#he’s having a hard time understanding things…

[creeper627]

I’m bored and see this as a challenge. I’m putting in 2nd POV.

The Pot

You’ve been busy. You work three jobs. One part time, on the weekend ends and Friday nights. One full time, Monday through Friday. 7 to 5:30. One is only when you’re called to do work there.

It’s understandable that things in your over-priced apartment have gotten out of hand. It’s okay. You took this whole week off to get everything cleaned up and fresh.

You’ve cleaned the floors, the bathroom, your bedroom no longer has your depression stash of cups and bowls and spoons and forks. All your emotional support water bottles have fresh water in them and have been sanitized. You’ve washed the windows and scrubbed everything. You’ve dusted, done every piece of laundry except what you’ve been wearing for the past three days.

All that’s felt is the dishes.

The mountain of dishes you’ve found around said apartment. The mountain of dishes you keep putting off because you hate the smell of doing dishes and you keep forgetting to get rubber gloves so your hands have to touch the cold food grease water.

Once it’s over, you get to shower. An everything shower. You’ve earned it. You’ve earned a good Hellfire scrub to wash all the grime away. To wash your frizzy and tangled hair. To feel fresh and new. You can even sit and soak in hot water with a clay face mask and a hair mask. Your favorite book to skim through idly as your comfort shower drones on from your laptop. Soft music playing on your phone that also has your favorite fanfic up and ready for you to read and cry over all over again.

You just need to do the fucking dishes.

The dirty, greasy, food covered, slimy…dishes.

You hate dishes. Why do you even have them? Staring at them after this week that has killed your 29 year old knees and hips and back and shoulders…you don’t want to do this. You hate that you have to do this.

But you need to.

There’s no other way. You’re the chosen one. You have no choice. It’s either you wash the dishes or you starve to death and then who else will work themselves to death in your stead? That Roman Catholic guilt needs someone to feed off of. How can you leave it hungry?

So you redo your lopsided and messy disgusting bun. Adjust your oversized shirt to tuck between your boobs that touch your intoned and pudgy belly because you eat nothing but junk and don’t work hard enough to make time to go to the gym.

You gag and shiver in disgust and terror as you dunk your hands into the nasty grey water. It’s like when you’re down the shore just before the season really starts. You get yourself all in the water and then you get used to it. Except you have to yank the trash can you spent thirty minutes cleaning yesterday closer to you so you can have a barf bucket handy.

And it’s only once it open next to you that you remember the absolutely foul practically liquid dump your senior cat took this morning. And that you forgot to take that bag out like you said you would.

So now you have to detour from this task to do that. Your hands are wet and slimy now. Making it nearly impossible for you hold anything. You manage to drag the whole trash out and to the curb to dump it out. Your cat, seemingly completely fine now and in his favorite bed that he pitched a crying fit over you washing it yesterday for him, judges you harshly with only a single glance.

Asshole.

You go back to the sink and stick your hands back in to the water and get exactly three plates done, before you reach back in and manage to stab yourself on that stupid shape knife your brother brought over and left here. Remember. You still don’t have gloves because you are too lazy to just go get them and too poor to DoorDash them.

Also who just DoorDashes rubber gloves? Suspicious much? The social anxiety monster does not approve that all.

There are a few options here.

1: You attempt to bandage this like a normal person and the bandage gets wet and you just to deal with it. Even if you hate the feeling of wet bandages.

2: You stop what you’re doing and go get gloves after properly cleaning and bandaging this. Except you have only just enough gas to get to work and home and you don’t get paid again until the day after tomorrow.

3: You bandage it like your hardworking factory worker father would’ve done which is tuck tape your hand with some paper towel and cling wrap. Might cut off your circulation until you’re done but do you really use that hand for more than jacking it?

4: Risk the infection of just raw digging it and finish then bleach the fuck out of your hand later.

…

Option 4 it is. You power through. Scrubbing, scraping, gagging. You set up multiple drying spots. You are getting this done. You elbow grease your way through cups that should’ve been cleaned last week, the crock pot that you forgot about last month, the pasta pot that has mold on it. You need a better schedule for this shit. Every plate, every Tupperware, every fork and knife and spoon.

Three hours later, as you sob about what your water bill is going to look like and are debating skipping the everything shower and just wash your hair and scrub your entire being with ivory soap and witch hazel…you are finally done.

Finally.

Finally!

It’s like crawling out of a sewer after weeks. Your apartment is clean. It’s spotless. You can finally light that good candle you’ve been hoarding away to feel that satisfaction of finally being done.

And then there’s this nagging feeling. Like you’re forgetting something. Like you’re at the end of a horror movie and the happy relief music drops into silence. And then it’s throbbing, pulsating, humming dangerously. You look over what you’ve done and it sinks in.

Where’s that ugly fucking pot your grandmother gave you when you moved in? The one you use for your best meals but hate because it’s cast iron and you need to clean it the right way or it’ll rust and she’ll come back from the grave to beat you to death with it?

You turn to face your stove slowly. On the verge of a breakdown because you just want to be done. You just want it to be over so you can shower and clean your still bleeding hand. Praying you haven’t contracted some disease like you’re on House MD.

There it sits. Ominously and yet innocently just sitting there with the remnants of last nights chili that you forgot to put away.

The pot.

The agony of thinking you’re finished doing the dishes only to turn around and to your horror: the pot.

[mereyapalais]

JE SUIS LÀ POUR TOI

Modern Stack x Reader

Ignore the fire in the picture pls. Lol

Excuse any errors. Enjoy

Ghosting was your defense mechanism. Having been hurt countless of times in the past made it hard for you to completely trust anyone that came in your life and show interest.

No matter house much they show up and show out, that little voice in your head is always ready and armed with all the wrong words to convince you that it’s all for show. They’re just doing it cause they want something from you.

They don’t really like you, just passing time.

You’ve fallen victim to the little devil in your mind. Sure it cost you a few great relationships but the lack of effort put in to to truly trying to keep you in their life always made you believe that you were actually right. No one truly likes you.

That’s until you met Elias, alias Stack.

It’s almost like someone out there, it be God or any other Divine Creature, knew exactly what you needed in that moment. Stack was truly a blessing. A gift.

Your biggest criteria for your partner was that they had to be funny. Someone with whom you can share hearty laughs mixed with some deep conversations.

With Stack, you found all that and then some.

That man could laugh you out your panties. But once he got you in that bed, nothing was funny anymore. Your previous laughs turned into cries of pleasure. Lips singing a totally different tune which translated the state of euphoria he had you in.

Never had you met a man with a skilled mouth inside and outside the bedroom.

Every thing was copacetic. Until you started going ghost on him.

It started with you taking hours to respond to his text messages. Purposely missing his calls. Engaging less in conversation.

Until you started to actively limit your rendezvous. Each day of the week had its own unique excuse.

Despite him trying to be understanding and giving you time, Stack could notice something was wrong. Sure you’ve only known each other for a fraction of time, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t been paying special attention to you.

You really came into his life and transpercer son coeur like a cupids bow.

When he found himself thinking about you at random times of the day, loosing interest in his little pass time ladies. That’s when he knew he wanted you in life. At least for a little while longer.

He tried to practice patience with you. Be understanding. Don’t smother you too much and be annoying. Lord knows he’s never felt such strong feelings for someone before. But after a few days of you ghosting him, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He didn’t even put much thought into what he was going to do. All he knew was that he hasn’t seen you in a minute and he was gonna see you today.

———————————————————————

There you were in your small bubble. Just enjoying the quiet of your home. At least you were trying to.

Before Stack, staying alone in silence for a prolonged period of time was not a problem. But things have changed. You don’t remember when they changed. They just did.

The silence in your home right now is just an indication that something’s missing. Someone’s missing.

Whenever stack was around, silence was a rare guest in the domicile. Whether it was the booming voice of his off key singing. Him telling you stories about all his multiple adventures. Even sharing some stories of his past crazy situationships.

Other times, his soothing voice was the only thing that could get you back to earth. Whispering sweet words in your ear. Cradling you in your arms so as to shield you from your thoughts. Sometimes he wished he could get in your head and remove all the weeds that have been growing there. Replace them with beautiful, colourful flowers.

Seven loud knocks in interval came to your door. The first few knocks were faint. But as the seconds passed without you opening up, the knocks became louder and louder.

At this point you feared your nosy older neighbours would be disturbed.

Approaching the door on your tippy toes so as to not reveal any human activity and alarm the other person of your presence, you looked through the peep hole.

“You don’t even gotta look. You already know it’s me, love. Open up.”

He was right you already know who stood on the other side of the door. You didn’t think he’d show up this soon. That’s a record. Normally they just get used to your absence. And vice versa.

“Aye, you better open up ‘fore I cause a scene for your bougie ass neighbours.”

You sighed proceeding to open the locks. As the door swung open his hand was in mid air as if waiting to knock again.

At the sight of you, he dropped his hand and with it went the wrinkles on his forehead. His face relaxed. Heart beating a bit slower when he saw you were still in one piece and breathing.

The both of you just stood there. No one uttering a thing. Simply contemplating each other.

No matter how much you tried to convince yourself you didn’t miss him, seeing him in front you made all the feelings you tried so hard to hide away came springing up to the surface.

“You really thought you could get rid of me that easily? I told you, you’re already in my system.”

“You not even gonna let me in?” His question was out of the ordinary. Any other time he would’ve already let himself in the minute you opened the door. Problem was, this wasn’t any other time. He knows he has to go slowly with you. Take his time so as to not push you away even more.

You didn’t give a verbal answer. Just stepped aside and he took the hint. Besides you couldn’t trust your voice in the moment. Your brain was running a thousand miles per minute trying to find the right excuse you were going to dish him.

Now inside the house, you were waiting for him to unleash his anger. Tell you how foul you were. Get all the things he has to say ofc his chest before storming out.

That didn’t happen. He looked at you with the softest expression in his eyes before meekly declaring “I miss you.”

Now that’s..new. Not knowing what to say since he caught you off guard. You simply stood there looking at him. You wanted to tell him how much you share the same sentiment as him. How much he has been occupying my mind lately. The word’s didn’t make it to your lips.

“You don’t even gotta tell me anything right now. Just let me be there for you. Please?”

Yeah, that did it. First it was the slight expansion of your nose, then you lips quivering lightly, like a child ready to cry, throat constricting, then finally your eyes stinging before they became blurry.

———————————————————————

You don’t recall how you got here. You body completely enveloped by a warm blanket, body melting in the comfortable mattress.

Looking outside the window, obscurity had taken over the sky. Time had really passed. How long have you been out?

Your senses started to awaken slowly but surely. One thing captured your attention. The aroma of some good home cooked meal seduced your nostrils. That’s when your stomach decided to announce itself with a loud grumble.

You left the comfort of your bed as you headed for the kitchen.

The sight in front of you tugged at your heart strings. There in your decent size kitchen was Elias, wiping down the kitchen that was visibly messy after his cooking. He was so focused on his task he couldn’t even hear you come in his space.

Not knowing how to announce yourself, you let out a small “ahem”. That caught his attention.

Turning around, he smiled as soon as he saw your face.

“You’re awake. I wanted to get done here ‘fore coming to wake you up. I know you don’t like eating when the kitchen’s messy.”

Good lord. He couldn’t get more perfect than this. Here he was taking care of you. Not once has he shown you his displeasure with

“It’s fine. The food actually directed me here. It smells nice.”

“Yeah I figured you’d be hungry after you wake up so I decided to throw something together for you.”

“Thank you.”

He plated your food before pulling out a chair which you thought was for you until he sat down. He patted his knees inviting you to sit on him instead.

“Are you sure..?” Came out your hesitant voice.

“Come on.” He said simply with a small smile on the corner of his lips.

You missed the proximity. You know he did too. Stack is the definition of touchy feely person. You will never find yourself close to him without him finding one way or another to touch you. Nothing sexual. He just constantly needs to touch you. You weren’t complaining.

You sat there in silence. Enjoying each other’s presence. You couldn’t help the sounds coming from your mouth. The food was

“You gonna have to slow down on those sounds. I know the foods not that good.”

“But it is though. What did you put in it?”

“Just some of my love and a pinch of salt to taste.”

“Corny.” You said flicking his ear slightly. Both sharing a laugh after.

“Stack, I’m really sorry about going ghost I-“

“Shh, we can talk about it tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? For now I just want you to enjoy your meal and rest some more. We gon’ talk about everything tomorrow.” With that he placed a kiss on your forehead. One on each cheek. On your nose before finally landing on your lips.

Yeah, you can’t comprehend how you were able to make it through the past few days without his lips on yours.

The kiss got hungrier. Messier. Each one pouring their all in the kiss. Hand’s roaming all over. Gropping, kneading, massaging the flesh.

As his hands found your breast and left a squeeze you couldn’t help but moan in his mouth. The vibration shooting straight to his member.

Breaking the kiss for air, your lips found themselves leaving open mouth kisses on his neck, sucking licking. Trailing up to his ears as your hands simultaneously found themselves going south, straight in his pants.

At the contact, his thighs jolted as your soft hands found him.

Your fingers found themselves playing with the his bulbous head. Spraying the already present thick liquid all over it. His thick leg’s spread apart to give you more access.

By now you, were straddling only one of his thick thighs. Rotating your hips chasing that sweet friction. You were definitely high off the pleasure.

Retracting the hand that was in his pants, you brought it up to your lips, licking around the digit. Sucking it like honey. He watched intently. Eyes narrowing lightly.

He took the finger that was in your mouth, coated with your saliva, and put it in his own mouth.

You proceeded to get on your knees ready to present him your excuses the only way you knew for now and show him how much you missed him.

“Wait, wait, what’re you doing?”

“What it look like?-”

“Nah baby, you don’t gotta do none of that.”

It wasn’t rare for you to use sex as a means to escape whatever mess going on in your head. Stack knew that. He never wanted you to feel like you were obligated to do anything.

