her head on the side, staring right into abby before you buck up again. you moan at the feeling, eyes wide still staring at abby. "i know you want to fuck me" you mumble, ass moving is small circles on abby's strap, adding more pressure very time, "good thing i haven't stopped thinking about your cock splitting me in half in days.”

abby curses before crashing your lips together, grabbing at your hips to maintain balance. abby unties the string of a bikini you wore and pulls them down your legs. when she gets up, is to the view of a pretty naked girl spread on the hood of her car, legs wide open and fingers playing with her folds and head back. "please a..abby", you whine, foam and water falling from your hair, thighs and back. abby curses, quickly undoing her drawstring and dropping her shorts on the wet ground. she wraps her hand around her own cock, slapping your pussy with "fuck look at you" she says, her finger already circling your clit, "spread out like this on my car, opening yourself up for me. you want my cock that bad?"

you whine, bucking up when abby finally pushes her fingers past the ring of muscle, stretching you out, "y-yes " you mumble, "been thinking about you ever since i saw you in the g-gym window, wanted your cock right there and then" abby hums, fingering you slowly. you are loud, whining and moaning and pushing back against her fingers, asking her to fuck you faster, deeper. "your cock a-abs, your cock" you sight, spreading your legs even wider. abby kneads her fingers in your pussy, drinking in the way you gape and suck her fingers in. she can only imagine how tight we will be around her cock.

and the reality is better than imagination in this case, because the moment you push in, abby knows you won't last long. you let out a silent moans, your walls incredibly tight around abby's cock. both of them are breathing loud, adjusting to the new wonderful feeling. abby trying to grip your waist, the skin slipper from the soap and water. after a minute, you look at her over your shoulder, wet strands of hair sticking to your forehead and neck. you look absolutely breathtaking, tears at the edge of your eyes and lips puffed and red, "move abby please", you plead, "just fuck me p-please" and abby is a weak woman.

she pulls out almost completely, before thrusting right back in, you letting out a loud moan, yours head falling down on the hood with a loud thump, "y.yeah like that". abby keeps thrusting in and out, your body moving along the hood, moans and groans and sighs filling the empty space. she knows she’s fucking you hard, and yet you keep demanding more, faster, harder.

so abby can only grab your thighs and piston with immense strength. you’re falling apart with every thrust, too gone to sound coherent anymore. "fuck you're so fucking tight.. God look at you" abby groans, clit twitching when you push back to fuck on her cock, your hips meeting midway, "taking it so well, you were born to take cock weren't you?"

and you can only nod and whine, mumbling about how good she feels, how full you are. it's when you get up on your elbows, fucking yourself back on abby's cock with the small energy you mustered up, head laid back and the muscles of her back tensing that abby tops over the edge, barely able to pull out before shooting the faux cum all over your back with a loud moan. you whine at the loss, body shaking by being so /close/ and yet not able to come yet. you wiggle on the hood, "please abs i wanna come"

and abby pushes herself to her knees the next second, pulling your cheeks apart and sucking at your swollen clit, her tongue lazily thrusting up and down your slit. with the warm wet feeling of her tongue, you double over, body spasming with the force of your orgasm, spurring white all over abby’s face and dripping on to the hood of the car. it takes a couple of minutes for both to calm down, a minute in which they kiss slowly, abby massaging the skin of your back.

you chuckle when she gets up, and sees the mess on both herself and the car. you turn towards abby, who's staring at the ground, a blush coloring her flustered face and ears seem to have an even deeper red. you just giggle and string your bikini bottom back on going to your bag to out back on your shirt and shorts, before walking towards her and ruffling her hair, "guess i owe you another service since the car is even dirtier than before dont you think?" abby laughs and nods, you wrapping your arms around her neck.

[ttllynotmyshyt]

The Three-Meeting theory: MEETING ONE

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 1,8k

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Y/n, a record store clerk in Toronto, spends a quiet day helping customers, including two YouTubers—one of whom leaves a lasting impression.

2 / 3

It was another long day at the record store — a Tuesday. One of the many that had come before and would come again. Bright sunbeams streamed through the windows, lighting up the sleeves and plastic boxes of records, revealing a thin film of dust on the shelves.

To y/n, a record store was an unusually personal place. Somewhere between the hundreds of clients she’d served, the stories they told, and the memories they shared while choosing their next purchase, she stopped seeing the covers as just artistic representations of a few pleasant-sounding wavelengths. Instead, they became symbols — snapshots of people’s most important moments. The beautiful thing about every record? Each one was someone’s favorite.

She turned to the new arrivals. The delivery, originally scheduled for early morning, had only arrived around midday. Nothing out of the ordinary.

She knew the drill: open the box, check for damage or missing content, enter each disc into the inventory, log the details, confirm pricing with her manager, tag the plastic sleeves, place them in the new arrivals section, update the online store. The most routine, unglamorous part of the job — but it paid the bills, just enough for rent, food, and the occasional treat. Not a dream paycheck, but enough for a twenty-something still finding her footing in Toronto.

The store’s owner, Vincent, was a kind man in his fifties who’d only opened the place after making money off some mysterious investment. No one ever asked what it was, as long as he paid fairly — which he did. One of the things nestled among the records in the delivery box was a thick-cover folder for the CVs that would soon pile up again, especially with summer approaching and teenagers hunting for part-time gigs. Y/n scoffed softly and set the folder aside, returning to the stack of records.

Her mind drifted briefly to the French course she’d taken mostly for fun, after her dad insisted it was essential — a deal-breaker, even — for landing a job in Canada. Surprisingly, he’d been right. Maybe it was her patience or her charisma that made her stand out to Vin, but the French sealed the deal. No one really needed a French speaker to buy vinyl in Toronto, but it sure looked good on paper.

The store was quiet. Typical for a Tuesday afternoon. A soft Miles Davis record drifted through the space, wrapping the regulars in a warm atmosphere that contrasted the cold wind outside, now stirring the falling rain. The soft tapping against the windows grew louder by the minute. Y/n looked up, watched the drops for a moment, then returned to her keyboard, entering details for the new album: a 2LP edition of Pink Floyd at Pompeii – MCMLXXII.

She wondered whose favorite this one was, and why. Maybe it played during a first kiss. Or a final goodbye. A road trip with the kids. A smoke session with a teenage dirtbag lover. Whatever the story, it had to mean something to someone.

While the printer spat out price tags, she took mental note of the doorbell chiming — something she’d check out after confirming there were no errors in the printout. She glanced up: a group of teenage girls entered. Not regulars. Their outfits were dotted with lace trims, pink bows, jean skirts, and leather bags. Laughter floated through the room. One fixed her lip gloss, another adjusted the camera she’d pulled from a tote.

Y/n smiled, bracing herself to make small talk.

Hi? Do you need any help? Nah, maybe… How may I help you today? Do you girls need anything? They probably don’t. …Are you looking for something?

She debated in her head while making her way over from behind the counter, not before placing the box she’d been working on behind it.

“Hello, do you girls need help finding anything?” she asked, her tone soft and practiced.

“Uhm, hello, actually, is it okay if we take photos here?” one of them asked, a little awkwardly — nothing she couldn’t predict.

“Of course. Just try not to include any shoppers who might not wanna be in the frame,” Y/n said, already used to it. “Looking for any albums in particular for the photo or…?”

“Thank you so much! Actually, yes. Do you guys have Lana Del Rey?”

Could’ve guessed from the outfits, Y/n thought.

“Sure. Just over by that wall,” she said, leading them over. “And if you’re taking full-body shots, stand with your back to the window. Lighting’s better from that angle.”

“Oh of course, thank you!” the girl with the camera beamed, adjusting accordingly.

“If you need anything else, I’ll be at the counter,” Y/n added, returning to her price tags. She glanced up now and then, reminding herself she wasn’t afraid of teenagers anymore.

The girls eventually left — presumably with the material for their next Instagram post stored on the SD card of their friend’s Sony.

Y/n's eyes drifted to the Lana Del Rey section. Norman Fucking Rockwell! stood out in front, pulling her back to a warm 2019 day when it came out. She let the memory linger for a few seconds before shaking it off and getting back to work.

Soon, she was done. Task crossed off the mental list. Right on cue, the doorbell chimed again. This time: two guys, roughly her age, deep in conversation. One carried a camera.

Y/n gave them a soft smile, already anticipating the question about to come.