“I want to. Please.”

“You sure?”

“Mhhm” You said eagerly. Mouth already salivating at the thought of what was about to happen.

Who was he to stop you. Sure he didn’t want you to feel like you had to do any of that but also if you wanted to he wasn’t going to stop you. Lord knows his body missed you bad.

One things for sure, it was going to be a long night.

Don’t forget to comment and reblog. Thank you for reading! 💋

[fic-girlie]

Can you write something about Joel and reader having sex for the first time and her being a little taken a back about how big he is lol? I mean, she's not a virgin, but he's quite big and she can't help but be a lil... Worried? Impressed? Both lol?

I bet joel would have that shit eating grin, quite pleased by her surprised face, going "doing worry, sweetheart, we're gonna make it fit just fine" with that smirk

Fit just fine

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel’s size surprises you, but he’s got all the patience to make it right.

Warnings: explicit smut (+18), first time ( but reader's not a virgin), unprotected sex, p in v sex, soft Joel, aftercare, cuddles

You lean against the worn wooden doorframe of Joel’s house, the soft amber light from the fireplace flickering over his face as he slides off his jacket. The quiet creak of the old floorboards beneath your feet grounds you, but your heart’s hammering hard in your chest — this moment feels like a thousand things all at once.

Joel’s eyes catch yours, warm and steady, but with that familiar glint of mischief lurking just beneath. He takes a slow step closer, the scent of cedar and earth wrapping around you like a promise. You’ve known Joel long enough to understand his quiet confidence is something you can trust — but right now, there’s a different kind of tension thick in the air, heavier and more electric than ever.

His hand slides around your waist, pulling you in gently, but possessively. You can feel the weight of him through the fabric of his shirt, his fingers strong but tender as they trace small circles along your spine. Your breath catches when his lips brush the shell of your ear, voice low and rough.

“Been waiting a long time for this,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel but soft with meaning.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, nails grazing the muscles of his back, the heat of his skin burning through the cotton. You’re not new to this — you’ve had your share of lovers before, but something about Joel makes every touch feel like it’s laced with gravity, like this night will mark you somehow.

Joel’s hand dips beneath your shirt, fingertips cool and deliberate as they trail down your ribs, over the curve of your waist. You shiver in response — anticipation rippling through you like wildfire.

He tilts your chin up with a thumb, locking eyes with you. That quiet strength in him settles the nervous flutter in your stomach. Then he leans down, lips capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss. The world narrows until nothing exists except the slick, urgent press of his mouth and the steady thrum of your heartbeat.

You pull away just enough to breathe, cheeks flushed and breath shallow.

Joel’s grin is slow and wicked, eyes darkening with something that makes your pulse spike.

“Ready?” he asks, voice dipped in teasing challenge.

You nod, biting your lip — because god, you are ready, but part of you is already aching with the unknown.

——

He guides you gently to the worn leather couch by the fire, hands never leaving your skin. Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, tugging it off to reveal the hard planes of his chest. Your hands roam, memorizing the thick scars and calloused edges — a map of his life. And then your fingers brush the waistband of his jeans.

Joel catches your gaze again, that slow, knowing grin curling his lips.

“Let me show you,” he says, voice low.

With deliberate care, he undoes the button and zipper, the weight of him settling against you as he slips out of his jeans. You can’t help the hitch in your breath when you see him — thick and long, veins pulsing, proud and undeniable.

You’ve been with men before, but Joel’s size stops you for a moment — a breathless second where your mind flickers with a mixture of awe and something else. A little worry, maybe, but mostly an undeniable intrigue.

Joel watches your face, the slight widening of your eyes, the quick intake of breath. That shit-eating grin spreads wider.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, voice a low rumble that vibrates in your chest. “We’re gonna make it fit just fine.”

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks, and his fingers slide down your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone with reverence.

You nod slowly, heart racing, and he kisses you again — slower this time, patient, like he’s telling you wordlessly he’s right here, no rush, no pressure.

——

Joel eases you back onto the couch, lips trailing down your neck as his hands explore your curves. Your shirt lifts, slipping over your head, and his mouth follows every inch of exposed skin. When his fingers find the clasp of your bra, he pauses, looking up at you for permission.

You give a soft nod, breath hitching as he frees you, lips moving in slow, worshipful circles over your breasts. His hands cup them, thumbs teasing your nipples until they harden under his touch.

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as the firelight flickers shadows over his face. You feel every inch of him — the solid strength of his body, the heat of his breath, the slow, steady building tension between you.

He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then shifts lower, tracing down your stomach with lips and teeth and tongue, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Your breath comes faster, every nerve ending alight.

Joel’s hands find the waistband of your jeans, sliding inside to brush against the soft skin of your hips. He pauses again, looking up, waiting for your silent consent before slowly working the jeans down over your thighs.

When he’s finally skin-to-skin with you, the warmth of his hands, the weight of his body, the promise in his eyes — it all hits you at once.

He lines himself up, slow and careful, the first inch pressing in and stretching you in a way that’s both thrilling and a little overwhelming. You gasp, eyes wide, but Joel’s steady hands keep you anchored.

He waits, letting you adjust, whispering soft reassurances.

“Just like I said. We’re gonna make it fit just fine.”

You feel every inch of him as Joel slowly sinks deeper inside you, the stretch both overwhelming and thrilling. Your breath hitches, a shaky gasp caught between surprise and awe. It’s been a while since anyone’s made you feel this raw, this thoroughly seen — and Joel’s presence grounds you like nothing else.

His hands settle on your hips, steady and sure, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he’s in control but also utterly devoted to your comfort. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes dark and warm.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, voice thick with care.

You shake your head, words caught in the heat pooling low in your belly. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, nails grazing the nape of his hair, pulling him closer. The feeling of skin on skin — warm, slick, impossibly tight around him — twists something deep inside you.

Joel begins to move, slow and sure, a steady rhythm that makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, as if he’s memorizing your every curve and sigh. The way your body clenches around him sends a wild fire licking through his chest, that familiar protective ache twisting through his gut.

You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan that slips out anyway — raw, needy, desperate. Joel grins against your skin, hearing it like music.

“Damn, you’re good at that,” he says, voice low and rough.

His hands slide up your sides, pulling you flush against him, skin sliding against skin in a friction that leaves you dizzy. The heady scent of him — musk, earth, something uniquely Joel — fills your senses. You arch into him, letting yourself fall into the moment, every nerve ending on fire.

The pace picks up, but Joel stays careful, adjusting when you wince or need a slower touch. When you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries, he hums approvingly, voice a dark promise in your ear.

“You’re mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your skin.

You cling to him, fingers trembling as waves of pleasure roll through you — slow at first, building with each deep thrust, until your body shakes, every muscle tight and trembling. Joel’s lips find your mouth again, swallowing your cries, grounding you with the heat of his kiss.

When you finally come down from the edge, breath ragged and skin flushed, Joel doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays pressed close, hands gentle as they stroke your hair and back.

You collapse into the worn cushions, chest heaving, body still buzzing with the aftermath. Joel cups your face, his thumb tracing soft circles on your cheek.

“You okay?” he asks, voice soft now.

You nod, voice caught in your throat, but the way he looks at you — with that fierce, quiet love — says everything.

Joel shifts so he’s lying beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like they were made for this. His arm snakes around your waist, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a shaky breath and press your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

“Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

Joel’s grin returns, softer this time.

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

You laugh quietly, a sound full of relief and happiness.

And as the fire dies down to embers, you drift off in Joel’s arms, safe and warm.

[yanderenightmare]

Mark Grayson — Invincible Variants

♡ TW: nsfw, yandere, poly yanderes, captive reader, invincible variants in general, you've seen the show

♡ GN reader

You’re dead in every other universe. 

It’s his fault. He tries to save you, but he’s too late���every single time. And in every universe, it’s what pushes him to embrace his Viltrumite nature. It’s his canon event. The moment he realizes he can’t trust in the weak constitution of human beings, it costs him too much, so he adopts his father's truth—things that drop dead like flies have the same value, meaning worthless.

So you can imagine the clusterfuck raging on in each of their heads when they find out you’re alive and well in the universe they’ve been told to wreak havoc in.

And you’re as pretty as the day they lost you. And teary-eyed and scared and cute, calling out for your Mark to come and save you. Oh fuck, how their cold hearts all melted at once.

The plan changed then. If this were the only world you were still alive in, then it was the only world they needed to conquer. And with eighteen of them, it wouldn’t be hard.

Or well, so it proved to be a little hard…

But the eight of them that survived killed Angstrom. Then locked your Mark up, thinking he could be convenient to keep.

It didn’t even take a week before Earth surrendered in full.

That wasn’t the hard part. In fact, it’s good that over half of them died—because sharing you between the eight of them is the real challenge. 

It’s not something they’re used to. Fights break out daily. And they don’t care about the damage dealt. It’s like kids stomping on an anthill just for the fun of it, leaving thousands to die every time.

Feeling as though it’s your responsibility, you try your best to please them all. Coming up with schedules—how they can alter daily or even hourly if need be—but it all proves fruitless. All you end up doing is begging them not to fight—on your knees, bowing while sobbing, holding onto the edge of their cape, pleading with them to stay.

They seem to like that. When you lower yourself.

Most of them refer to you as a pet. 

You remember Mark saying his father said he saw his mom the same way. You remember your Mark being disgusted by it. But even those of them who don’t refer to you that way still treat you like one, like something lesser, like something they’re letting live for personal reasons, not because you’re something that deserves to live.

The kinder Marks have a little more decorum about it. The superiority has really gotten to their heads, trying to spare you the understanding of how they truly see you, as if you can’t read between the lines. You don’t know if you dislike them more than the cruel Marks. At least they’re honest about it.

You’re starting to doubt whether your Mark is even still alive…

You’d cried for weeks on end to see him. And when they’d finally complied, they took you to the prison cell where they were holding him. You’d sobbed and kissed him and told him how much you missed him and how terrible everything had been without him, how you weren’t sure how much more you could take. 

He’d played along well enough for a while—you hadn’t been able to tell. But at some point, the way he touched you just didn’t feel right.

He laughed once you understood it. Mocked you. Licked the tears off your cheek with a grin and said it was worth it playing your weak-willed wimp version of them just to see that pretty look on your face. A couple of the others came in after that—they’d all found it just as funny. And then they told you they knew of a way to cure your loneliness—after all, why have your wimpy Invincible, when you can have the elite?

One time, when you were being extra whiny, as they call it, they’d taken you up in the sky and used you to play catch.

Mark had taken you flying before, but he’d never ever dropped you. And so you’d screamed until your voice gave out, and then you’d just closed your eyes and prayed for death.

But that wasn’t the worst part of it, as you found out… No, the worst part was when they’d undressed you and started playing something different with you. In the air, thirty thousand feet above the ground.

They all might look like Mark, but none of them are anything like him—some more than others. Beyond just sadistic, they’re psychotic. No humanity left, just trigger-happy thrill-seeking maniacs. They don’t even fight each other over you—they fight each other for fun. Coming back with mangled legs and broken jaws. Because why not? It’s no matter. They’re healed within the week. They don’t care about the many lives they’ve left in their wake.

But you’d caught a foul cold after their skylarking.

They’re not used to facing consequences—didn’t know who to blame but each other. Didn’t know how to fix it either—all scared you were going to die. They never did it again after that.

That’s not to say your life became any easier.

The dynamics became ever more strange the more months that passed...

At first thy wouldn’t fuck you at the same time, then they would, but without acknowledging the others presence, then it became a competition to see who could fuck you best. 

It’s not like that anymore.

Their narcissism has now evolved into a strange attraction towards each other. And it’s odd as fuck to be caught in the middle off.

They like watching each other fuck you now. Getting off on seeing themselves get off, using you more like a toy than a partner.

Any day now, and you’re sure they’re going to start kissing and touching each other.

Fuck knows what your role will be in all of it when that time comes.

♡ MISCELLANEOUS masterlist

[ms-spkhd]

Steve settles against the back of the couch and says, “I got a question, Ed.”

“Yeah?” Eddie replies and tries very hard for Steve not to notice that he spent the last fifteen minutes either picking at a loose thread on his jeans or sneaking surreptitious glances at him.

“And be honest with me. No deflecting.”

“Uh-huh. Go ahead.”

“Do you…” Steve pauses, and he’s got this look where he’s tossing the question around like a salad over and over in his head, like he hasn’t gotten it right quite yet. “Do you think Arnold Schwarzenegger is hot?”

Eddie blinks. This cannot be his real fucking life. 

Steve’s still looking at him expectantly, as if the question that just left his lips wasn’t affixed between world-endingly stupid and nuclear bomb-levels of disastrous to Eddie. It’s…he’s so blase about it, too. Completely unaffected! As if he didn’t just drop that question onto the gay friend he’s conveniently, y’know, swapped bodily fluids with. 

“Excuse me?”

Steve shrugs. “So you’re gay, right?”

Alright, foot-in-mouth gold medalist Steve Harrington expertly sticking the landing as always. It’s curious, Eddie thinks, out of all of his friends, Steve should be the one most well-acquainted with the sheer magnitude of Eddie’s gayness and the biblical nature of it–what with the whole dick in ass thing.

Eddie purses his lips and tries not to play the cynic, the you of all people perched on the tip of his tongue. The last thing he wants to do is scare him off again, not with their shoulders pressed against each other like this; the closest they’ve ever been since that night. He axes it before it goes any further and causes trouble. “Well shit, what do you think?”

“Alright, dumb question,” Steve concedes, though there isn’t any shame in his voice. He smiles that golden smile of his and waves his hand at the screen, where Arnold and the fussy flight attendant are busy studying a piece of paper evidence. They’re an odd pair. “So, does he do it for you or not?”

Eddie blinks, takes a sip of his High Life and purses his lips in thought. “Nah, not really.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline and his eyes dart from the screen to Eddie’s apathetic expression. “Really?” “Don’t act so surprised, man.”