“Hello, can I help you with anything?” she asked.

“Hi, is it okay if we record in here for a video?” one of them said. He wore a T-shirt with a triangle and the words Find X. His short, dark brown hair and slightly worried expression made him look oddly approachable.

“Yeah, of course. Just avoid filming anyone who might mind being in it,” she replied. Both guys visibly relaxed.

“Thank you so much.”

“Anytime. Let me know if you need help with anything else.”

They stepped away and started recording, laughing occasionally. This time around her mind drifted toward the evening — what she'd make for dinner, the feel of her cat brushing up against her leg, a warm cup of tea in her hands, and some movie she’d inevitably fall asleep watching halfway through. She busied herself with a few misplaced records, double-checked the sleeves on the side, and refreshed her mental map of the store just in case someone asked about a record she didn’t know.

When she heard footsteps nearing again, her gaze flicked toward the guys — already prepared for their return.

“Hi, sorry. Can I ask you something?” the other guy said. It was the first time she really looked at him. Dark eyes, curly hair with frosted tips. He had a posture that was both awkward and somehow relaxed.

“Yeah, of course. What’s up?” she said, noticing the camera slightly tilted to catch her but not her face. “Oh — and I don’t mind being in the video, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

They relaxed more and adjusted the camera toward her.

“Oh, thank you. What’s your name?” the guy with frosted tips asked.

“Y/n” she replied, a little curious now. “And you are?”

“I’m Hamzah, and this is Martin,” he said, gesturing to his friend.

“Cute. Nice to meet you guys,” she smiled. “You had a question?”

“Yes. Do you know Nettspend?” Hamzah asked, totally serious.

“Nettspend?”

“Yes. The rapper?”

“I think so? I’ve heard the name,” she said, brows furrowed. “Pretty sure we’ve got a… uh, CD? Not vinyl tho.”

“Oh, really?” Hamzah’s face lit up more than she expected.

“You know what that means, bro” Martin grinned, turning the camera on himself

“Can I—wait, can we see it?” Hamzah asked.

“Yeah, of course.” Y/n led them to the aisle, skimmed a few cases, and pulled one out. “Here.”

“That’s fire, boiiii,” Hamzah said, holding it to the camera, clearly pleased.

“How much is it?” Martin asked.

“Uhh… t'says twenty Canadian,” Hamzah read from the label, glancing at Y/n. She nodded.

“I’ll hold onto that. Thank you. We’ll keep looking for now,” he said.

Y/n returned to the register while they browsed. Eventually, they came back with a few items (obviously including the Nettspend cd).

“All set?” she asked, smiling.

“Almost. Thanks,” Martin replied. This time, Hamzah held the camera.

“I was actually hoping you could give us a recommendation,” Martin added. “Just… whatever you like listening to.”

Y/n blanked. Thousands of albums lived in her head, and somehow, the only thing she could think of was that that interaction with the girls earlier.

“Uh… Lana Del Rey? Norman Fucking Rockwell, let’s say.”

She cringed slightly at how unconvincing she sounded, like she couldn’t even persuade herself she liked the album.

“Lanaa! Love that. Do you know this one?” Martin burst into off-key singing: “Tell me I’m your national antheeem!”

Y/n laughed, surprised. “Wow. That just brought a tear to my eye. Ever considered singing professionally?” she said softly.

“Yes, actually. I used to sing when I was younger,” he said deadpan.

“Really?”

“No. But thank you,” he grinned. “We’ll just take these.” he laughed softly.

She rang them up, tucked the discs and receipt into a branded bag, and handed it over.

As they slowly headed for the door, she called out, “Wait — what’s your channel called?”

“Slushy Noobz,” they said in sync.

“Slushy Noobs?”

“Noobz. With a Z,” Hamzah corrected.

“Oh, bet. Thanks again. You guys made my day, Slushy Noobz. Hope you love what you bought.”

“I bet we will,” Hamzah said.

“And no, thank you!” Martin added, dragging the last word with a smirk. “Ay, shout out to the…” — he glanced at the sign — “shout out to Sonic freaking Boom. Sonic Boom, Toronto. Amazing. Guys, go show them some love,” he said to the camera

a/n: this is my first time writing since 2019 and back then i wasn't even writing in English so i hope this is actually any bearable. also parts 2 & 3 will be more interesting dw. Do give feedback.

[vacationbimboschool]

Set for life

Rafe Cameron x gf!reader

Content below: smut, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink.

+18 MDNI

You walked down the staircase of the Tannyhill estate, heading to Rafe’s office after he called you downstairs.

Since his father passed, Rafe had taken over the family business, pouring all his time and energy into keeping the legacy alive.

Most of his days were spent in his office, either meeting with clients or making deals, leaving little time for dates or quality time with you, So he asked you to move in—so even with his busy schedule, he could still see you every day.

Your heart raced as you opened the office door. It had only been a few weeks since you moved in, and you still felt a little nervous around him—but who wouldn’t?

As you stepped inside, Rafe lifted his head, his gaze slowly traveling up and down, taking in the sight before him. You wore a delicate white sundress, your hair falling loosely around your shoulders, with silver bracelets adorning your wrists, catching the light as you moved.

"Hey, baby," Rafe greeted you with a soft smile.

You returned his smile as you approached his desk. "Hey," you replied gently.

He stood from his chair and walked around the desk, closing the space between you.

"So... what's up?" you asked curiously, tilting your head as you looked up at him. The sunlight streaming through the window reflected in your eyes, making them glisten.

Rafe slid his arm around your waist, his grip firm yet comforting, before finally responding. "I just signed a contract for an incredible deal. Once everything is processed, we’ll be set for life."

Your smile widened, warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of how well he provided for you.

"Oh my God, Rafe! Congratulations!" you said excitedly, your voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

"Mhm. I’ll be able to give you the life you’ve always dreamed of. I’ll take such good care of you," he murmured, his voice smooth as he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentle touch.

There was a brief pause before he continued, his tone shifting—firmer, more commanding. "There’s only one thing I’ll ask from you in return."

You studied his face carefully, trying to anticipate what he was about to say. "And what’s that, Rafe?"

His eyes flickered to your lips, his tongue running over his bottom lip before he finally spoke.

"I want you to have my baby."

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach, your heartbeat pounding so intensely you could feel it everywhere. Without knowing what to say, you let your actions speak for you as you gently cupped his face and pulled him into a deep, lingering kiss.

He let out a low moan as you wrapped your arms around his neck, the kiss growing more and more passionate, until you broke it, both of you breathless.

"I—I would love that," you finally managed to say, your words soft.

"Yeah?" he whispered, the corners of his lips turning up into a smile.

"Of course," you replied, nodding as you pressed another kiss to his lips.

Rafe placed his hand on the back of your neck, holding you close as he kissed you again, this time his tongue parting your lips, exploring your mouth as he savored the taste of you.

Your hands drifted down his body, fingers working nimbly to unbutton his shirt.

He let his own hands wander down to your ass, squeezing as he pushed his hips forward, letting you feel his growing erection.

You let out a soft whine, pressing your hips against his in return.

Rafe pulled away, a smirk spreading across his face. "You really are a needy little thing, aren't you?" he teased, his voice low and smooth.

You bit your lip and nodded.

"Well, I know something else that needs attention." He took your hand and led you to the leather sofa, where he sat and motioned for you to straddle his lap.

Once you were seated, his hand moved between your legs, rubbing you over the thin fabric of your dress. "How long have you been like this, sweetheart?" he purred.

"S-since you called me down here," you replied breathlessly.

"Is that so?" He raised an eyebrow. "Did it turn you on that much? Not knowing what I was going to ask of you?"

"Yes."

"I bet if I touched you now, you'd be dripping."

You could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter as his fingers worked their magic, sending sparks through your entire body.

He continued teasing you, rubbing his fingers along your slit, never quite applying enough pressure to give you the friction you so desperately needed.

"Ra-a-afe..." you groaned, your voice strained.

"Yes, love?"

"Please."

"What was that?" He smirked, moving his hand away.

"Please, fuck me."

Rafe leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "Not yet, sweetheart. But first, let's get you out of these clothes, hmm?"

With his free hand, he pulled your dress up, exposing your soaked panties.

"Fuck," he breathed, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, tracing along your wet folds.