Steve shakes his head and looks away from Eddie, chin resting on his palm. “No–no, I’m not surprised or anything–”

“Well, girls like pretty boys, so…”

“But you’re not a girl, you’re a gay guy.” Steve scoots to the side, fully facing Eddie, and gestures wildly at the vague wholeness of Eddie’s body, like he’s the representative for every homosexual man northwest of Lake Michigan.

“Last time I checked.”

“Gay guys like macho dudes, right?”

Eddie grimaces at Steve’s naive brightness. There’s a decently well-oiled machine that whirrs away in his head, but Eddie is absolutely and positively dumbstruck, and operations screech to a halt. If things go any further, it’s going to reach triangle-shirtwaist levels of disastrous. What the hell does Steve Harrington–homecoming king and president of the Key club fucking Steve Harrington–know about what gets gay guys’ rocks off? I mean, yeah, he’s wandered into ‘have gay sex and only acknowledge it as a mistake’ territory, but far be it for him to thumb open a copy of Blueboy or–God forbid–fully understand the concept of a leather daddy.

“You’re…serious…?” Eddie ventures.

Steve’s mouth twists and scrunches at the corner as he wilts slightly, lost in the proverbial woods.  “I’m pretty sure I am, yeah.”

“Okay, well”--Eddie scoots forward in his seat and knocks Steve shoulder with his fist in a semi-decent attempt to lighten him up– “think of it like this: attraction isn’t a monolith.”

Steve’s eyebrows scrunch curiously. “Right.”

“Right. So some chicks like macho guys like Arnie and other chicks like prettier guys like…uh.”

“Iceman?” Steve supplies helpfully.

“Yeah. That guy.”

“Val Kilmer.”

“Oh! The hot guy from Willow. Anyways, gay guys are the same, we’re not all just into Arnold Schwarzenegger ‘cause he’s got muscles. Some of us also like pretty boys. Hell–ugly guys are on the table, too. It’s open season, man!”

The corners of Steve’s mouth twitch upwards and his basset hound eyes brighten a fraction in relief. Eddie lowers his hand to his lap, taking it as a personal victory. Well, the word ‘victory’ is a bit of a reach, all things considered. In those massive Merriam-Webster dictionaries he used to leaf through to understand the books Wayne would lend him, ‘victory’ was defined as an achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties. Explaining the ins and outs of gay sexual attraction to some haplessly gorgeous straight man like multiplying fractions to a fourth grader was the farthest thing from a victory. Especially since Eddie’s unfortunate enough to be halfway in love with said haplessly gorgeous straight man, what with his kind eyes and swoopy hair and disarmingly boyish charm. But! A success it does make. 

Christ, it’s a sacrifice nonetheless.

“Okay, new question,” Steve prompts, because apparently he’s fixing to be this decade’s new Sherlock Holmes. Or Colombo. Eddie tries to push the rapidly materializing image of Steve wearing a tan trenchcoat and loosened tie with a cigar pinched between his teeth to the back of his mind because–to the surprise of absolutely no one–he finds it devastatingly sexy. He shoots a cute little message up to God in his little corner of the sky (or whatever primordial being is running this fucking hellscape) begging to grant him some actual, discernable relief.

“You’re a curious cat tonight,” Eddie says after his brief yet exhaustive prayer.

“What can I say,” Steve replies with a shrug, “I like to get to the bottom of things.”

“Go ahead, champ.”

“So…Val Kilmer, huh? You like pretty boys?”

  Eddie has half a mind to jump onto the couch, take Steve by the shoulders with an iron grip, and shake him around wildly, screaming and spitting, “You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever met! And handsome! And sexy! Beautiful! Every synonym in the Goddamn thesaurus!”

Thankfully, Val Kilmer is a high enough jumping point for Eddie to prevent himself from swam-diving and landing face first into the bottom of the figurative ‘I’m so deeply in love with you it’s not even funny’ pool.

“Hell, I’d never say no to Madmartigan.” Eddie tips his head backwards against the couch headrest and fans at his face, all hot and bothered. “He could do whatever he wanted to me.”

Steve rubs the back of his hand against his lips and his breathy laugh clips at its edges. “What about sexy naval fighters? Tom Cruise in a uniform do it for you?”

“Nah, too establishment. He may be hot, but I’m not tripping over my feet for the military industrial complex. But if you want me to be honest…” Eddie’s eyes drop to his rings, his fingertips brushing against his nickel plated rings. They start twisting the scratched and worn things before he looks up at Steve’s expectant expression.

“I like honesty,” Steve says.

“Well there’s this movie, The Sting, it’s one of Wayne’s favorites–saw it in theaters and recorded it when it showed on TV Christmas day of, ‘79, I think. Could’ve been watching It’s A Wonderful Life or whatever, but the old bastard wanted to watch some movie about these two con men bullshitting an Irish guy. Anyways, Wayne loved it, so he’d play it all the fucking time, but I wasn’t complaning, like, at all, because the main character was the hottest man I’d ever seen in my life.”

“Wow.” Steve blinks. “All that talk and I don’t even know what he looks like.”

Eddie releases his grip on his rings and drums his fingers against worn denim instead. “Well, he’s Robert Redford.”

Steve shrugs smugly, because of course he doesn’t know who Robert Redford is. Eddie’s so Goddamned charmed by it.

Eddie hums, leans back, and rolls his head towards Steve. “Tall. Chiseled jaw”--he lists the traits with his fingers– “Blue eyes. Looks insanely handsome in a dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. Blond, which is curious because I don’t particularly care for blonds, but I think the hair thing is pretty much null and void because I like the devil-may-care attitude.”

“So you like bad boys, then?”

“Depends on your definition of bad. Rebel without a cause? Hell yeah. Downright war criminal? Not advisable.”

“I didn’t know war criminals were on the table.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Alright,” Steve says, clapping his hands with finality, and straightening himself on the couch.. “You say you like pretty boys, but generally go for more handsome, refined guys.”

“Who said I like handsome?” Eddie interrupts..

“You when you said you had a thing for rolled up dress sleeves,” Steve says, self-satisfied. “And you like ‘em bad. Not bad bad, but like, a realistic amount of bad. Spray paint and knife fights, not like. Uh.”

“Mussolini?” Eddie offers.

“Not like Mussolini.”

(It's wip wednesday when I say it's wip wednesday (it is currently friday), so here's another snippet from my fic Stand There, Looking Backwards. i'm almost at the homestretch of the second chapter so. big if true.)

[thewritingrowlet]

The Spirit-lifter, ft. Red Velvet Seulgi

tags: nothing particular with this one

length: almost 14k

author's note: This is the continuation of The Heart-lifter, but it's not as sexually charged as that one anon's suggestion.

---

The weight of the cuffs in his hand feels different now. No longer a symbol of justice served: they are a stark reminder of the line he has crossed. Hyunwoo stares out their apartment window at the city lights, each one a potential witness to his transgression. He has let a thief go. Hell, not just let her go, but brings her into his life—into his bed.

The memory of Seulgi's tear-streaked face, the desperate tremor in her voice as she speaks of her past, still tugs at his empathy, but empathy is a dangerous thing for a police officer. A slippery slope that erodes the very foundations of his duty. Is this love, as they have so hastily declared, or a twisted consequence of his authority meeting her vulnerability? This very question gnaws at him, a constant unease that shadows the moments of tenderness they share.

“Oppa…” Her soft voice is heard from behind, but Hyunwoo dares not turn his head. “Oppa, are you okay?” she asks, concern carried with every word. He nods slowly, his mind racing with all kinds of thoughts, silence gripping him hard. “No, please, don’t lie to me. I know that look,” she counters, not convinced by his small gesture and tense body.

Seulgi wraps her arms around him from behind, her hands resting on his belly, offering comfort and warmth to ease his mind and body. “Oppa, please, say something…” she says, the soft voice contradicting the weight of her demand. Hyunwoo places a hand on hers, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “I’m alright, baby,” he says, attempting to hide his stress from her. “It’s just that, erm, my mind is taking me places,” he adds, hinting at the truth behind his turmoil.

Seulgi moves to stand before Hyunwoo, filling the small gap between him and the window, guiding his chin downwards to look him in the eyes. “Oppa, please, what is it? You know you can tell me everything, right?” she demands, growing frustrated yet understanding, wishing Hyunwoo would let her help carry the burden. Realizing there’s no other way but to tell the truth, he relents, letting his worry be laid bare before his lover’s eyes.

Hyunwoo takes a deep breath, piecing together an answer for his beloved. “The superintendent wants to see me tomorrow morning,” he begins, stringing each word together carefully. “Something about my... unorthodox handling of a recent case—your case.” Seulgi’s eyes turn glassy with unshed tears: the superintendent must’ve heard about Hyunwoo’s misconduct in handling her shoplifting incident, about him abusing his authority, and karma is out to get him.

“Will you… lose your job?” she asks, her voice shaking with thoughts of potentially being the cause of his downfall. Hyunwoo shrugs, as clueless as she is. “That’s definitely a possibility,” he answers. “Perhaps they’ll even send me to prison for failing to enforce law.” A heavy sigh flows out of her lips. “Law,” she mutters. “The only thing that separates us from the animals, or so they say.” A shiver runs down his spine, getting flashbacks to the first time he heard that phrase during his training period. “Yeah, precisely, and I’ve failed.”

The silence that follows Hyunwoo's words is thick with unspoken fear. Seulgi's grip on his arm tightens almost imperceptibly. "No," she says, her voice low but firm, the earlier tremor replaced by a sudden steeliness. "No, I won't let that happen. You did what you did because of me—because you understood. I won't let you face the consequences alone."

A new determination sparks in her eyes, pushing back the tears. "We'll figure this out. Together. What can we do? Is there someone we can talk to? Someone who would understand?" She searches his face, her gaze intense, seeking a solution, a way out of this looming crisis. The thought of Hyunwoo behind bars sends a cold dread through her, a feeling far more terrifying than her own potential arrest. “I think we can look for an attorney if that’s necessary. I think I still have that right,” he says, a sense of strength surging within at her supportive stance. “Give me the attorney’s number,” she says. “I’ll reach out to them myself if I must.”

Hyunwoo stares at Seulgi, a complex mix of emotions swirling within him. Gratitude, yes, and a profound sense of awe at her fierce loyalty, but also a pang of guilt. He, the supposed protector, is now being shielded by the very person he initially apprehended. "Seulgi-yah..." he begins, but the words catch in his throat. He doesn't deserve this, he thinks. “Yes, that’s me,” she repeats, a smile taking root on her features. “We can do this, oppa.”

Seulgi lifts his hand, her gaze glued to the cuffs in his hand. “Think of it like this,” she places a hand on the rigid cuffs, “we’re sharing the burdens of life as if we’re cuffed together with no other way but forward, and we move forward together—always together.” Hyunwoo’s lips slowly curl into a smile, her words reaching the deepest parts of his heart, the tenseness of his body gradually dissipating. “You’re right,” Hyunwoo answers, strength and determination to keep fighting surging within him.

Hyunwoo reaches out, his thumb tracing a line on her soft cheek. “You always know what to say, don’t you, baby?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble, carrying emotions with every word. “I’m so lucky to have you in every sense of the word.” Seulgi presses a tender peck to his knuckles, a testament to the love for this man before her. “I don’t think it’s simply luck, though,” she counters. “It was fate, oppa. We found each other when we needed each other the most.”

She leans closer towards him, her gaze locked on his. “Besides…” she adds, her voice getting smaller, “the sex is amazing.” A soft chuckle escapes his lips, the first genuine laugh he’s had since receiving the summons letter this afternoon. In this moment, surrounded by a comfortable intimacy, the fear fades, replaced by a fragile yet tenacious hope. They have each other, and they are what each other needs.

Alas, the reprieve is fleeting. The memory of the superintendent’s summons lingers like a shadow in the corner of the room, a reminder of the storm that threatens their peace. Hyunwoo slowly, hesitantly, pulls away, his brow slightly furrowed with a sense of urgency. “We need a plan,” Seulgi suggests, her voice regaining the edge from earlier. He pecks her on the forehead, staying longer than usual, transferring the stress she has promised to help carry. “I don’t think there’s a ‘we’ here, baby. I mean, I can’t bring you to the superintendent,” he says. Seulgi’s eyes grow shiny, tears pooling and threatening to spill. “But… but I can’t let you go alone. Can I not wait outside or something?” she counters.

Hyunwoo cups her face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the first tear that escapes. "Baby," he says softly, his gaze filled with a mixture of love and concern. "This is an official matter. It's about my conduct as a police officer. Your presence there... it could make things worse. They might see it as further evidence of my..." he trails off, unable to voice the word "failure" in front of her.

Seulgi shakes her head zealously, more tears dropping onto her cheeks. “Worse than you going alone? Worse than you possibly losing everything because of me?” she presses him further, her voice shaking with emotions. “At least let me be nearby. Let me be the first person you see as soon as they’re done with you, no matter what anyone says.” Seulgi grips his uniform hard, her knuckles turning white. “Please, don’t shut me out now, oppa. Did we not promise to face this together?"

Hyunwoo’s resolve erodes at the raw vulnerability in her voice. He knows she’s right and having her nearby would help, but his police-trained instincts keep screaming at him, urging him to make her stay at home. Weighing his options, he just looks at her—really looks at her—his mind racing with different scenarios that might happen if Seulgi is spotted near the headquarters.

Eventually, he can only sigh, conceding to the basic needs as a person: he’s going to take her along, even if she can’t directly see the superintendent. “The café,” he mutters. “You can wait for me at the café across the street.” Releasing the tight grip on him, Seulgi quickly wipes her tears with the back of her hands, relieved by him giving her the green light to be close to him while he faces the unknown. “I’ll be there, and I won’t leave until I see you step out of the building,” she says, determined and resolute.