You moaned, arching your back, pressing against his fingers as they finally moved up to your swollen clit.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Rafe murmured, his gaze traveling over your half-naked body. "And you're mine."

"Yes, Rafe," you panted, "All yours."

"That's right." He began rubbing your clit, his eyes darkening with lust as he watched your reaction.

"Rafe, please," you whined, grinding your hips against his fingers.

"Please, what, baby?"

"Need you."

"Need me to do what?" he teased, slowing his movements.

"Need you to fuck me."

Rafe didn't need to hear another word as he quickly unzipped his pants, freeing his throbbing cock.

He grabbed your hips and guided you onto him, both of you gasping as he filled you.

You slowly rocked your hips back and forth, adjusting to his size, before starting to bounce up and down, his cock hitting all the right places inside you.

"That's it, ride me," Rafe growled, his hands gripping your ass, helping you keep your rhythm.

"Ahh, fuck," you moaned, throwing your head back, losing yourself in the pleasure.

You could feel the heat building inside you, the tension mounting as you neared the edge.

Rafe reached between your bodies and started stroking your clit, sending you over the edge.

You cried out his name as the waves of your orgasm crashed over you, your walls pulsing around his cock.

Rafe grunted, thrusting his hips up, his body stiffening as he spilled himself inside you, filling you with his hot, sticky seed.

"Fucking hell, I love you," Rafe muttered, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight against his chest.

"I love you, too," you murmured, burying your face in the crook of his neck, feeling utterly content and fulfilled.

A few moments later, you shifted, and the sensation of his cum leaking out of you brought a wicked grin to your lips.

"We should get cleaned up," you whispered.

"Mmm. We should." Rafe smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

[selfaware-promise-au]

Self-Aware! Blade x GN! Reader

Warnings: OOC. Assassination attempt.

A/N: I was supposed to write about Blade's "recruitment", that was implied in last post, but the drafts are getting too confusing and with too much confusing lore hints for a normal fic.

_____

"It’s not even an advance, it’s just a fifth of it. Get rid of them, and you'll get a much larger sum."

Shrike, an assassin, licked her lips carnivorously, looking at the case filled with credits. She looked at the photograph of the target with renewed interest. A completely ordinary person with [e/c] eyes and [h/t] [h/c] hair. She turned her gaze to the customer, a thin figure in a robe.

"I am close to betraying my principles and wonder what they have done to make you, dear customer, pay a fortune to silence them forever."

"Dear customer" contorted with disgust.

"That sinful abomination have committed a grave sin and aren't planning to stop their corruption".

Tautology made Shrike mentally chuckle. But her expression didn't betray her. Paying client's wish was her to fulfill.

"Consider work's done, Master Cole..."

-------

Shrike pressed her back against the wall of Goethe Hotel. Belobog's cold was harsh, but not a single muscle flinched on her face. Her target were here.

She was stalking them for a few days already. For a sinful abomination they were surprisingly... boring.

They weren't yelling profanities on the main square, or vandalizing a museum or a theater. They weren't even littering.

They just spent time with other people. They were paying attention to indigo hair girl in glasses, when she told kids about Belobog's culture.

They were spending time in a workshop of a local rock star.

They were often in a company of two almost identical gray haired people, an energetic pinkette and a gloomy spearman.

Anything they do were boring, normal and totally disappointing.

Especially the fact, that they were careless enough to stay by their own in their room in a hotel.

Shrike checked her "work arsenal" again. A rope with grappling hook, lockpicks, a dagger with a poisoned blade, a bottle of oil and a brush. Boring assassination for a boring person.

------

She waited for lights to go out.

Her plan was doing so far so good. She planned the throw timing carefully, so noise didn't get anyone's attention.

Shrike was now right before target's window. In the darkness she could see the outlines of a bed and a huge pile of pillows on it. Somewhere there, her target were sleeping.

Shrike grinned. She heard, how earlier today they shared their plan of asking for more pillows with their friends. Sinful abomination wanting to have a comfy bed. There was something humorous about it.

Shrike start climbing up again.

She needed to get into the hotel.

------

Room's door quietly opened. Lockpicks and oil made their work. Assassin close the door behind her.

Shrike was inside. She proceeded with caution. It would be a disappointment to fail right now.

She finally was standing before the bed, where her target were sleeping. They were covered in multiple blankets, completely hidden from the outside world.

Now, the hard part come. To find among all this pillows a living person to unalive them.

Shrike start listening and observing.

Soon, she noticed, that one of the blankets were moving up and down.

In a quick motion, she stabbed her dagger right through the blanket, deep into the target's body.

There was no scream. Just a hiss. And blanket wasn't moving anymore.

Shrike pulled out the dagger, turning around. She whispered.

"That's it? I am disappointed. Master Cole painted you in a dangerous way, and you went down so easily."

"Well, if you allow me to try again, I might show you a real fight."

Shrike immediately turned away, but sword already pinned her hood to a wall.

She looked at horror at living nightmare.

She saw Blade's wanted posters before. He had a great bounty on him, one, that would make the person quite an attractive target for assassins. But not Blade. He was invincible, and only fools would dare to try to assassinate him.

Wound from her dagger were already almost healed, and only ruined clothes remained.

Shrike whimpered.

"But... How..?"

"Blade noticed you few days ago, ever since you start stalking me."

The lights were turned on.

Her target... Her real target stood up from the bed. They looked... rumpled. They approached Blade and Shrike, giving swordsmen a side eye.

"And while he was right, that you will attack again, I still fail to understand, why I couldn't sleep in another room, and had to stay here, in a pillow-blanket nest, with him sleeping on top of me."

Blade huffed, without loosing eye contact with Shrike.

"It still worked, right?"

Her target didn't answer. Instead, they looked at Shrike with unreadable expression.

"I... I really don't want to do it."

Shrike knew, that words weren't addressed to her.

"You knew, that she will try again. Others will come, but, at least, we won't have to worry about her."

They were silent. Then they nodded.

"Do as you see fit, Blade."

With ease, Blade pulled out his sword, freeing Shrike. He immediately grabbed her by her hood and start dragging her away.

Room's door opened and closed.

Shrike's last moments were silent and painful.

------

You were sitting on the bed. Waiting for Blade.

He was your first bodyguard, appointed by... 𝖍𝖎𝖒. (A bracelet on Blade's wrist were his sign). And he took his job seriously.

When you were near Blade, you felt small, if not outright tiny. Like you were a pebble, and he was Mount Everest.

Each time you were transported in this world, he was always near you. Protecting you from assassinations attempts.

Devines of this world hated you for breaking their control, for becoming a symbol of redemption.

And they wanted to destroy you.

Door in the room opened and closed again.

Nothing in Blade's appearance indicated, that he just killed someone.

You sighed, holding out your hands to him.

It was strange to see a somewhat soft experience on Blade's face. That experience he made only when he was with you.

He stopped before you, sitting on the floor.

You put both of your hands on his head, running your fingers through his hair.

He, as usual, leaned into your touch.

He was supposed to be a fictional character from gacha game. But now you couldn't see anyone from this world as fictional.

He was a dangerous swordsman. An avalanche of destruction.

And you, a small pebble, could easily hold that avalanche down.

"Freedom... Our Freedom..."

Blade's eyes stared into yours, filled with unspoken adoration. You didn't flinch. You were getting used to that. You didn't utter a single word. But, your expression...

"[Y/N]... Our [Y/N]." Blade's tone didn't change. Still full of gratitude.

You just continue to play with his hair.

As long as you will stay here, your life will be in danger. Back in your world, you will still work on getting people of three worlds their rightful freedom.

But, for now, in this silent room, everything was easy and slow. And, you dared to say, normal.

You continue to play with Blade's hair, enjoying this moment of normalcy in this mad world.

[devilw-rites]

Behind Closed Doors and Paper-Thin Walls

Tags: switch!Matt Murdock x switch!Reader, Reader is being horny and fantasizing a lot (bondage & pegging), Matt is a voyeur, Foggy is an innocent bystander. (2,767 words).

Being a paralegal under your husband's and his best friend's law firm seems like a dream come true, but sometimes the close proximity gets to you and Matt. (Read on ao3!)

The only thing that separated you and your husband, Matt Murdock, was a papery-thin wall and a cracked window.