-

The café across the street is small and unassuming, the kind of place where the aroma of stale coffee hangs heavy in the air. Seulgi chooses a table by the window, her gaze fixed on the imposing gray building that houses the superintendent's office. Each passing minute stretches into an eternity, filled with a gnawing anxiety that claws at her insides. She sips her lukewarm latte, barely registering the bitter taste. Her mind races, replaying the events of the past few days, the unlikely turn their lives have taken. From a desperate act of survival to an unexpected intimacy, and now, the looming threat of professional ruin for the man she loves with everything she has.

Minutes pass by, and Seulgi finally catches the police car that is assigned to Hyunwoo. “That’s him,” she thinks, her heartbeat growing quicker. Her fists clenches, gripping the end of her sweater, wishing she could give him a hug or a kiss before—

“Oh, he’s getting in…”

A small sob slips through her lips at the sight of Hyunwoo being greeted by a pair of men wearing a different uniform than him, their serious expressions cold and stern. “Please, be kind to him like he is to me.” Seulgi leans her head against the window, only able to watch helplessly while Hyunwoo disappears behind the two big doors in the front. “I love you, Kang Hyunwoo. I will always love you, no matter what happens today.”

All Seulgi can do is wait, watch, and pray for the man who is always able to lift her heart in the most unexpected ways.

…

The big, heavy doors close behind Hyunwoo with a solid thud, the sound piercing the quiet interior of the headquarters. As he’s escorted to the superintendent’s office, he catches some fellow officers stealing glances at him, murmuring among themselves and shaking their heads, accusing him of failure without saying a word. “No one else to blame but myself,” he thinks, making peace with his choices, even if they are perceived as incorrect.

One of the men escorting Hyunwoo knocks on Superintendent Park’s door, the sound of his knuckles on the wood chipping away at his persistence. The door opens slightly, a signal that Hyunwoo’s judgment is about to start. With an open palm, the officer gestures to him to enter, and after taking a deep breath to steel himself, Hyunwoo pushes the door, closing it behind him, his nostrils picking up the scent of Superintendent Park’s favorite essential oil from the diffuser on his desk.

“Kang Hyunwoo, Metropolitan Police Unit,” he introduces himself. “Ready to report, sir.” With a flick of his finger, Park signals Hyunwoo to come closer, straightening his sitting posture at the same time, his expression plain and unreadable. “Officer Kang,” he begins, his voice smooth but firm. “You are aware of the reason as to why you’re here, are you not?” Hyunwoo nods firmly. “Yes, sir, I am. It pertains to my handling of the shoplifting incident of Miss Kang Seulgi, a former celebrity,” he answers, keeping his voice steady, avoiding showing emotions. This isn’t the time to be vulnerable or sentimental. This summons is about facts, as cold as they may come.

"Yes, Officer Kang," Superintendent Park replies, his gaze unwavering. "Your report states that you apprehended Miss Kang Seulgi for shoplifting, yet no charges were filed. No report was officially lodged. Can you explain this discrepancy?" Park's voice remains calm, but there's an undercurrent of steel that sends a shiver down Hyunwoo's spine. He knows this is the crux of the matter.

Hyunwoo takes another deep breath, carefully choosing his words. "Sir, upon further investigation, it became apparent that Miss Kang's actions were driven by... extenuating circumstances. Severe financial hardship, coupled with a desperate need for essential goods." He pauses, gauging Park's reaction. "I exercised my discretion, sir, prioritizing a resolution that addressed her immediate needs while considering the... mitigating factors." He avoids mentioning the personal connection that has formed between them, knowing that would only complicate matters further.

“Is that so, son?” Park asks, his features relaxing by the minute. His body doesn’t look as tense, and his forehead isn’t furrowed as tightly. Hyunwoo nods slowly, keeping the truth of their connection tucked away in the depths of his mind. “Okay, so,” he continues, sighing briefly, “why did she pay her fine with your card?” The next question makes Hyunwoo swallow hard. “She… she didn’t have money, sir, so I… paid for it upfront, and she’s been paying me back little by little,” Hyunwoo answers, adding lies to mix in with the truth, playing a dangerous game with his superior.

“I see,” Park leans back in his big leather chair, “that’s quite the generous gesture for an officer apprehending a suspect, wouldn’t you agree, Officer Kang?” Hyunwoo forces himself to maintain his gaze locked on Park’s, his heart pounding in his chest. “With all due respect, sir,” he begins, his voice steady despite his racing heart. “I was trying to defuse the situation and ensure the well-being of those involved. Miss Kang was clearly in distress, and… I felt that letting her return the stolen goods and have her fined was the correct course of action,” Hyunwoo adds, offering an elaborate reasoning to support his stance.

Park leans forwards again, his elbows planted on the smooth surface of his desk. “Let’s cut to the chase, son, and be honest with me: were you or were you not biased towards Miss Kang Seulgi?” he asks, no longer interested in rhetorics. Hyunwoo takes a deep breath, mustering up the courage to answer truthfully as demanded. “Sir, I…” he trails off, unsure if he should simply confess that he was indeed biased towards Seulgi.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with the weight of the unsaid. Hyunwoo's gaze flickers, a brief, involuntary glance towards the window, as if seeking Seulgi's presence for strength. Then, he forces himself to meet Park's eyes again, his jaw tightening.

“Yes, sir. I was biased towards Miss Kang,” Hyunwoo eventually admits, his tone low and measured. “I believe that my... sympathy for Miss Kang's situation did influence my decisions. However,” he rushes on before Park can interrupt. “My primary concern was that the situation could be resolved quickly and efficiently. I did not act with malicious intent, nor was I seeking personal gain.”

Hyunwoo ends his explanation, leaving the true extent of his “bias” unspoken, hoping that it’s good enough for Park. After all, the fate of his career, perhaps also his freedom, is in the hands of the superintendent.

“Sympathy,” Park echoes. “A commendable trait in a police officer, but if that very trait leads to a complete disregard of protocol… Then that is a liability, Officer Kang.” Park sighs, letting his head rest against the back of his chair. “Tell me one last thing, son: after all the things you’ve done when handling Miss Kang Seulgi’s case, what do you expect to happen to you?” Hyunwoo lowers his head, feeling the weight of the question, his life hanging in the balance. “I… I expect punishment, sir. Anything other than dismissal from my post.”

Park studies Hyunwoo for a long moment, his gaze intense and unreadable. The silence in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife, amplifying the weight of Hyunwoo's admission and his plea for leniency. Finally, Park leans back in his chair, a sigh escaping his lips.

"Punishment," he echoes once more, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. "Yes, Officer Kang, there will undoubtedly be consequences for your deviation from protocol. However..." He pauses, his eyes still fixed on Hyunwoo. "Your honesty, while belated, is noted, and your explanation... it suggests a degree of compassion that, as I said, can be valuable, if properly channeled." He reaches for a file on his desk, his gaze momentarily shifting away from Hyunwoo, leaving the young officer in a state of tense anticipation. The sound of the folder opening seems deafening in the quiet room.

“Officer Kang Hyunwoo, I hereby declare that you are temporarily discharged for one month for your failure to follow protocol. During that period, you will receive a 50% pay cut. Is there anything you’d like to address before I send you on your way?”

A wave of relief washes over Hyunwoo, so potent it almost buckles his knees. A month's suspension and a pay cut are harsh, but it’s not dismissal, and it certainly isn’t jail. He manages a shaky nod, his throat tight with a mixture of gratitude and lingering anxiety. "No, sir," he says, his voice hoarse. "I understand. Thank you for your... leniency." The word feels inadequate, considering the potential consequences he braced himself for.

Park observes him for another moment, his expression still unreadable. "Use this time wisely, Officer Kang," he advises, his tone softening slightly. "Reflect on your actions and remember the oath you took. The trust we hold is fragile, and it must be earned and maintained." He gestures towards the door. "You're dismissed." Hyunwoo straightens his posture, his legs feeling strangely weak but eager to leave, nonetheless.

As he turns to leave, a single thought dominates his mind: Seulgi. He needs to see her, to tell her. He hopes the news won't devastate her, knowing how much his job means to him, and how much she blames herself for his current predicament. However, he also understands that he can’t just see her at the café across the street—hell, it is across the street from the headquarters.

Having received his phone back from the guards, Hyunwoo is tempted to send her a text, but he’s promptly reminded about that particular case where a backdoor was installed on a suspect’s phone which allowed the police force to access messages and calls. “Fuck,” he curses silently, gripping his phone hard in frustration.

Hyunwoo heads out from the main doors, standing still in front of the headquarters, his gaze darting towards the café where Seulgi must be waiting for him. Eventually, he spots her: she’s leaning against the window, looking rather calm from where he’s standing. He quickly formulates a plan to show, not tell, Seulgi that he’s fine.

“I guess I can use a cup of iced latte.”

Hyunwoo straightens his uniform and hat, putting on a charade, as he crosses the street to reach the café. The little bell hanging on the door frame rings as he enters the establishment, punctuating his grand entrance that is meant for one person and one person only: the stressed woman in a terracotta sweater sitting by a window.

“One large, iced latte with less sugar, please,” Hyunwoo places his order, making sure his voice is loud enough for both the barista and Seulgi. “Of course, officer. Please, have a seat,” the barista replies, her finger pacing around on the small monitor before her.

Hyunwoo's eyes never leave Seulgi's as he places his order, the emphasis on "latte" and "large" deliberate. It's a small detail, a shared joke from a late-night coffee run a few days ago, a code only they would understand. Latte means no one is hurt. Large means things are okay. He hopes to God that she gets it.

Seulgi's gaze sharpens; her initial anxiety is replaced by a flicker of understanding. The corners of her lips twitch in reflex, a silent acknowledgment of his message. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, but she maintains her composed facade, aware that they're still in a public space, under the watchful eyes of anyone who might be observing them.

The barista calls out his order, and Hyunwoo turns to pay, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and anticipation. “Ah, thank you for the quick service,” Hyunwoo says out loud, drawing quite the attention of the café’s patrons to himself. “My cat will be missing me soon, and I appreciate how quick you were with my latte,” he adds, doing his best to get Seulgi to catch on to the signal lying beneath his words. “Tell your cat I said pspsps, officer,” the barista jokes, unaware of the true intentions behind his seemingly innocent sentence. “Of course, my cat is very friendly anyway.”

Seulgi's eyes flick down to her own hands for a brief moment, a small, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips before she schools her expression back to neutral. “Cat means me, and this cat does miss him,” she thinks. The pieces click into place. She takes another slow sip of her latte, feigning disinterest in Hyunwoo's exchange with the barista.

Seulgi keeps her eyes fixed on Hyunwoo as he makes to leave the establishment with a cup of latte in his hand, she herself ready to bolt out and head home to see him in a more private setting. “I’m coming, baby. Wait for me, okay?” she thinks.

“Have a good day, madam, and always stay safe,” Hyunwoo greets her briefly right before exiting. Seulgi gasps slightly, not expecting to have an interaction with him here and now. “Y-you too, officer,” she replies quickly, the heavy beats of her heart bumping against her ribs, wishing she could just hug him here and now.

Seulgi waits for a while, allowing a few seconds to pass before gathering her bag. She stands up, her movements deliberately casual as she heads towards the exit. The bell above the door jingles again as she steps out onto the street, her gaze immediately locking onto Hyunwoo's. A silent understanding passes between them. They can't linger here, not so close to the lion's den. Without a word, they begin to walk in the opposite direction of the police headquarters—Hyunwoo to his unit car; Seulgi to the bus stop—their pace quickening with each step, the unspoken urgency of their situation propelling them away from the prying eyes and potential surveillance.

Hyunwoo reaches his unmarked police car, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror as he starts the engine. He needs to appear like any other officer heading out on patrol, but his mind is racing. He has to get to Seulgi as soon as his shift allows, to hold her and reassure her that they will face this together. The image of her worried face in the café window is etched in his memory.

Seulgi hurries towards the bus stop, her terracotta sweater doing little to ward off the sudden chill that grips her. Each passing car makes her jump, her mind hyper-aware of any potential surveillance. The relief of Hyunwoo's coded message is now overshadowed by a renewed sense of anxiety about the future. What will happen to him? What will happen to her? The uncertainty hangs heavy in the air as she waits for the bus, her gaze fixed in the direction Hyunwoo's car disappeared.

-

Seulgi presses the buttons on their door with urgency, her finger racing to get the door unlocked as quickly as possible. With a satisfying click, it unlocks, and she immediately pushes the door open, unwilling to spend one more second outside the safe space that is their shared apartment.

“Oppa!” Seulgi enters the apartment screaming his name, looking for the only person who can soothe her anxious heart and mind. “One second, baby,” he replies, his voice coming from the kitchen along with sounds of sizzling. She drops her bag on the floor, running towards him, seeking the comfort only he can provide.

Seulgi crashes into him from behind, her hands stacking on top of each other on his firm stomach, her face pressed against his back. “Oppa…” she calls to him in a whisper, her voice trembling, starting to break into tears. “It’s okay, baby,” he sighs—out of relief, not stress. “We’re okay, trust me,” he offers an assurance, but it does little in calming the sobbing girl.

Hyunwoo turns off the stove, the sizzling ceasing abruptly, and immediately pivots to face Seulgi, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling her familiar scent, a small anchor in the storm of his own emotions. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, his voice soothing. "It's alright. I'm here." He rocks her gently, the way he does when she's had a particularly rough day.

"What... what happened?" she finally manages to choke out between sobs, her grip on his shirt tightening. Hyunwoo pulls back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, his gaze tender. "It's... it's not the best news, baby," he admits, his thumb gently wiping away her tears. "But it's not the worst either." He hesitates, gathering his thoughts, knowing he needs to choose his words carefully. "I've been suspended... for a month, and… I’ll be receiving only half my salary during the suspension."