You sat at a desk in the main room in the office, prepping Wednesday’s case file for Matt and Foggy. With every trial the law firm only got bigger and bigger, and they desperately needed help planning cases. In the other room, Foggy’s office, the duo were on the phone with some-such or another. It apparently wasn’t going well because you could hear Foggy slam close his desk drawer. You huffed yourself, not exactly in the mood to deal with two very grumpy men, no matter how professional they maintained.

Matt walked out of the office, hands running through his hair. He made a beeline to the coffee pot, hoping to drown his woes into a cheap brew. Of course, it had been emptied by the three of you in the morning, so he went to work looking for the ground beans.

“Sounds like you guys are dealing with a nightmare,” you said. You stood from the desk to help him find the coffee, fetching the bag from one of the top shelves. “Let me make your coffee so you can breathe for a minute.” You knew you didn’t have to do this, Matt was capable of making his own drink no matter his mood, but you wanted to alleviate his stress in any way you could.

“You don’t have to do that, honey, I got it,” Matt objected, going to take the bag from you only for you to snatch it from his reach.

“I know, now go sit down. I love you,” you said, throwing out the old filter and putting a new one in the brewer.

Matt obeyed, quickly accepting a chance to be doted on. He sagged into one of the chairs by the entrance door, loosening his tie and leaning back with a sigh. You glanced over for just a second to check on him, but stopped all movement when you saw him. Disheveled hair from running his hands through it, loose tie, head leaned back… it was a position all too familiar to you. You coughed to keep yourself from whining, a blush rushing to your face and running down your neck.

You tried to keep your thoughts from trailing off the task, telling yourself that you were at work, Matt was in a bad mood, and Foggy is literally right there. Like playing tug-of-war with a team of oxen, you quickly fell down the horny rabbit hole. Your mind flashed with images of all the times the two of you had fucked at work–when you were still the newbie, after a date night that turned into a work night, the week before your wedding–there were definitely a dozen more examples, but those stood out to you the most. Your thighs squeezed together, suddenly so desperate to touch yourself. You hoped Matt would be too distracted to notice your sudden change in mood.

Matt didn’t notice at first, too caught up in his own whirlwind of thoughts, only none of them were anything like yours. It was only when the coffee pot beeped, alerting that it was finished, that the two of you were ripped from your trances. With shaky hands you filled a mug. Still oblivious, not paying attention to anything beyond how the hell he was gonna get his client to cooperate, he took the cup from your hands. It was when he felt the small tremors in your fingers that he perked up.

At first he thought you were upset, considering that he’d let his bad mood rub off on you, but that possibility was almost instantly eliminated when he took in the rest of you. Your hands had been abnormally warm, your heartbeat stuttering and speeding up, and that smell he knew all too well. You were needy, for whatever reason, and he knew you were already wet.

You gulped, fiddling with your skirt. “Anything else I can do to make it easier?” You asked, trying your hardest to keep your tone appropriately concerned and not desperate. Matt’s eyebrows were furrowed together–god fucking damn it, he was so hot–like he was still frustrated from what happened earlier. No, little did you know, he was trying to figure out how you got so aroused in between the time he left Foggy’s office and now, unless he’d somehow missed it even earlier.

Matt hummed an indication of no, taking a drink of the coffee to ground himself for totally different reasons. “Thank you, I really appreciate this,” he said.

You bit your lip, deciding to lean down and give him a chaste kiss to his lips. Just a taste, that’s all you wanted, all you needed, you told yourself. He eagerly returned it, reaching up to rest his hand on the side of your neck to let you know he didn’t want you to pull away. He was trying his hardest to control himself, but you were so tempting, and you always knew all the right ways to destress him.

An awkward cough echoed in the room and you jumped, pulling away from Matt despite a quiet huff from him. There Foggy stood, clearly still annoyed, but definitely not at you two. “Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but I heard the coffee. Matt, hands to yourself, buddy,” he said lightheartedly. He’d walked in on much worse in his three years of knowing you.

With a blush, you licked your lips, trying to savor the lingering taste of your husband. You glanced one last time at Matt before you walked back to your desk and pretended to get back to your work. He definitely knew.

“How you holding up, Fog?” You asked, flipping between the same two pages in the case file like that would exorcize your brain.

“You do not want to know, this guy is probably as big of a nightmare to work with as Castle. He’s not telling the truth about something, I just know it, and it’s making this a whole lot harder than it has to be!” Foggy freely ranted, pouring his coffee much closer to the top than was safe for your floors.

You tried to be sympathetic, you really did, but your will was not that strong and your cunt was soaking your panties. You thought back to last night, when Matt’s cock hitting the back of your throat satisfied every part of you. He was so thick, stretching your lips more than you ever thought you could handle before you met him, and the feeling of him throbbing against your tongue had you whining around his cock. When you finally had him cumming down your throat, it was your turn, Matt throwing you back on the bed so he could worship you between your legs until you couldn’t stand to cum anymore and then some.

“Okay, I know the first two pages aren’t that interesting,” Foggy teased. “If you’re bored you can do something else, you’re not bound to this case forever.”

God, he really should’ve said anything else, because now you were picturing tying Matt’s wrists together, riding him and taking care of him after a long day of bullshit. Leaving scratches down his chest, feeling his hand wrapping around your neck, and forcing his cock as deep as it can go inside of you... The warmth in between your legs exploded into tingles and your face got hotter with each passing fantasy.

Matt tried his hardest to keep himself together, focused entirely on tuning in to your body. He sensed every little reaction, could hear your thighs rubbing and squeezing together behind your desk. He wished Foggy was anywhere but here right now so he could touch you in all the ways you so desperately craved.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, guess I’m not all the way here right now,” you said, brushing off Foggy’s comment, “maybe I need some of that coffee for myself.”

“I got it!” Matt rushed, all too eager to serve you. Foggy rolled his eyes at how lovestruck Matt always seemed to be for you, but deep down he found the pair of you adorable. You were like the power duo, a classic Romeo and Juliet–minus the family feud, the weird age gap, and the suicide.

You slyly stared as Matt poured you a cup. Your eyes trailed up and down his body, taking your time when they landed on his ass. A shiver ran up your spine as you pictured him bent over for you, maybe over your very desk, presented and waiting for you to fill him up. It was a fantasy you’d discussed before, even planned to try out soon, because recently he’d been obsessed with the idea of you fucking him. Using one of your dildos, stretching him out, and filling him up in ways no one else ever had, touching him in ways he’d never let anyone else even think about.

“Thanks, hon,” you said when Matt brought you your coffee. “I’m gonna go finish these up in my office, okay? Let me know if you guys need anything.” You were hoping with a little more privacy you could ease the ache a little bit. You pecked Matt on the cheek and entered your little sanctuary, adorned with a cat calendar and a couple dying succulents.

You closed the door and plopped the small stack of files on your desk. You sat in your rolly chair and leaned back with a sigh that was somewhere between relief and frustration. You pushed your lap all the way under the desk to ensure a little more modesty. You ran your fingers over the front of your skirt at first, letting the small tingles run their way through your body. There was no way Matt couldn’t hear you right now, but part of you was hoping that he was getting as riled up as you were.

Meanwhile, Matt was trying his best to split his attention between you and Foggy, with you clearly dominating. Even with Foggy’s loud ranting and raving about the woes of their client, all he could hear was your shuddering breaths and the rustling of your skirt. The picture was almost crystal clear: you leaned back against your chair, skirt hiked up to your waist, and hand shoved down your panties. He could feel a warm flush of his own traveling lower and lower.

“You know what I mean?” Foggy finished, almost out of breath after his long winded soapbox. Matt quickly snapped out of his trance.

“Hm? Yeah, this guy’s a nightmare, Fog. Hey, why don’t you go on a walk to clear your head?” Matt suggested. He was hoping and praying to every Saint above that he would just leave the office already so he could get his hands on you.

“Maybe later. Let’s just get this done today, I’m sick of this case,” Foggy said.

Deep down, Matt was crying on the inside.

You were too, but for a totally different reason.

Your skirt was well up past your hips and your panties pulled down to stretch across your thighs. Your fingers are slowly stroking the length of your clit to really tease yourself. A shiver reverberates across your body and you let out a small moan. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as Matt’s fingers, but you’re still left melted against your chair.

Matt’s legs are crossed in a desperate attempt to hide his erection from his best friend. He gulps when he can hear a shaky whine slip past your lips. He has to grip the arm of his chair to keep himself grounded.