Seulgi buries her face in his chest, crying out of control, smacking him with her fist repeatedly. Not out of anger, but rather out of regret and self-blame. All she wanted was safety and comfort during a tough time, but she’s brought him crashing down with her, and the weight of the guilt is crushing down on her.

Hyunwoo holds her tightly, letting her tears soak into his shirt. He understands the source of her anguish. She sees herself as the catalyst, the reason his life is now disrupted. "Shh, baby, shh," he murmurs, stroking her hair. "It's not your fault. I made my choices. I chose to..." Hyunwoo hesitates, the word "help" feeling inadequate. "I chose to do what I thought was right."

He pulls her back slightly, looking into her tear-filled eyes. "Listen to me, Seulgi-yah. My job is important to me, yes, but you... you are more important. A month will pass. We'll manage the pay cut. We'll get through this, together. This isn't the end, it's just... a bump in the road." He tries to sound reassuring, but the uncertainty of their future still lingers in the back of his mind. He just hopes his words can offer Seulgi the comfort she desperately needs.

“I’m… I’m sorry, oppa,” she mumbles, her voice barely intelligible because of the tears. “I-I’ll leave if you want me to. Just say the word and… and I’ll be out of here,” she adds. Hyunwoo shakes his head. Deep down, he knows that her leaving would devastate him. “No, baby, I don’t want you to leave,” he strokes her cheeks softly, “I don’t want me or you to be alone in this hard time.”

Seulgi plants her face in his chest once more, her arms wrapped tightly around him, as if afraid that he’ll disappear if she lets go. “I love you, oppa, and I’m sorry for everything,” she mutters, her tiny voice barely reaching his ears. “I love you too, baby, and I’m sorry for everything too,” he replies, his mind going back to the day they agreed to carry this burden together.

The memory of that day, the day they stood and agreed to face the odds together, solidifies Hyunwoo's resolve. He will not let this setback break them. He will not let Seulgi's guilt consume her. He will not let their shared dream of a life together fade.

He pulls back slightly, his hands framing her face, his gaze intense. "We made a promise, remember?" he says softly, his voice a low rumble. "We said we'd face this together, hand in hand. A month is nothing, Seulgi-yah. We'll get through it and come out stronger." He manages a small, reassuring smile, hoping it reaches her through the haze of her tears. "We have each other, and that's all that matters." He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, a silent vow to protect her heart and their bond, no matter what the future holds.

Seulgi slightly pushes back against him, asking to have some space to catch her breath. “I… I accept,” she says, wiping off the tears herself. “I will stay here and… and support you in every way I can.” A bigger smile blooms on their faces at this moment of mutual understanding and agreement to be each other’s rock. “Sounds great to me, my love,” Hyunwoo says, his heart flooded with gratitude and love for the woman in his arms.

The apartment feels different now, charged with a new kind of intimacy born from shared vulnerability. The mundane tasks of daily life take on a deeper meaning: cooking dinner, cleaning up, simply being in each other's presence. There's an unspoken understanding that they're both drawing strength from the other, preparing for whatever the next month may bring. The world outside may be uncertain, but within these walls, their love is a constant, an anchor that holds them down amidst the raging storm.

-

The month of Hyunwoo's suspension has passed in a blur of quiet intimacy and unspoken worries. They navigated the financial strain together. Seulgi's unwavering support has been a constant source of strength for him. Now, the morning of his reinstatement dawns with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation hanging in the air of their apartment. Hyunwoo lays in bed, the sunlight filtering through the curtains illuminating the familiar lines of Seulgi's sleeping face beside him.

A sense of normalcy, something they have both longed for, is finally within reach. Beneath the surface of his relief, however, a knot of anxiety tightens in his stomach. Returning to the force means stepping back into a world that now feels complicated, a world where his loyalty has been tested and his judgment questioned. He wonders how his colleagues will treat him, what his new assignments will be, and most importantly, how his relationship with Seulgi will be perceived in the eyes of the law and his peers.

“Good morning,” Seulgi greets him with closed eyes, her voice slightly hoarse from the sleep. “It’s that day, isn’t it?” Hyunwoo nods at her question, knowing what she’s referring to. “Yeah, it is,” he says. “I’m so rusty, though.” She chuckles, amused by his choice of words. “Don’t worry. You might be rusty, but you’re my rusty.” Hyunwoo laughs. The joke might be lighthearted, but the weight of the emotions behind the joke is anything but light.

Hyunwoo pulls Seulgi closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "My rusty, huh? I like the sound of that." He lingers in the warmth of her embrace for a moment longer than necessary, drawing on her strength before the day truly begins. The familiar comfort of their apartment, the soft light, and the quiet intimacy are a stark contrast to the rigid, public world of service he is about to re-enter.

He eventually pushes himself out of bed, the cool air hitting his skin. The uniform, freshly pressed and hanging on the closet door, seems to hum with a quiet authority he hasn't felt in a month. As he dresses, each button, each buckle, feels like a step back into a different skin. He glances at Seulgi, who is now sitting up, watching him with an expression he can't quite decipher—a mix of pride, worry, and an unwavering belief that steadies him. He knows this day is not just about his job; it's about proving that their unconventional bond can withstand the scrutiny of the world he serves.

“You’re going to be okay, right?” Hyunwoo swallows a gulp at her question, he himself uncertain if he is indeed going to be okay. “Honestly, I don’t know, but I’ll try my best. For us both,” he says, regaining the resolve he once had. “If you need anything, oppa, just call me. I’ll come running to the headquarters if I need to,” she offers, unwavering in her support for him. “No, that won’t be necessary, sweetheart.”

"I know," Seulgi whispers, her hand reaching for his, their fingers intertwining. "But I'll be waiting, and I'll be thinking of you every second." She squeezes his hand, a silent promise that transcends any physical distance or official protocols.

Hyunwoo finishes fastening his uniform, the weight of the badge now feeling heavier than before, not just with duty, but with the fragile hope of their future. He leans down one last time, capturing her lips in a deep, lingering kiss that promises his return. "I'll be home as soon as I can, my love," he murmurs against her mouth, a silent echo of the anchor she is for him.

Taking a deep breath, Hyunwoo prepares to leave, tapping around his body to check if he’s forgotten anything. Confident that everything is sorted, he begins to approach the front door. Not as a regular guy he has been for the past month, but as a police officer who is taking another chance at public service.

“You forgot something, oppa,” Seulgi calls to him. “Yeah? What is it, baby?” he asks, looking around him to check. “A piece of me, oppa,” she tucks her favorite hairpin in his back pocket, “something to remember me by. Something to remind you what you’re fighting for.”

Hyunwoo reaches back, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the hairpin in his pocket. A warmth spreads through him, anchoring him to her even as he prepares to face the day. He turns to Seulgi, his eyes filled with love so profound, it almost hurts. "Thank you, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't forget."

Then, with a final, lingering look that promises his prompt return, Hyunwoo opens the front door and steps out. The click of the lock behind him sounds like the closing of one chapter and the hesitant re-opening of another. The familiar scent of their apartment, a blend of Seulgi's perfume and the lingering aroma of their favorite candle, fades as he descends the stairs, replaced by the crisp, cool air of the morning. He straightens his shoulders, the uniform feeling both heavy and right. The world outside awaits, and he knows that with Seulgi's piece of him tucked safely away, he is ready to face it.

-

“Kang Hyunwoo, Metropolitan Police. Reporting for reinstatement,” Hyunwoo says to the officer attending the administration desk. The officer grabs a folder with his name written on it, looking through some documents, her finger tracing lines along the papers as she reads each one. “Welcome back, Officer Kang Hyunwoo. Please head to the superintendent’s office, and after that, please head to the armory.” He nods firmly, the reality of returning to duty settling in his mind, his fist clenching with nerves. “Certainly. Thank you for the help.”

Hyunwoo turns from the desk, the polished floor of the main lobby stretching before him. Every familiar face he passes seems to offer a fleeting glance, a silent judgment he tries to ignore. He focuses on the superintendent's office, a destination that still carries the weight of his disciplinary summons. The scent of disinfectant and stale coffee, so characteristic of the building, fills his nostrils, a sharp reminder of the world he now re-enters.

He knocks on Superintendent Park's door, the sound echoing louder in his ears than it should. This time, there's no escort, no sense of impending doom, but a new kind of anxiety hums beneath his skin—the anxiety of the unknown. The door opens, and Park's face, as unreadable as ever, greets him. "Officer Kang," Park says, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Come in. We have some matters to discuss before your full reinstatement."

A shiver runs down his entire body, his mind racing with thoughts of these “matters” that need to be addressed before his actual return. “Yes, sir.” Hyunwoo stands before Park in a steady, proper stance of a police officer, and that is when a small laugh, feeling somewhat warm to Hyunwoo’s ears, escapes Park’s lips. “I remember the day I first met you when you were a rookie, son,” Park says. “Your eyes were basically aflame, burning with passion to serve the public.”

A thin smile forms on Hyunwoo’s face, rekindling the day when he was first initiated into the police force. “A rookie’s innocence, sir—typical, wouldn’t you say?” Hyunwoo replies, feeling a bit shy at the memory of his naiveness way back then. Park laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing, his posture relaxed. Such a stark contrast to his energy during their last meeting. “Typical, yes, but nice to see, nonetheless.”

"Sit, Hyunwoo-yah," Park gestures to the chair opposite his desk, his smile softening further. "No need for formalities among old acquaintances. Though, of course," his tone regains a touch of its professional edge, "this is still an official meeting." Hyunwoo takes the seat, the leather cool against his uniform, his gaze still fixed on Park, trying to discern the true intent behind this sudden shift in atmosphere.

Park leans back, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Your file shows a strong record before this, say, incident. Dedication, good instincts, but also, as we’ve seen time and time again, a tendency towards... unconventional solutions." He pauses, letting Hyunwoo absorb his words. "The department values integrity, Officer Kang, and adherence to protocol. However, it also values good judgment and, yes, even empathy." He picks up a pen, tapping it lightly on the polished wood. "So, let's talk about what we expect from you, now that you're back."

Hyunwoo straightens in his seat, ready for the parameters of his return. He understands this isn't simply a formality; it's a re-evaluation of his worth, his perspective, and his place within the force. "I'm ready to listen, sir," he says, his voice firm, conveying both respect and quiet determination.

Park leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "First, your return probationary period will last for six months. During this time, you will be under direct supervision, and any further deviation from protocol will result in immediate and permanent dismissal." He pauses, letting the severity of the statement sink in. "Second, we've had a request from the District Chief's office. You're being assigned to a new unit: the special one. One that deals with sensitive cases. High-profile individuals. Cases that require a delicate touch, and perhaps…” Park trails off, his eyes gleam with a look that might be a challenge, or a warning. "Unconventional solutions, which you’re awfully terrific at."

Hyunwoo takes a deep breath, the implications of Park's words settling over him. Six months under the microscope, a new, highly visible unit, and the implicit expectation that his "unconventional" approach, while dangerous, is precisely why they need him. He doesn't miss the subtle irony, or the weight of the trust—or perhaps the test—being placed upon him.

"I understand, sir," he says, his voice steady. "I'll do my best to meet those expectations." Park clicks his tongue, seemingly unsatisfied by Hyunwoo’s promise. “No, no, no. What was it you used to say when assigned to a new job?” he asks, looking for a specific answer.

Hyunwoo’s thoughts swirl in his head, his eyebrows furrowing, trying to remember what he once said, and a smile is starting to take form on Park’s face, eager to hear the old mantra. “Erm, I will excel in my duties, sir?” Park’s lips curve into a smile, finally getting the answer he desires. “Yes, that. I like it when you say it, Hyunwoo-yah.” Hyunwoo nods firmly, his resolve now firm like it once was, his straight posture a semblance of that very persistence. “Yes, sir. I will excel in my duties.”

"That's what I like to hear, son," Park says, his smile lingering. He rises, walking around his desk to clap Hyunwoo firmly on the shoulder. The touch is heavy, not entirely paternal, but loaded with expectation. "Now, go get your badge back, get your gear. Captain Lee is expecting you in his unit room on the fifth floor—and remember, excel." A pleasant shiver runs down Hyunwoo’s back, eager to excel, like his superior has commanded him to. “Excellence is what we seek, is it not, Superintendent?” he thinks.

Hyunwoo offers a crisp, respectful bow, a muscle working in his jaw, before he turns and strides out of the superintendent's office. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing off the conversation and the lingering scent of essential oils. The hallway, which had felt like a gauntlet minutes ago, now seems like a path. He doesn't glance at the other officers this time; his focus is singularly on the armory.

The heavy metal door of the armory swings open with a familiar groan. The smell of gun oil and polished steel is almost comforting, a scent of purpose and capability. The armorer, a gruff veteran with more years on the force than Hyunwoo has been alive, merely nods, already pulling Hyunwoo's service weapons—a long-barrel, automatic assault rifle and a handgun—and a set of holsters from a locked cabinet.

As he straps on his gear, the familiar weight of his sidearm settling against his hip, and the cool metal of his badge clicks into place on his uniform, a sense of belonging washes over him. He's not just a man trying to do right; he's Officer Kang Hyunwoo, the newly appointed personnel of the Special Police Unit, back where he belongs with the force.

A nervous shudder flows through him at the sight of the new assault rifle he’s been assigned to. The clean paint, signifying its minimal wear, and the bigger bullets in the magazine feel… daunting.

“What’s wrong, rookie?” the armorer asks, still using the same epithet from the past. “Nothing; just admiring my new toy,” Hyunwoo answers, trying to play it coy. The armorer scoffs, more playful than demeaning, slightly amused by his answer. “Your new captain wants you to start training with your new toy immediately, so you better get used to it.” Hyunwoo nods firmly, his fingers running along the length of the barrel. “Oh, I will get used to it alright,” he says, now finding the confidence he’s been lacking recently.

As Hyunwoo takes the assault rifle, its cold, ergonomic weight feels alien yet strangely familiar in his hands. This isn't the patrol weapon he's used to; this is for a different kind of war, a silent acknowledgement of the gravity of his new role. He checks the safety, the action smooth and precise, a testament to the meticulous maintenance of the armory. The armorer watches him, a flicker of something unreadable in his veteran eyes.

“You know I take good care of my toys, rookie,” the armorer quips, his weary eyes gleaming with playful boast. Hyunwoo chuckles. Out of all the men and women in the force, the armorer is the one he’s been the closest with, taking Hyunwoo under his care since day one. “I know, boss,” Hyunwoo quips back. “You might be old, but at least these things stay young on your watch.” The armorer huffs, his forehead furrowing, annoyed every time his age is brought up. “Just get out of here before I smack you.”

With his new gear secured, Hyunwoo makes his way towards the fifth floor. Each step echoes in the quiet hallway, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the lower levels. The "Special Police Unit" office doors are unmarked by purpose, a symbol of their discretion. He pauses before one such door, taking a deep breath, the subtle feeling of having Seulgi's hairpin in his back pocket a grounding presence. He's ready to excel, to face whatever "unconventional solutions" Captain Lee is seeking out of him.

Hyunwoo knocks on the door a few times, but no immediate answer is heard. “Is no one in?” he wonders, looking around to look for clues, finding none. He knocks a few more times, this time a bit harder than before. “State your name,” someone from the other side demands. “My name is Kang Hyunwoo,” he introduces himself, and the door is opened for him, revealing a deceptively big room with men in black inside. “Kang Hyunwoo, huh? Well, welcome to the 131.”

The man who opens the door, dressed in a sharp, dark combat shirt that seems out of place for police headquarters, steps aside. Hyunwoo enters, his eyes quickly adjusting to the subdued lighting of the large room—well, it’s clear that this isn’t an ordinary office.

A long, sleek conference table dominates the center, surrounded by ergonomic chairs. On the walls, digital screens display complex network maps and blurry surveillance footage, their faint glow casting long shadows. Several other figures, dressed similarly in dark attire, are scattered around the room, some hunched over keyboards, others observing the screens with focused intensity. There is not a single uniform in sight.

"Take a seat, Officer Kang," the man who greeted him says, his voice smooth and authoritative, indicating the chair at the head of the conference table. "I'm Captain Lee Jungwon, and these are your new colleagues,” he gestures to the surrounding individuals, “we’re the 131. Our work here isn't about upholding public order on the streets, Officer Kang. It's about working in the dark to serve the light." Lee chuckles, rubbing his forehead while sighing, seemingly amused by something. “Whoever came up with that last line plays video games too much,” he quips.

Hyunwoo’s lips quirk in a small, involuntary smile at Lee’s self-deprecating humor. It eases some of the tension that has coiled in his gut since stepping onto this floor. He takes the indicated seat, placing his assault rifle carefully on the floor beside him, its black form a stark contrast to the sleek, modern aesthetic of the room. The other agents remain focused, their movements economical, their faces unreadable, a silent testament to the intense concentration their work demands.

“In the 131, we don’t go around calling people by their ranks; we just say their name as if we’ve known in each other for decades,” Lee adds. “So, Hyunwoo-yah, any questions right off the bat?” Hyunwoo’s eyes remain on the screen with the map of the country, intrigued by the dots and the lines connecting them. “What is that, captain?” he asks, gesturing to the map with his lifted chin. Lee turns around, pointing at the big screen behind him. “That? That’s the drug smuggling chain, and those dots are known warehouses that these scums operate out of. Oh, and it’s Jungwon-ie to you, Hyunwoo-yah.”

Hyunwoo steps closer to the massive screen, his gaze tracing the intricate web of connections. The sheer scale of the operation laid bare before him is staggering, far beyond anything he has encountered in his regular patrol duties. "So, these warehouses," he muses, "are they under surveillance? Have we got teams on the ground?" He can feel the familiar buzz of a case beginning to take shape, the thrill of the hunt sharpening his senses.

Jungwon leans against the table, observing Hyunwoo with a keen, assessing gaze. “Yeah, all of them are. We’ve been deploying agents to keep an eye on each one, and it’s almost time to go guns blazing.” Hyunwoo swallows a gulp, unready to hear such a revelation on his first day at this new unit. “Guns blazing, huh?” he mutters. Jungwon approaches his new teammate, resting his elbow on Hyunwoo’s shoulder. “We brought you here for your ability to come up with unconventional approaches, but your first assignment is to raid a warehouse with us,” he explains, his tone kind and patient.

"A warehouse raid," Hyunwoo repeats, the words tasting different than “arresting a shoplifter." This is familiar territory, just on a much larger, more dangerous scale. The adrenaline begins to pump, pushing out the last vestiges of his morning's anxiety. "Understood, Jungwon-ah. Any specific intel on resistance or defensive setups?" He looks back at the screen, no longer just intrigued, but actively analyzing.

Jungwon grins, a flash of approval in his eyes. "That's what I like to hear. We'll download the full operational brief onto your comms, but in short: heavily armed, well-funded. They don't play nice. We're hitting them before dawn tomorrow. You'll be part of the initial entry team, front line. Get acquainted with your new rifle, Hyunwoo-yah, because you'll be using it." He turns to a nearby console. "One of our intel specialists, Minho, will set up your comms and walk you through the details. He’s the guy over there," Jungwon points at a fellow operative who is fiddling with field laptops and radios.

Hyunwoo nods, the taste of impending action sharp and metallic on his tongue. This isn't the kind of 'excel' Park spoke of in abstract terms; this is raw, immediate, and potentially deadly. He turns towards the operative Jungwon indicates, a lean man with sharp features, his fingers flying across a keyboard. Minho looks up, his expression serious but not unwelcoming.

"Minho-yah, this is Hyunwoo," Jungwon states, his elbow still briefly on Hyunwoo's shoulder. "Get him set up. Access codes, comms, the full brief for Operation Sunrise." Minho offers a curt nod, gesturing to an empty workstation. "Follow me, Hyunwoo-yah. There's a lot to cover before your wake-up call tomorrow." Hyunwoo follows, the rhythmic tapping of Minho's keyboard already a part of the intense symphony of the 131. He is officially in.

-

The familiar click of the lock echoing in their apartment has never sounded sweeter to Hyunwoo. He peels off his uniform, shedding the weight of command and responsibilities of the 131. The day has been a whirlwind of intensity: new faces, a new unit, and the chilling reality of Operation Sunrise looming just hours away, but here, in the soft glow of their living room, that world feels distant.

"Oppa?" Seulgi's voice, warm and melodic, drifts from the kitchen. She emerges, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her eyes immediately finding his. A small, relieved smile touched her lips, mirroring the one that blooms on his own face. She doesn’t ask about his day—not yet. She just walks into his open arms, pressing herself against him as if reaffirming their anchor in the face of the raging storm outside.

They move through the evening in a quiet rhythm, a shared understanding of the precious hours they have. Dinner is simple but laced with an unspoken tenderness. Later, wrapped in each other's arms in the comfort of their bed, the world outside fades into insignificance. His fingers trace the curve of her spine, her breath warm against his chest. It is in that intimate stillness, just midnight, that the weight of his duty presses down on him again.

He shifts slightly, and Seulgi hums, snuggling closer. "I will start a new case before dawn," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper against her hair. "It's... big. A warehouse raid." He feels her stiffen imperceptibly. "Heavily armed. Front line." He waits, bracing himself for her fear, for the tears, but when she finally speaks, her voice is steady, though laced with undeniable concern. "You'll be careful, right, oppa? You'll come back to me in one piece, right?" Her hands find their favorite spots on the small of his back, just right over his waist. “Of course I will, baby. I will come home right after the operation is finished.”

Seulgi buries her face into his chest, her breath a soft, warm sigh against his skin. She doesn't need to ask for more details; the weight of his words, the mention of being heavily armed, and the description of this operation are enough. His promise, however, settles deep within her, a fragile shield against the fear that still gnaws at the edges of her mind. She tightens her arms around him, as if to physically hold him to his vow.

“Oppa,” she murmurs. “What do you need from me tonight—you know, before you head out and start shooting at… at… erm, guys.” Hyunwoo looks at her tenderly, touched by her selflessness to prioritize him before the big, likely very dangerous, operation. “If it’s not too much…” he begins, “I’d like to touch you, baby.” Seulgi nods, a soft, beautiful eye smile decorating her features. “Of course, oppa. Vanilla, perhaps?” she asks, her thumb making circles on his cheek. “Yes, vanilla.”

He pulls her closer, and in the familiar embrace, the tension that has been coiling in his stomach all day slowly begins to unravel. "Vanilla," a word that, for them, means far more than just a flavor. It is a shared language of comfort, a return to basics, a deep, gentle intimacy that always soothes his frayed nerves and grounds him in their love. It isn't about fireworks or wild passion tonight; it is about reaffirming their connection, drawing strength from the safety of their bond.

“I’m ready for you, oppa,” she whispers, guiding his hand towards her growing wetness. Seulgi moans softly as his fingers run over her sensitive area, touching her over the soft fabric of her pants. “Oppa, don’t tease me too much, please…” she mumbles.

Hyunwoo's breath hitches, the playful plea a spark that ignites a deeper need within him. He sheds the last remnants of his duty from his mind, focusing solely on the warmth of her skin, the soft sounds she makes, and the urgent desire to lose himself completely in their shared world. His hand moves under the fabric, exploring the damp heat he finds there, eliciting a soft gasp from Seulgi as she arches into his touch.

“I… I will smack you if you don’t put it in within the next minute,” she threatens, each word carrying her desire for something greater—something more carnal. A low chuckle escapes Hyunwoo, his amusement growing at the sight of her demanding want. “That won’t be necessary, baby,” he whispers back. “I want you so bad myself.”

He pushes forward, a soft groan escaping his lips as he finally buries himself inside her. The fit is perfect, a familiar homecoming that sends a wave of relief through him, melting away any lingering tension from the day. Seulgi gasps, her legs instinctively wrapping around him, pulling him closer, deeper. The rhythmic creak of the bedsprings becomes a silent testament to their shared need, their desperate desire for connection before the impending chaos.

They move together, a primal, ancient dance of two souls intertwined, each seeking and giving profound comfort, pushing away the looming danger for this precious, fleeting time. In the hushed darkness of their room, their lovemaking becomes a desperate act of reaffirmation, a silent promise to return to this sanctuary, to each other, no matter what tomorrow brings. When the last tremors subside, leaving them breathless and spent, Hyunwoo holds Seulgi tightly against him, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts pounding in unison, a fierce, defiant beat against the quiet encroaching dawn.

-

Seulgi can only chew on her nails as she watches Hyunwoo prepare, her heart thumping at the sight of her better-equipped man. No longer is he a regular street policeman: he’s now a special operative within the force. She’s proud of him, yes, but just thinking about him being in the front line with bullets flying by, terrifies her beyond words.

“It’s amazing how you can act so professionally, as if you didn’t just try to put a baby in me,” she jokes, trying to steal his attention and distract herself from her worries. Hyunwoo turns his head to the side, showing her a calm smile, his hands still busy strapping things on. “Always quick with the jokes, as if I didn’t just try to put a baby in you,” he counters. Seulgi chuckles a little as her concerns gradually disappear. “You got me, oppa.”

Hyunwoo steps away from the closet, now fully geared, minus the firearms. He walks over to Seulgi, pulling her into a tight embrace, feeling the soft tremor in her body despite her earlier attempts at levity. He buries his face in her hair one last time, breathing in her familiar scent. "I'll be careful, baby," he murmurs, his voice rumbling low. "I promise. For you, and maybe for our baby."

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken fears and profound affection. When the discreet vibration of his comms unit signals its time, Hyunwoo reluctantly pulls away. He takes her face in his hands, his gaze locking with hers, a silent vow passing between them. He gently presses a kiss on her forehead, lingering for a moment, then turns. As he heads for the door, he feels the familiar weight of the hairpin in his back pocket and the comforting presence of the strand of her hair over his heart—his twin anchors in the storm he's about to enter. He opens the door, the pre-dawn chill biting at the edges of their warm apartment, and he steps out into the silence of the hallway.

-

He steps into the cold silence of the hallway, the faint hum of the building's ventilation system the only sound. The warmth of their apartment and the soft scent of Seulgi, already seem miles away. Each step he takes towards the elevator feels heavier than the last, a steady march away from comfort and towards the sharp edge of duty. He presses the button for the ground floor, watching the numbers light up, counting down to the moment he steps out into the pre-dawn dark.

The police vehicle waits, engine idling, a dark, silent beast in the empty street. Inside, Jungwon is already in the driver's seat, his profile stark against the faint glow of the dashboard. "Right on time, Hyunwoo-yah," he says, his voice low and dry, lacking any humor. The atmosphere in the car is taut, charged with the quiet intensity of men preparing for battle. Hyunwoo slides into the passenger seat, the heavy weight of his rifle settling between his legs. He looks straight ahead, already mentally reviewing the operational brief, the world of his home receding into the distance, replaced by the grim reality of Operation Sunrise.

“Alright, let’s go!” Jungwon exclaims, banging on the roof of the vehicle, sending signals to those present to prepare for the worst while attempting the best. Hyunwoo closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, erasing the lingering thoughts about Seulgi and the intimacy they shared, clearing his mind for the operation ahead. “Nervous?” Jungwon asks, noticing his new partner’s behavior. “Something like that,” Hyunwoo answers, sighing heavily. “I mean, I went from a street cop to a special ops guy. I think I have the right to be nervous.” Jungwon chuckles and sighs after. “Yeah, I think you do. First times are always nerve wracking.”

"So, how do you deal with it?" Hyunwoo asks, turning his head slightly towards Jungwon, a genuine curiosity in his voice. "The nerves. The first times." The vehicle begins to move, the low rumble of the engine a counterpoint to the quiet tension inside.