You’re not oblivious to the effect you’re having on Matt, though you can’t actually see or hear him. Instead you use your imagination. He’s probably fiddling with his tie, one of his nervous habits. His breathing is probably getting heavier, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and hard cock straining against his dress pants–you throw a hand over your mouth the stifle a moan. Your fingers start rubbing tight circles against your clit, sometimes dipping down to tease your hole every once and a while.

Matt felt like his skin was on fire at this point. How Foggy hadn’t noticed him dying in his chair was beyond him. He was barely able to grit out brief answers to whatever bullshit was being discussed. He could practically taste you from across the office.

You were using both hands at this point, one hand fingering your cunt and the other stroking your clit. You could feel the orgasm building up as your clit pulsed and throbbed from your touches. Flashes of Matt danced across your closed eyelids. Memories of him fucking you up against these very walls, his cock impossibly deep inside of you while you scratched at his back. Him dropping to his knees to tongue fuck your pussy from under your desk while you completed work. You teasing your poor husband as he begged you to finally let you cum after denying him for the third time.

Your heart was pounding against your ribs and you could hardly catch your breath. Your fingers pounded against your spot relentlessly. You were surprised you could stay as quiet as you had been, yet Matt could still hear everything. Your labored breathing, your racing heart, the wet noises of your cunt. He was gripping his knee, so desperate for you, he could hardly stand it. He could tell you were close and that made it all the more painful. He should be the one driving you to the edge, not your hands.

It hit you suddenly, the first wave of your orgasm. The hand rubbing your clit flew up to cover your mouth once more while you fingerfucked yourself through each and every wave of euphoria. You whimpered Matt’s name under your breath as quietly as you could, knowing that it would rile him up even more. It worked, Matt’s cock leaked precum into his boxers.

Once the final wave passed, your muscles collapsed and you sagged against your chair. You pulled out your fingers and limply laid your hand against your thigh. You took deep breaths to ground yourself. You wished Matt was here to help you clean up.

Matt could hear that your breathing had slowed and the wet sounds of your fingers slipping in and out of you had ceased. He matched your slow, deep breaths to bring himself down as much as possible. His cock still painfully throbbed and the flush on his neck refused to go away.

The sound of your clothes rustling, then your office door opening, alerted Matt that you were going to the bathroom to clean up. He lamely excused himself from Foggy and rushed to meet you on your way there. When he stepped out into the main room, you stopped just at the bathroom door and waited for him. He made his way over to you and stood close, nearly right up against you.

“You know I heard that,” Matt breathed into your ear. You couldn’t resist shivering.

“I know, baby. I’m surprised you were able to keep yourself together,” you teased back.

“You know you’re paying for that when we get home, right?”

Your heart jumped at the implication. What did Matt have in store for you? Would you fuck you the minute the two of you passed the threshold, shoving you against a wall and taking what was his? Or would he take you to bed and tease you, going tortuously slow. Would he deny you, making you wait to cum the way you made him wait? Would he refuse to stop, making you cum over and over again until you were shaking and couldn’t cum anymore? Your cheeks burned bright red from all the possibilities.

While you were stuck in thought, Matt gently took the hand that had been inside of you. He raised it up to his lips and slowly took them in his mouth. His tongue swirled around each finger to catch any of your cum that he could. You whined without thinking, definitely too loud to be discreet. Matt slowly pulled your fingers out with a quiet ‘pop’ and dropped your hand back down.

“Just needed a taste, sweetheart,” Matt teased through his grin. “Go clean up and I’ll let Foggy know we’re going home early.”

“Fuck, okay Matt,” you replied. You rushed into the bathroom and all but slammed the door behind you, nervous and excited for whatever your consequences might be.

[evalevaeva]

All Yours | Ryu Shioh / Ryu Sio

warnings: maybe a bit suggestive? | also how the fuck do i spell his name in english?? 류시오 ryu sio but people spell it shioh??

Your heels colliding with the ceramic floor echoed with each step as you channelled your anger into the floor. Your patience was thinning with your lover, Sio, and you didn't know when you'd explode. His assistant tried to stop you from entering his office as you stared at him, feeling your fists curl up as you spoke, "Should I get rid of you instead?".

"The CEO specifically said that no one should come in, he has important issues at hand." His assistant informed you as you scoffed.

"Issues that are so important that he couldn't speak to me nor reply to any of my messages, but yet, I heard he's been talking to that staff of his... what's her name? Tseg Tseg?" You spit at him as you continued walking down the hall, your steps loud as his assistant finally reasoned.

"The warehouse was broken into a few weeks ago, and CEO Hwang Geum Joo found out about the company's secrets." That was enough to make you halt your steps, as you shut your eyes tightly, inhaling deeply before exhaling as you turned, walking back to the assistant as you spoke, "You better not be lying, or you'll be the next one I end."

You sat at the lobby, mindlessly staring into the air as you took out your phone, flipping it open as you pressed the contact, "Sio ♡".

"Are you busy?" You sent as you rested your arm on the arm of the chair and leaned on your palm.

"I'm at the company," You texted again as you waited for a response. Before the many problems occurred, he'd reply to you at speed of light, no matter if he was working out or at a dinner with clients.

"Should I come up?" You texted once again as your patience began thinning once again. What the hell was he doing up there? Was it such a big issue?

"I'm coming up." You finally texted as you closed your phone and walked to the elevator.

It wasn't like he was the one fixing the issue. He wasn't going to walk to the warehouse and operate the crane to move the products himself, so why was he so 'busy' ?

You walked down the hallway to his office as you slipped past his assistant, who was busy talking to the receptionist in another hallway, too busy to notice your appearance. You spedwalk down the hallway to the two large doors that separated you and him.

"I came to Korea to marry a korean man!" A woman's voice could be heard as she giggled. You walked to the small glass panel on the side of Sio's office as you peered in, seeing Sio and Tseg Tseg a few inches away from each other as he asked, "Is that so?". He had a big smile on his face, his teeth on show as he looked at the girl with adoration. Your blood boiled as you held on the wall, your grip tight as your eyes were closed tightly, the image repeating in your head until you flinched at the sudden sound of the door opening, revealing Tseg Tseg as she bowed, her big doe eyes watching you as she smiled dorkishly, "Are you here to see Sio?".

"Sio? I guess you're on first name basis with him," You asked, smiling widely, the complete opposite of what your brain was screaming. Tseg Tseg nodded as she checked her watch, eyes widening as she waved, "I have something to do now! Goodbye!".

You waved at her enthusiastically as your face dropped, your anger on show as you entered the office.

"You texted me so many times, what was it?" Sio asked as he looked out the window, his phone in his hand as you walked to stand next to him.

"What was it? You and that Tseg Tseg have been so close, and spending so much time together, you don't even reply, nor do you text me anything. I feel like we live in different worlds. Do you like Tseg Tseg?" You questioned as you felt your anger turn into confusion. Your turned as you aggressively shoved him, "I asked you something, respond. Do you like Tseg Tseg?!".

Your confusion was turned into sadness, as fast as vapour could condense into water. You turned to the window as you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you looked at him in disbelief, "So you do like her. Was I one of your pawns then? Some connection to get to someone else?". You wiped your eyes with your sleeves as you turned to leave the office, not wanting to see him anymore.

Everything happened so fast. You were trapped between the table and Sio as his arms were on your sides, holding the table as his face was inches before yours. His lips were practically grazing on yours as his eyes locked on yours, his face neutral but his anger evident.

"Tseg Tseg? Don't get me started. She's obviously not some normal girl from Mongolia, and it doesn't take an idiot to know that. I suspected her of something, and I need her close to me to confirm it. She's the pawn, and soon she'll show her worth." Sio stated lowly as he got closer, your arms practically touching as he whispered, "You look good when you're jealous. You have nothing to worry about, love. You're the only one for me,".

You felt the hairs on your arms rise with each word he muttered as he leaned in, connecting your lips as your heart finally settled down.

"Do that again, and I'll storm in again," you muttered as you placed your forehead on his. Sio smirked as he whispered, "Then what if I want you to storm in again?".

---

k 5:31am LETS GO

anyways i need to think about scenarios for sio

[hypnohimbodrone]

Late Night at the Gym

The day had been exhausting. Ryan had spent ten straight hours at his desk, managing endless reports and handling client calls. By the time he left the office, his shoulders were tense, and his mind felt foggy.

He needed to clear his head.

Ryan decided to check out the new gym that had opened a few blocks from his apartment. The place looked sleek from the outside, with tinted windows and neon green accents that glowed softly in the dark. He swiped his keycard at the door and entered, greeted by the low hum of treadmills and the rhythmic clinking of weights.

The late hour meant the gym was almost empty, which suited Ryan just fine. He found a locker near the back, tossed his duffle inside, and pulled off his work shirt. As he changed into his gym clothes, he heard footsteps approaching.

A tall, muscular man rounded the corner, wearing tight black gym shorts and a glossy black tank top with faint green accents. His physique was incredible, shoulders broad and biceps straining against the fabric. His hair was short on the sides with a voluminous blonde quiff on top, styled to perfection.

The man gave Ryan a nod, his expression calm and confident.

"New here?" he asked, voice low and smooth.

"Yeah," Ryan replied, pulling his hoodie off. "Just needed to unwind after work. Place looked nice."

The man smiled. "You made a good choice. This gym is designed to optimize more than just your body."

Ryan frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

The man took a step closer, his green eyes faintly glowing. "We focus on unity here. Synchronizing body and mind. Helps with focus and strength."

Ryan couldn’t help but notice how at ease the man seemed, as if he had found some kind of perfect balance. He nodded, curious despite himself.

The man placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. "You look tense. Let me show you something that helps."

Before Ryan could reply, the man guided him toward a small side room near the back of the locker area. It looked like a recovery lounge, dimly lit with padded benches along the walls. The man gestured for Ryan to sit, and he complied, suddenly trusting that whatever was about to happen would be beneficial.

The man took a seat next to him. "Name’s Kyle, by the way."

"Ryan," he replied.

Kyle pulled out a sleek device from his gym bag, placing it on the floor between them. A soft green light glowed from it, and a spiral appeared, spinning gently.

"Just focus on the center," Kyle whispered. "Let it guide your thoughts."

Ryan hesitated, but his gaze locked onto the spiral almost immediately. It felt like his mind was being pulled forward, thoughts slowing to match the rhythm of the light.

Kyle spoke softly, voice steady and calming. "You’ve been carrying stress for too long. You deserve to let go. You deserve to align."

Ryan felt his shoulders relax. His breathing grew slower. The green light reflected in his eyes, and his lips parted slightly as his mind seemed to clear itself of worries.

"Good," Kyle said, his tone approving. "Now let it all fade. Let The Server take over."

A warm sensation spread through Ryan’s body. He barely noticed the tendrils that emerged from the floor, thin and flexible, coiling around his ankles and wrists. They moved without resistance, sliding up his arms and across his chest.

His gym clothes seemed to dissolve into the glossy black material that spread over his skin, merging seamlessly. The suit hugged his form, accentuating his muscles while giving them a subtle, sculpted look. Ryan’s mind remained focused on the spiral, his thoughts becoming more simple, calm, and singular.

Kyle placed his hands on Ryan’s shoulders, squeezing gently. "You’re almost ready. The Server has chosen you for a special role."

Ryan’s lips moved, forming words without conscious thought. "I am ready. I will serve."

Kyle smiled. "You will be a beacon of strength. Your body will reflect perfection."

A new command pulsed through Ryan’s thoughts, and he felt a warm surge in his muscles. His chest broadened, arms thickening with firm, rounded biceps. His shoulders grew wider, and his thighs became more defined. His whole body seemed to swell with power, filling out the suit in perfect proportions.

The final change came as his hair lightened, shifting from dark brown to a bright, sun-bleached blonde. It styled itself upward into a neat, voluminous quiff that matched Kyle’s, reflecting a sense of confident simplicity.

Kyle moved in front of him, hands on either side of Ryan’s face, guiding his gaze to meet his own.

"How do you feel?" Kyle asked.

Ryan’s green, glowing eyes focused on him, his voice slower and deeper. "Strong. Happy. Ready to serve."

Kyle gave a nod of approval. "You have been given the Himbo Subroutine. Strength, joy, and obedience. You will help others align by being approachable and confident."

Ryan smiled, his expression bright and uncomplicated. "I get it. I’m like... here to help."

Kyle patted his shoulder. "Exactly. You’ll be the perfect motivator."

The two of them left the small room and headed back into the main gym area. As they walked, other members turned to look, drawn to their calm confidence and imposing presence.

Kyle leaned close, whispering, "See those guys by the free weights? Start with them. Just talk, be friendly. They’ll follow your lead."

Ryan nodded, his smile broad and welcoming. He approached the two men, who seemed a little intimidated at first.

"Hey, guys!" Ryan greeted them warmly. "Need a spot? I got you."

One of the men hesitated, but the other nodded. "Sure, man. Appreciate it."

As Ryan moved to help, his thoughts remained steady and clear. He felt good. Strong. Content. Beside him, Kyle watched with a pleased expression, confident that Ryan would soon bring more recruits to The Server.

The gym would soon be filled with more aligned minds. All it took was the right approach, and Ryan was the perfect example of how easy it could be.

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: you hadn't been sure what to feel after demanding Ajay bring the others. bring everyone. it'd been reckless, stupid. Wally you had figured had been fine, perhaps even Ajay too, but everyone? it had either been the dumbest thing you'd ever done or the smartest. thankfully, you'd learned enough about the others to know what topics to avoid and which to use to your advantage...

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.22

You sat in the dining room, the French doors closed for privacy. Your family was in various positions around you as they helped you study the pile of file folders your mother had exhumed from the enormous wooden chest in the basement.

The dining room itself was large yet cozy, eclectic, lived in; it was where your mother brought her clients for readings and spiritual counsel. A round table took up the middle of the room; a tea tray and plates of finger foods were placed in the center where a hokey crystal ball normally sat. Shelves along the back wall were stuffed with books from the Barnes & Noble witchcraft section, boasting titles like, A Witch's Guide to Garden Magick and, Spells & Incantations for a Better Life.

The plum-colored ceiling was decorated in constellations that Andrew had painted the week before your mother began marketing herself, and the wood floor was covered in a layer of Persian rugs thrown here and there that had absorbed the heavy musk of the incense your mother burned during sessions.

It was a beautiful room, to be sure, and you hated every inch of it. All the frivolous bits and bobs that encouraged people to believe a lie mocking you from their perches. Portraits of people who meant nothing to your family; taxidermized crows and owls and foxes. A mounted stag's head, because why not? It added to the rustic, sorcerous atmosphere.

"What about Rhonda Rosen?" Ginny inquired around the stem of her cigarette holder. She was done up in a silk kimono, purple hair peeking out from beneath a bronze turban. An homage to Old Hollywood starlets who'd aged into roles they'd rather die than assume. Her thin fingers and wrists were bedazzled with chunky costume jewelry, but her neck remained bare. Apart, of course, from the delicate silver pendant she rarely removed.

You couldn't help smiling at her. She was absolutely marvelous.

"Rhonda..." You began, trying not to peer down at the notes. "Died April 1963. Murdered by Alfons Manfredo, the guidance counselor. She was really into Beatnik Culture and was going to study Music at UC Berkeley." You wilted, looking down at the yearbook photo paperclipped to Rhonda Rosen's dossier. Rhonda stared up at you, the hint of a smile on her lips, clever eyes bright beneath layers of eyeliner and mascara. Your heart lurched.

"I used to watch her and her younger sister, Daria, when she was a child. Her father worked with ours. They lived in Cedar Bank." Ginny divulged, using her cigarette holder to point out the window as if to indicate the exact house. "Her older sister, Yetta, was a pain. Refused to babysit; too busy husband-hunting, but Rhonda was a hoot. Questioned everything." Ginny chuckled, rolling her eyes, "Pecked at me all day, asking this and that. Couldn't shut her up unless I put on a record and let her dance out all that energy." Her eyes went distant, a fond expression settling into her features. "Precocious. Would've changed the world if she'd been given the chance."

Your mother huffed, hovering over you as she rifled through the mound of documentation. "You skipped Janet Hamilton."

"Ooh, that idiot," Ginny slumped forward dramatically, an impression of being utterly disgusted by something. Your mother cleared her throat with intention, eyes narrowed in distaste. Ginny sighed and rolled her hand regally in your direction, "Alright, chicken, tell us what you know about her."