Jungwon glances at him, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips, barely visible in the dim light of the dashboard. "You remember why you're doing it, Hyunwoo-yah. You remember the faces of the people you're protecting, even the ones you've never met, and then," he pauses, shifting gears as they pull onto the main road, the city lights a distant blur, "you just do your job. You trust your training, you trust your team, and you trust yourself. Everything else is just noise, and you’ll learn to shut it out." He turns his full attention back to the road, his grip firm on the steering wheel. “We’re going to be just fine, man,” Jungwon adds, offering assurance to Hyunwoo, his calm voice carrying genuine qualities.

-

The cars stop one block over as an attempt to be discreet, and the men cover the rest of the distance on foot, each person moving with purpose and fully understanding what to do and how to do it. The concrete pavement of the sidewalk creates echoes as their boots thump against it, the sound filling the dark that is silent otherwise.

“This is Gamma 1. Comms check,” Jungwon whispers into his radio, awaiting confirmation from his teammates. One person after another answers, whispering back their number and callsign—everyone but Hyunwoo. “Gamma 9, come in. Say something,” he demands. His captain’s voice snaps him out of his stupor, his eyes blinking rapidly as focus is regained. “Gamma 9, solid copy,” Hyunwoo finally answers. “Focus, Strider. This is not the time to fall asleep,” Jungwon reminds him.

"Understood, Gamma 1," Hyunwoo replies, his voice now crisp and devoid of any lingering hesitation. He takes a deep, steadying breath, feeling the cold metal of his rifle's foregrip against his gloved hand. The images of Seulgi and their apartment, which have flickered at the edge of his awareness, are consciously pushed back. His world shrinks to the immediate environment: the dark warehouse, the silent shadows of his team, the low static of the comms.

Jungwon's voice, relayed through the earpiece, is all business. "Teams are in position. Stone, Bone, report status." Muffled confirmations follow, along with a glint of a sniper scope that is seen on a nearby roof. "Gamma team, prepare for breach. On my mark." Hyunwoo drops into a low crouch, his eyes scanning the big metal door ahead, his training kicking in with an almost instinctual precision. The silence stretches again, broken only by the rapid thump of his own heart, a drumbeat counting down to the explosive beginning of Operation Sunrise.

“Mark!”

The slap charge blows the door open with a bang, the loud noise piercing the silent darkness, drawing the attention of those present from both sides of the operation. From other sides of the warehouse, sounds of shattered glass are heard, courtesy of the teams Stone and Bone, and one thing is clear now: the only way is forward.

“Flash out,” Jungwon commands. A couple of flashbangs are tossed around, disorienting those who get caught in the radii. Taking the small window of advantage that they have created, Gamma operatives begin moving, taking down the lesser-armed men around the perimeter.

Hyunwoo moves instinctively, his new rifle shouldering perfectly as he clears the doorway. The flashbangs' disorienting echo still rings in his ears, but his vision quickly cuts through the haze. He spots two figures, weapons raised, struggling against the blinding light. A quick, precise double tap from his rifle drops them silently. The familiar scent of cordite fills the air, a grim perfume of combat, reminding him he's truly back in the fray, deeper than ever before.

"Clear left!" Hyunwoo shouts, his voice sharp and controlled, sweeping his rifle around to scan for potential threat. Jungwon is a shadow beside him, moving with fluid efficiency, his own weapon spitting controlled bursts. They push deeper into the warehouse, the vast space dimly lit by emergency lights and the occasional muzzle flash. Boxes stacked high cast long, deceptive shadows, turning every corner into a potential ambush. The distant shouts and sporadic gunfire from Stone and Bone's sectors confirm the chaos has begun, solidifying their immediate objective: secure the perimeter, eliminate resistance, and find something to expose The Comrade and their pawns.

Hyunwoo takes cover behind a concrete pillar, peeking his head out slightly to see ahead, and his eyes widen at the massive threat in the back area. “Machine gun, machine gun, machine gun,” he warns his teammates, and they immediately take cover behind solid, less penetrable things. “Guardian, do you have visual?” Hyunwoo frantically asks for support. A confirmation rings in his ear; Guardian has his sniper rifle aimed right at the gunner. “Taking the shot,” he says. “Machine gunner down. I repeat, machine gunner is down.”

"Pushing forward!" Jungwon yells, his voice cutting through the comms. With the machine gunner neutralized, the immediate pressure eases, but the warehouse remains a labyrinth of danger. Hyunwoo sprints from his cover, his rifle sweeping, his eyes tracking movement in the oppressive shadows. Scattered gunfire still echoes from other sectors, indicating fierce resistance across the sprawling complex.

They advance systematically, clearing sections, checking behind crates and derelict machinery. The air is thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and something acrid – perhaps the lingering scent of chemicals from the drug operation. Suddenly, a figure darts from behind a stack of barrels. Hyunwoo's instincts take over, his finger already tightening on the trigger, but Jungwon barks a command: "Hold fire! Blue! Blue!" The figure, a young operative in dark tactical gear, spins to face them, his face smudged with grime but his eyes alert. "Yah," he pants, "we've got movement in the back. Heavy foot traffic heading towards the south end. Looks like they're trying to evacuate something."

“Stone team, listen,” Jungwon says to the comms, his voice laced with urgency and tension. “Prepare to engage; they’re coming your way.” Acknowledgments are heard through the comms, and the Gamma men make their way towards the back exit, hoping to pinch the bad guys between a rock and a hard place.

Hyunwoo moves with renewed purpose, his gaze fixed on the south end of the warehouse. The thought of them evacuating something crucial, possibly The Comrade himself or vital evidence, fuels a fresh surge of adrenaline. The metallic tang of anticipation fills his mouth. He can already hear the distant, muffled thud of footsteps rapidly approaching, accompanied by the clatter of what sounds like heavy equipment being dragged.

"Move! Move! Move!" Jungwon barks, urging the Gamma team forward. They sprint past towering stacks of crates, the shadows flickering around them, testing their discipline. The south exit looms ahead, a single, reinforced bay door that looks suspiciously quiet. Just as they reach it, the door suddenly snaps open, revealing a line of rifle barrels aimed at them. “Shit, take cover!” Jungwon screams, trying to get his teammates to look for safety in the face of immediate danger.

Bullets fly past them, and some are close enough to the point where Hyunwoo can hear them zipping over his head. His heart races, banging inside his chest, his breathing ragged and short. It is at this moment that he realizes he’s hiding behind a wooden crate, and before long, those gunners will try shooting through this crate to get him. In a state of panic, he sprints towards a concrete pillar that is similar to the previous one, hoping to be safe, but it was enough for one of the bad guys to put a bullet in his shoulder.

A searing pain explodes in Hyunwoo's shoulder, ripping through him and sending him sprawling against the cold concrete pillar. The impact knocks the wind from his lungs, and for a terrifying moment, all he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears, drowning out gunfire. His rifle clatters uselessly beside him. He presses his uninjured hand instinctively to the wound, his fingers coming away slick and warm.

"Strider! Status!" Jungwon's voice, strained with urgency, rips through his earpiece. Hyunwoo tries to respond, but a grunt of pain is all that escapes him. The world spins for a second, the dimly lit warehouse blurring, but a surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp, cuts through the pain. “Fuck—yah, cover Gamma 9!” Jungwon screams into the radio, trying to prevent his teammate from getting shot again.

The bullets continue to fly, impacting the pillar around Hyunwoo with sharp cracks, sending chips of concrete showering over him. He curls tighter, trying to make himself as small as possible, the pain in his shoulder now a dull, throbbing ache intensified by every jarring impact. Through the haze, he sees Jungwon’s shadowy form moving swiftly, laying down suppressing fire, forcing the enemy to pull back slightly.

Then, a heavy hand clamps down on his uninjured shoulder. "Can you move?" It's Jungwon, his face grim, eyes darting between Hyunwoo and the firing line. He doesn't wait for a full answer, already pulling Hyunwoo roughly but carefully back, away from the immediate line of fire, towards a larger, more secure barricade. "Gamma team, look to flank! Gamma 9 is down!" Jungwon yells into his comms, the urgency in his voice cutting through the ringing in Hyunwoo's ears. Hyunwoo grunts, forcing himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Jungwon, his vision still swimming, but the immediate threat of another bullet finding him spurs him onward.

Jungwon puts Hyunwoo behind a solid cover where he’s confident that he won’t get hurt again. “Hey, hey, stay with me, man,” Jungwon slaps his cheek multiple times, trying to get Hyunwoo to stay conscious. “I’m… trying,” Hyunwoo stammers, fighting the immense, searing pain on his shoulder. “M-medic… plea-please,” he begs. “They’re on their way, man. Just stay still for now.”

Hyunwoo presses his good hand harder against his shoulder, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it still seeps through his fingers, warm and sticky. His vision tunnels, narrowing to Jungwon’s grim face, then flickering to the distant flashes of gunfire. He can feel the cold creeping in, a dangerous numbness that isn’t just from the pain. He needs to stay awake. He needs to fight.

"Jungwon-ah..." Hyunwoo rasps, forcing his eyes open wide, fighting against the encroaching darkness, gripping Jungwon’s arm as hard as he can. “T-tell Seulgi, I… I love her with… everything I have.” Jungwon shakes his head vehemently, not entertaining his rambling. “Tell her yourself, man. You’re going to see her after this.” Jungwon grabs his radio, screaming into it, calling for medical help for his injured mate. “Fucking finally—hey, man, they’re almost here. Just stay with me for a minute.”

Hyunwoo’s grip on Jungwon’s arm loosens slightly, his eyelids fluttering, fighting the heavy pull of unconsciousness. The distant sounds of the raid, the shouts, the gunfire, all begin to fade into a muffled roar. He tries to focus on Jungwon's face, a blurred image against the chaotic backdrop, but the darkness is winning.

Suddenly, a new presence is beside them. Hands are on him, tearing at his uniform, and a voice, clear and concise, cuts through the haze. "Bullet's clean, through and through. Minimal arterial damage, but he's losing blood fast. Pressure here!" A tight, cold pressure clamps down on his shoulder, a different kind of pain, but one that promises relief. Hyunwoo grunts, a mix of agony and unconscious acknowledgment. He feels himself being carefully lifted, the ground shifting beneath him. He vaguely registers Jungwon's voice, now further away, giving orders, and then, the world finally dips into silent, velvet black.

-

Firm knocks are heard from the front door, and the loud sound stirs Seulgi from her slumber. “One second…” she mutters, dragging her feet towards the source of sound to greet whoever the hell is on the other side. She takes a look through the fisheye: there’s a woman in a police uniform at the door, the badge on her shirt similar to Hyunwoo’s. Seulgi rubs her eyes and tidies her hair, quickly removing signs of having just woken up.

“Good afternoon, officer,” she greets her, maintaining a straight face while her mind runs amok. “You must be Kang Seulgi, Kang Hyunwoo’s partner,” she says. Seulgi nods slowly, biting her lip nervously in reflex. “He has been hurt but is recovering. He asks to see you, so please follow me to the hospital,” the officer says, her voice nearly barren of emotions.

Seulgi's blood runs cold. The quiet hum of the apartment, which just hours ago was a sanctuary of shared intimacy, now feels hollow and vast. "Hurt... how badly?" she manages to ask, her voice barely a whisper, betraying the controlled composure she tries to maintain. Her earlier attempts at tidying her hair felt ludicrous, irrelevant.

The officer's eyes remain impassive, betraying nothing. "He's stable. The doctor will brief you fully at the hospital." She offers no further details, merely a slight tilt of her head, indicating the way. Seulgi swallows hard, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She grabs her phone, purse, and a sweater from the nearby hook, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. His promise to her—that he would come back in one piece—echoes in her mind, a fragile mantra against the sudden, overwhelming fear. Without another word, she steps out of her apartment, following the impassive officer into the chilling uncertainty of the afternoon.

The ride to the hospital is a blur of traffic and ringing silence inside the police vehicle. Seulgi stares out the window, but her mind is replaying snippets of the morning: the feel of his skin on hers, his warm embrace, and his hot release during their shared intimacy. Each memory is a painful counterpoint to the dread coiling in her stomach. The officer drives efficiently, occasionally glancing at her in the rearview mirror, but never offering comfort or explanation.

When they arrive, Seulgi is directed to follow a nurse to Hyunwoo’s room. As they walk together, the air in the hospital seems to grow colder and colder, forcing Seulgi to hug herself tightly, her sweater doing its best to block the cold. “He’s in this room,” the nurse points at a closed door at the end of the hallway, “please be careful around him; he’s injured, after all.”

Seulgi nods weakly, her gaze fixed on the closed door before her. She pushes the door open slowly, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. Her eyes immediately find him. He's pale, lying in the hospital bed, a pristine white bandage stark against his shoulder, a tube running from an IV drip into his arm. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow, and for a terrifying moment, her heart stops. Then, just as tears begin to sting her eyes, his eyelids flutter open, and his gaze, though weary, finds hers. A weak, familiar smile touches his lips. "Seulgi-yah," he rasps, his voice rough. “I love you, baby.”

Seulgi instantly breaks down crying, crumbling under the weight of those four words that are otherwise lighthearted if said under any other circumstances. She puts her head on his chest, unable to bear the sight of him, usually so strong and steadfast, lying in bed in a hospital after getting injured in duty. “Baby…” he whispers, his hand searching for hers. “Please don’t cry. It’s not as bad as it seems,” he adds, trying to make the stress more bearable for her.

Seulgi sniffles, lifting her head slightly, her tear-streaked face finding his. "But... but you said you'd come back in one whole piece, oppa," she whispers, her voice thick with unshed tears. She holds his searching hand, her fingers trembling slightly as they interlace with his. His skin feels warm, reassuringly so, despite the cold hospital air.