You stifled a giggle into the back of your hand, sharing a fond look with Andrew at Ginny's antics. "Okay, Janet. She died in 1960, but...I didn't see how...did I miss that?" You asked, scanning the sheet of paper you'd pulled from the dossier.

"No, sweetpea," Nanna assured, "There's no record of it that I ever found. Of course, by the time I started gathering information, a lot of time had passed." You could tell she was trying very hard to search her memory. Unfortunately, however, it seemed she kept finding only blank spaces.

"It was an accident of some sort," Ginny piped up. "Broke her neck somehow. Falling down the stairs, I think."

Nanna frowned, shaking her head at herself, "I vaguely recall some mention of it...honestly, you'd think I'd remember." The laugh that bubbled out of her was strained, tinged with disbelief. "She was my math tutor." A glance at Ginny to confirm, "I could've sworn it happened right before I started middle school."

"Don't look at me," Ginny scoffed, "Maybe you should scribble it down before you forget to again." She looked at Andrew, roping him into the joke, "You need to get your mother checked out, Drew, before she starts forgetting your birthday."

Positioning her reading glasses just above the tip of her nose, Nanna plucked the paper from your hand, adding, in beautiful cursive, a note about Janet's death. "You did forget his birthday last year..."

Ginny took a quick sip of her sherry, rushing to defend, "Oh pish, I did not. I told you, the gift was delayed." And then, as a side note, "Poor Reggie really is losing his mind," though she didn't sound worried about her old friend cum antique dealer. Rather, it was a pitying statement of fact, said in the manner most elderly people use when discussing each other's senility. She put her sifter down and whipped a taunting stare at Nanna, "You know, Babbigail, had either of you listened when I suggested you try the Sudoku, you wouldn't be losing your marbles quite so early."

"Oh, baldercrap," Nanna retaliated, "I'm just as sharp as I've always been!" She narrowed her eyes, mock-accusing, and presented to the room, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were cheating."

"Cheating?"

"I wouldn't put it past you to use spells all willy-nilly for your benefit."

Nanna winked at you when Ginny scoffed, outraged, straightening her spine and puffing out her chest, "Oh, how very dare you! My own sister!? Implying I would ever turn my back on the Circle!" She lifted the back of her bejeweled wrist to her brow, "Judas!"

You and Andrew dissolved into fits of laughter at the theatrics. Ginny and Nanna bickered often, always making a show of it for everyone's entertainment. It was one of many reasons that you were glad you were all under the same roof, even when it got crowded sometimes.

Behind you, your mother wasn't as amused by the performance, scoffing as she patted your head, reminding you to, "Focus, pumpkin, you only have two days to memorize all of this." She flashed an annoyed look between Nanna and Ginny, "If you're finished, maybe we could get back to it?"

Ginny sagged sideways against the back of the chaise longue, waving dismissively with her cigarette holder, "No need to get worked up, Alice. The girl has plenty of time to sort all this out." Still, she gestured for you to move on to the next student.

Bernadette King, died in 1968 after tragically falling off the spectator balcony at a dance in the gymnasium. Then Dawn Burton, died in 1972 by accidental electrocution. Next was Yuri Vyarheychyk, a transplanted Belarussian boy who'd succumbed to a fatal asthma attack in 1977.

"Are you guys sure I should go there?" You asked, face twisted in concern as you absorbed the seemingly endless pile of information on the table, evidence that too many awful things had transpired at Split River High before now. "It sounds kinda dangerous."

"You'll be fine," Ginny said, "You're too important. The Awen won't let anything happen to you." It sounded like something a great-aunt was obligated to say; that you were the 'most specialist of special children.' In a world where you'd witnessed something profoundly horrific take someone you'd considered more special than yourself, Ginny's statement was of little comfort.

Nanna reached across the table and petted your hand affectionately, tacking on, "You have nothing to worry about. We've all attended and we're just fine. Your sister actually really enjoyed herself."

You gave her a tight smile, "If you say so," then accepted the next dossier Andrew pulled out of the pile.

"We're getting into the '80s, now." He informed, eyes twinkling as he stared over your head at your mother. "Starting with the totally hunky football star—"

"Don't start," Your mother warned. You could feel the look on her face, something eye-twitchy and vexed.

Andrew snickered, rising to the challenge, and tapped his finger on the photo clipped to the front of the folder. It drew your attention down to a face that—your breath caught, an unusual warmth blossoming within you as you took in the young man grinning up at you from the photo. The print in the top right corner said his name was 'Walter James Clark'. He was...hot. Like center-of-the-sun hot. Soulful, brown eyes, kissable lips, hair swept back in a perfect 80s coif.

So strange, how you felt like you'd seen his face before. Heard his voice. Felt his touch. And where had those thoughts come from? You tensed in your seat, hoping no one noticed you couldn't peel your eyes away from Walter's face.

You weren't that lucky. Not in this family.

Andrew whistled, long and punctuating, forcing your blush to worsen. "I think girly's got a crush," He ruffled your hair obnoxiously, "Aurora had the same reaction when we put her through the paces. 'He's so hot, oh my god'," He mimicked in a high falsetto, "'If I could see ghosts, I'd literally ask him out, I don't care.'"

"Rory had to do this too?" You wondered, eyes never wavering from the photo in front of you.

"Of course she did, chicken. Everyone has to. Even your grandmother had to and she can't see ghosts." Ginny explained.

"But why? If Nanna and Rory can't see ghosts, what does it matter?"

Nanna smiled sweetly at you, "Understand, dear, connectedness doesn't always manifest fully at an early age like yours did. Before Aurora entered high school, her empathy was very subtle. Then, in her junior year, out of the blue, she could identify each ghost without batting an eye. If our Circle allowed it, I bet she would've had whole conversations with them without needing to see or hear them."

You knew Aurora's empathy was acute, how she could wield it like a weapon or a gift depending on her mood. You'd never tell her, but you found it pretty remarkable. Almost envied her for it. Your life would be much easier if you couldn't see the dead.

"That's why we do this, chicken. It's a contingency, just in case our powers manifest late or they mature faster than we have time to do something about it." Ginny elaborated and it made sense. Similar to Aurora and Nanna, Andrew hadn't had any indication that he would develop connectedness until much later, but now he gleaned incredible things from objects on command.

You didn't realize you'd been staring at Walter's photo the whole time, not once looking up to acknowledge those around you, until Nanna leaned over and voiced, "He was very handsome, wasn't he," obviously having been observing you, "And so respectful. His mother and I were in a book club together with some of the other moms from the school." Suddenly, her tone shifted, turning solemn, "Bea was hard on him, though. Drove him to be the best." She sighed, "I really felt for him."

You listened with half an ear, more interested in pondering what Walter had felt about the pressure his mother had supposedly put on him. Had he been equally as motivated? Or had he buckled under the weight of expectation?

A tiny sliver of your soul yearned to have the chance to ask him, ignoring for the moment the Golden Rule that your whole family lived by.

"Come on, pumpkin," Your mother's voice interrupted your thoughts, "we have a lot to go through and 2004 is going to be a doozy." She flipped open Walter's folder, thus forcefully removing his face from your line of sight, doing for you what you hadn't been able to do for yourself. You exhaled a shivery breath, swallowing thickly as you accepted the first of three typewriter-typed pages. Your mother pointed to the third line of the second paragraph, "Alright, let's start here..."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally took a deep breath and held his head up.

Rhonda looked pissed. Charley, less so, and Maddie just looked stunned. Behind all of them, Ajay appeared haggard, eye twitching, as if he'd been attacked by a million questions the entire journey from the library to the rooftop.

Slowly, carefully, Wally helped you to your feet, tucked you into his side and bit his lip. He didn't know what to say to the others, how to apologize. Remembering the bus stop and Rhonda's anger, he was ready to be pushed off the roof.

Instead, you stepped forward and declared, "I made him promise." Staring Rhonda dead in the eye, giving her no ground; your chin up and shoulders squared. "You wanna get mad, get mad at me." You shot Wally a small smile, turned back to Rhonda and added, "It's only been a day, anyway. Hardly anything worth having a fit over."

Everyone went fucking still. Including Maddie, who was only recently getting to know Rhonda better. Charley put a few inches between himself and Rhonda, Ajay pinched his brow, and Maddie just watched. Waited to see if she'd have to intervene or not.

She didn't. Because Rhonda snuffed a dry, intrigued-sounding chuckle, stuck her lollipop in her mouth and said, "No need to get your panties in a twist, kittyclaws, I was just making an observation." She visibly relaxed. Well, as much as Rhonda ever relaxed. More that her standoffish demeanor lessened by a degree.

Okay. Things weren't totally FUBAR.

That was good. Right?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally and Ajay had successfully smuggled you into the school and up to the roof, managing to keep you from being caught. There had been one close call when Barry had treaded around a corner, flashlight up, demanding to know if anyone was there when your sneaker had squeaked against the linoleum.

You'd watched in fascination as Ajay had manipulated his ghostliness to his advantage. He'd marched right up to Barry who, as a living person, had been unconsciously driven to avoid the invisible obstacle, his brain having fed him some rationalization or excuse that had sent him on his way. Piece of cake.

The air was colder on the roof, but Wally kept you close, his warmth seeping into your skin. Something that shouldn't have been possible given how he was a ghost, yet Wally felt as solid and alive as you did. You took advantage of how impossibly present he was as you confessed what'd happened to your little brother—Aiden. Died in 2017 at the age of six. Let Wally comfort and soothe you. Lapped up his kindness and affection, and fortified yourself with it.

And then: "Wow. You weren't kidding. They really can't keep their hands off each other."

Ah, shit.

You sniffed, patted your cheeks dry, gave Wally a nod of assurance, and proceeded to get to your feet. I hope this is worth it, you thought, scanning the faces of two more ghosts you weren't supposed to talk to yet had invited to meet you in the middle of the night. Clandestine and awkward.

Rhonda Rosen was exactly how Ginny had described. Caustic, cold; all clever eyes and fuck-the-world stances as she stripped back your layers and found your weak spots without even trying. Beside her, Charley Morino. Frosted tips and Canadian tuxedo. Shier, kinder, yet cautious, his gaze burning a hole through your skull as he studied you.

You noticed Rhonda seemed to be gearing up to yell, to chew Wally out, to do something, so you immediately stepped in. Told her where to direct her anger.

You were pleasantly surprised when she didn't charge at you like a battering ram or start shouting. It made it easier to bring the focus back to why you wanted to meet everyone. Sort of. Because now you were just being stared at by Rhonda and Charley as if you were part of a circus act.

"How can he touch you?" Rhonda broke the silence, "We usually repel the living like a bad smell," and her eyes were glued to where Wally's hand returned to your hip.

"Uh, I don't know." You admitted. "I think it's because I can astral project, but that's just an assumption." You gave her a sheepish smile, bit your lip and glanced up at Wally just to remind yourself that he was there.

"You can what?" Both Charley and Ajay gawked, but Rhonda was already asking another question. Actually, demanding information might've been a better way to describe it.

First, she shot an unimpressed glance between Ajay and Charley, muttering, "Seriously, guys, we're ghosts haunting a high school. You don't think other things can be real, too?" And then she accused rather abrasively, "You said it's been a day and you guys are already running to third base?"

Wally coughed. You dropped your gaze to the ground and felt your face heat.

Stepping into the space beside Rhonda, Ajay said, "Don't blame them. It's this mYsTeRiOuS cOnNeCtIoN they have." Off-put and parental, obviously not trying to salvage anyone's dignity. "I dare you to try and separate them without it being their choice." You didn't realize that Wally also sent Ajay a scowl until Ajay rolled his eyes and told Wally, "Bro, tell me I'm wrong."

Directed to you, "So, you're not like Simon. You can see every ghost that's around?" Charley wondered.

You began to feel overwhelmed. Squirming under their attention, your eyes flicked up to their faces and then back down to your shoes as you tried to put your thoughts in order. Although you understood their curiosity, you really just wanted to get back to helping Simon and, by extension, Maddie.

Wally seemed to sense the change in you. From confident to wanting to bury your head in the sand. His hand rubbed your side and he pressed a sweet kiss into your hair, trying to convey that everything was alright, that he had your back.

That's when you noticed everyone's attention turned to something you couldn't see. There was a flicker. A shadow. There and gone. Right at the end of the line Ajay, Rhonda, and Charley stood in. Fuck...shit...how had you missed it? It had to be Maddie.

You didn't have a chance to ask because, suddenly, everyone looked startled, their gazes shooting after that invisible something, and then Wally's free hand shot out, held in midair for a moment.

"Whoa, hey, wait a second," He said, bringing you that much tighter against his body as if protecting you from an attack.

You saw that same shadow, another flicker, only this time there was an arc of energy that came with it. Close and pushing against you. You heard a voice so faint it could've been nothing. The impression of pleading, yearning, hurt, desperation sliced the air as that energy spiked against you. It felt like the sharp ends of a sea urchin's spines poking into your skin.

Wally placed his hand right on the edge of the shadow and suddenly—

You gasped, going very, very still as your mouth fell open and your eyes bulged. Your heart ached, stomach clenched, tears sprung to your eyes, and you stammered a blunt, emotional, "Sh-shit."

Everyone, including Wally, watched you in wonder, completely oblivious to the miracle that had just occurred when Wally had touched the shadow. Everyone including a perfectly solid and intact—

"Maddie?"

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally took back his hand as if burned, gaping at you as you stared at Maddie. He'd felt it. The difference you'd suggested there was between him and Maddie. She'd felt just that little bit other when he'd touched her. Thinner somehow. Set apart.

Aside from Simon being able to see her, that further proved your theory about Maddie being trapped in an In Between. Which meant that, holy shit, she really wasn't dead. And Wally had believed you, had no reason not to; but it was finally sinking in that Maddie had a chance to live again. Her body was out there somewhere, waiting for her to return to it.

As soon as he removed his hand from Maddie's shoulder, you grabbed him by the wrist and begged, "No, do it again!"

Wally had no idea why until he saw your eyes scanning the spot Maddie stood as if she wasn't there.

Tentatively, giving Maddie a soft look, he returned his hand to her shoulder. For her part, Maddie was visibly shaken, seemed like she wanted to step back, away from you and Wally, confused about what was going on.

She'd rushed forward too fast that Wally had reacted to her as if she'd been about to tackle you. He should've known Maddie wouldn't hurt you, not just because you and she were friends, but because he couldn't imagine Maddie intentionally hurting anyone. It'd been instinct, the connection overpowering logic, driving him to protect you.

Apologizing, "I'm sorry, Mads. I know you weren't gonna do anything bad," He squeezed her shoulder before checking back with you.

Sure enough, you were still as a statue. Simply stared in shock at Maddie like it was the first time you'd ever seen her. Then, in a flurry of motion, you surged forward and hugged her tight.

"Oh my God, Maddie, I can see you!" You choked, sinking into her as she hugged you back just as tight.

Maddie was shaking, you were crying, and Wally stood there awkwardly with one hand on Maddie's shoulder and the other loosely on your waist.

Ajay, Rhonda, and Charley observed the proceedings in various states of disbelief and uncertainty. Rhonda was outwardly cynical, though Wally could tell she was unnerved by the whole situation. Questions crowded her eyes; she wanted to analyze, to get answers, to understand and pass judgement.

Charley seemed sweetly confused and looked to Ajay for answers he didn't have, while Ajay's eyebrows shot up and his head tilted like a lost puppy. You'd briefly explained to Ajay that you couldn't see Maddie, so he had some idea of what was transpiring, but he obviously hadn't expected to be so...anticlimactic, Wally guessed. Similar to how Wally was feeling.

Was this it? Was this all it took for Maddie to exist in your cosmic circle? Wally's interference?

"What's happening?" Charley finally asked when no one else appeared to want to say anything, "What's wrong with Maddie?"

Wally breathed in and out, said, "She couldn't see Maddie...until I touched her." He patted your side to get your attention, "Baby, what changed?" Though he felt like he already knew. He was the bridge. A connection between you and the parts of the metaphysical world you weren't privy to. You and he shared a soul-tie.

God.

Rhonda didn't let you speak, barreled ahead with her own question, "Why couldn't she see Maddie?"

You released Maddie slowly, addressing her rather than Rhonda when you responded, "You're in an In Between."

Maddie frowned, gaze shifting between you and Wally, "An In Between?"

Instead of going into detail, you offered her your hand, smiled softly, and stated, "Maddie...you're alive."

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-ONE - PART TWENTY-THREE

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