Hyunwoo manages another weak smile, his gaze steady despite the fatigue etched around his eyes. "I mean, I did come back in one piece, baby. This is just... a minor inconvenience." He squeezes her hand gently, trying to inject some of his usual playful charm into his voice, though it's still rough. Seulgi lightly smacks him on the chest. “Very funny, Kang Hyunwoo,” she snarks, but a smile is starting to bloom on her tear-streaked face.

"See? That's what I like to see," Hyunwoo rasps, his weak smile strengthening slightly as her tears begin to subside. He looks at her, his gaze filled with a profound love that transcends the sterile hospital room. He then glances towards the door, his professional urgency flickering to the surface even in his weakened state.

“Did you see any of my colleagues out there?” Seulgi follows his gaze, looking at the door like him. “I mean, just… just the female officer who brought me here.” Her gaze returns to him quickly. “Why, is there anyone you’re looking for?” He manages a small nod. “My captain,” he says. “I’m just wondering if the operation was successful.” Seulgi sighs deeply, not entirely liking him still thinking about the operation. “Let’s not think about that right now.”

Hyunwoo manages a small, rueful smile, acknowledging her unspoken concern. "I know, baby, but... it's important. We were right in the middle of it when I went down. Jungwon-ie was covering me." He winces slightly as he tries to shift, the movement tugging at his bandaged shoulder. "Did the doctor or nurse say anything else?"

Seulgi gently places her hand over his, stilling his restless movements. "No, oppa. Just that you're stable, and that the doctor will brief me properly when they come." She squeezes his hand. "Please, just rest now. You're safe. That's all that matters to me." Her gaze is unwavering, a silent plea for him to let go of the mission for a moment and focus on himself. Feeling content in the knowledge that he’s loved and cared for, Hyunwoo closes his eyes, seemingly trying to get some rest. “You’re all that matters to me, baby,” he echoes.

Seulgi watches him, a fresh wave of tears stinging her eyes, but these are tears of relief now, not terror. She gently strokes his hair, her fingers tracing the contours of his forehead, pushing away the stray strands. The room fills with a quiet calm, broken only by the soft beeping of the IV machine and the rhythmic sound of Hyunwoo’s breathing, which slowly deepens as he drifts into a much-needed, pain-medicated sleep.

-

“Operatives Kang Hyunwoo and Lee Jungwon,” Superintendent Park says their names out loud in front of the crowd. “For your bravery and selflessness in service with Unit 131, I present you both… the Sentinel Star.” Claps, from both fellow officers and civilians in attendance, fill the field in which they are gathered.

Hyunwoo stands tall beside Jungwon, the crisp lines of his uniform a stark contrast to the hospital gown he'd worn just weeks ago. His shoulder still twinges, a constant reminder of the chaos of Operation Sunrise, but the pain is a dull echo compared to the pride swelling in his chest. Superintendent Park's voice rings out, clear and strong, acknowledging their names in front of the assembled crowd of fellow officers, uniformed dignitaries, and a scattering of civilians.

The Sentinel Star medal, cool and heavy, settles against his chest as Park pins it on. The applause that follows is deafening, a wave of genuine appreciation that washes over him. He glances to his left, catching Jungwon's eye. His captain's usual wry humor is replaced by a solemn pride, a silent acknowledgment of the crucible they had been through together.

In the sea of faces, Hyunwoo's gaze finds Seulgi. She stands near the front, her eyes shining with tears, a proud, tender smile blooming on her lips. He offers her a small, private nod, a silent reaffirmation of his promise to always come back to her. This medal isn't just for him; it's for them, for the life they're building, for the sacrifices they both make.

Stepping off the podium, Hyunwoo makes his way towards the crowd of civilians, and Seulgi is quick to find him. She crashes into him, hugging him tightly and peppering pecks on his face, not caring about making such an affectionate scene in public. “I’m so proud of you, oppa,” she declares without even the smallest trace of hesitation in her voice. “Thank you, love. I’m so thankful for you, you know.” Seulgi giggles, her cheeks tinted in a pink hue. “You’re so—wait, what are you doing?"

Seulgi can only look at him as Hyunwoo gets down on one knee, her mouth stuck open at the sight of a velvet box in his hand. “Kang Seulgi, will you marry me?” he asks, his voice calm yet emotionally charged. Tears—an abundance of them—begin to freely flow onto her cheeks, taken completely aback by the abrupt nature of his proposal. “Yes! One thousand times yes!” Seulgi exclaims, her voice shaking with emotions.

The crowd, which has momentarily hushed in stunned silence, now erupts into a fresh wave of cheers and applause, far louder and more personal than the commendation ceremony. Seulgi throws her arms around Hyunwoo, pulling him up from his knee, her joyful sobs muffled against his neck. He holds her tight, burying his face in her hair, feeling the tremor of her happiness and relief. The ring, now gleaming on her finger, felt heavier and more precious than any medal.

Later, as the crowd thins and the formalities begin to wind down, Jungwon approaches them, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "Took you long enough, Strider," he quips, clapping Hyunwoo on the shoulder, careful of his still-healing wound. "Congratulations, Seulgi-ssi. You have a good one, even if he did get himself shot on his first day." Seulgi laughs, wiping away the last of her tears. "I know, Captain Lee, and thank you—for everything." Jungwon gives them a firm nod, holding back tears of his own at the sight of an emotional moment. “Again, congratulations, you two. I wish you good life together.”

-

That evening, after a particularly productive physical therapy session for Hyunwoo and a quiet dinner, the reality of their engagement truly settles in. The apartment is bathed in the soft glow of twilight, a hushed intimacy filling the air. Seulgi, who has been tracing lazy circles on his bandaged shoulder, looks up at him, her eyes soft with a mixture of tenderness and unyielding desire.

"You're a hero, you know," she murmurs, her fingers moving from his shoulder to his cheek. "My hero." She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, a gentle invitation for something greater. "And tonight, my hero owes me some good sex." Her voice is a playful whisper, but beneath it, Hyunwoo hears the raw need, the unspoken relief that he is here, whole enough to be touched.

Hyunwoo chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Is that so?" he rasps, his own desire stirring to life, his good arm pulling her closer. "Considering what I went through to get here, I'd say I've earned it." His fingers find the hem of her sweater, slowly gliding underneath, teasing her skin. This isn’t about comforting nerves or facing fear tonight; this is a celebration. A celebration of survival, of commitment, of a future they fight to secure.

Seulgi gasps as his touch spreads warmth through her. "Absolutely earned," she breathes, helping him shed his shirt, her gaze lingering on the scar tissue blooming on his shoulder. There is a moment of tender reverence as her fingers lightly traced the edge of the bandage. He pulls her down onto the bed, their bodies meeting with a familiar comfort, a deep sigh escaping them both. Their kisses grow more ardent, tasting of shared joy and undeniable passion. Hands explore, rediscovering familiar contours and secret places, each touch a testament to their enduring love and the vibrant life they now embraced without hesitation. The soft moans that filled the room were not of fear or pain, but of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a triumphant symphony of their engagement night.

[bugbastard]

This ended up significantly longer than I wanted. I cut out significant portions and it's *still* significantly longer than I intended. At time of writing this, I think I'm only 3/4 of the way through and I've already spent 3 hours on this. I'm not sure it's something you can meaningfully reply to, so I apologize in advance for metaphorically dropping this whole pile of shit on your doorstep.

The whole "natural logic" angle is something I used to swear by, and have since soured on as well, and not because my tastes have changed. Chasing rigor in fantasy fiction is ultimately what shifted my standards of rigor. I think we still agree on the most important thing, which is that un-earthly worldbuilding done without consideration often detracts rather than adds, so I'm sorta arguing in favour of something you're not trying to argue against, but I still think the "philosophical distinction" between our two perspectives are enough to warrant discussion. This is more summary of *my* perspective of a collection of related ideas than an argument against what I perceive *your* perspective to be pers se. I expect that whole sections of this are going to be fully orthogonal to your perspective and point.

I'm gonna run through a couple short, fairly uncontroversial I think? Premises I slowly accepted that are a prerequisite for my perspective shift. They themselves *aren't* the shift though, so might seem a bit unrelated. If any don't make sense or you disagree, I can try and explain them in greater detail, but I accidentally found myself writing an essay about like 3 other only tangentially related topics.

If magic interfaces with physics, Occam's razor (which we presumably care about if we are aiming for "natural logic" in our worldbuilding) suggests physics and magic are generally deeply entwined. Magic *is* the physics of the world, at least in part.

The hard magic / soft magic distinction may sometimes be "logically reasoned vs not" from an author's perspective as usually conceived of, but it *isn't* that from a reader's perspective or an in-world perspective, by and large. The soft / hard SF distinction that it's modeled after doesn't presume that in-world the science is illogical, just that the author doesn't have to *know* how it works, and so doesn't *explain* it to the audience.

Ironically, real world physics is closer to soft magic than hard magic; we've been studying it for the entirety of human history and we *still* don't get it. Hard magic systems, in order to be something the audience can learn within the first act of a work and understand it's use throughout the rest often gravitate towards simplicity in ways that have a certain kind of artifice, or gamey-ness to it. This isn't bad, but it IS a tradeoff, and a distinct step away from "natural logic".

Now onto the actual thing. I remember reading a really irate tumblr comment from someone who'd read an interview with GRRM on ASOIF and was appalled that he said the wildly varying season length was due to magic. They called it a cop out, and said they wrote up their own "scientific" explanation via orbits. Leaving aside the fact that I'm not sure it's even possible to torture real world orbital mechanics into giving you both erratic seasonal lengths and consistently survivable seasonal temperature variation, if soft magic isn't "unscientific", then "magic did it" isn't necessarily a cop out if the evidence for the mechanism is there. And it is! Magic in ASOIF is unmistakably tied to temperature, the extremes of ice and fire, and there is NO other motif that dominates how magic is expressed to that degree. It's so very "natural" that these two things be tied, and rejecting that is ultimately a failure to engage with the text on a deep level. This is, unfortunately, a thing I often see in critiques of the lore of fantasy fiction. that the issue isn't the work, it's that the critic wants the fantasy novel to be a lore bible with action . . . And it isn't, it's a novel.

Now onto the question of "can you pause history while preserving natural logic" / "without fully occupying the mythic register". I'd argue yes, and trivially easy in all honestly. If magic is physics and physics is magic, and soft magic (the exact mechanics of which aren't explained to the reader) is at least as ""scientific"" or logical as hard magic, AND we accept that scientific and or logical is somewhat of a proxy for "natural logic", then essentially any coherent magical explanation will do.

"Fate" is enough, if boring, and thematically a bit troubling. Perhaps the jealous gods reach down and knock over any metaphorical tower of Babel or site of social / technological upheaval. "The Empire" could have a monopoly on powerful war magic possessed by a single person or bloodline such that even civil war isn't meaningfully possible. Fate could have intent, stopping the world from progressing because technological development in a world with magic invariably leads to apocalyptic wars. Hierarchy could have "weight" to it, settling in over generations, becoming harder and harder to oppose. The opposite could be true; those that rule could eventually become truly bound by the will of the people. These all have the potential for interesting themes and plots, and none of them definitely move the work into the mythic register, or much farther from "natural" logic than the inclusion of magic itself does. "Fantasy" that doesn't have even a toe in the un-real is historical fiction. Dipping further than that has as much potential to pull you closer to xenofiction as mythic register. It also therefore seems a bit self contradictory to present a dichotomy between mythic register and everything else, in which mythic register is a specific and intentional choice, and in which best practice for any work which isn't *perceived* as being intended as mythic is passively assumed to be minimizing deviation from "earthly" natural logic.

We also run into the issue that, even if the author may have a sufficient, non-copout magical explanation, delivering it is outside the scope of the narrative. What are the odds a 12th century peasant turned hero ends up in the circumstances to get a 12th century (aka likely only partly true anyway) explanation as to why it's been the 12th century for 8000 years? Unless the book is *about* that, or you're willing to have prologues or epilogues or interludes that are essentially OOC loredumps (which push you closer to the mythic register anyway), you'd have to bend over backwards to justify *why* the character is learning this so the audience can learn it in the course of your average fantasy novel. Hell, there's an argument to be made that if you're from a world of societal stasis, there'd be nothing to question about that. A world where humans have been around some 40k years and the rate of social and technological progress has been growing exponentially so we make twice the development in half the time -- hell we LIVE in that world and it sounds ridiculous. Why would characters in a world where that isn't the case think there's an explanation for it?

Now, most works of fantasy fiction that have incredibly long timescales aren't doing it for any deeper reason than "because other fantasy does it" + "because myths do it" = "because it evokes a feeling of mystical past". But, if we can come up with compelling explanations, and we can come up with explanations why we don't get those explanations, and we can still figure out what the author might be getting at thematically or evocatively by things like ultra long timescales, then there isn't inherently a problem with those timescales sans explanation. Even when unconsidered, sometimes it's just vestigial lore that neither ads nor subtracts, and at worst you're left with an odd head scratcher that leaves you feeling like you're waiting for the other shoe to fall -- there ought be an explanation for this odd choice, but there isn't one.

This is bad and to be avoided, but it's also something that *can't* be avoided. This is a place where I, long time worldbuilding fan, have slowly found myself at odds with my past self and many other worldbuilding fans. A finished book is of infinitely more value than a never finished worldbuilding document (assuming book is the end goal -- I love reading pure worldbuilding), and said worldbuilding document isn't something that can meaningfully be fully and unambiguously expressed within a book.

The bigger issue, when it comes to water tight worldbuilding, though, is that there are limits to the author's interests, limits to what an author knows, which are different from what an author *thinks* they know, practical limits to what the author can *come* to know, limits to what the *audience* knows, and limits to what the audience *thinks* they know.

Writing a water tight fantasy novel would require perfect knowledge of military tactics, politics and history as pertain to the time period, the history of arms, armour, and smithing and metallurgy as pertains to the time period, farming practices, economics, and trade as pertains to the time period, human psychology and biology, non human biology . . . And the list goes on and on. A good chunk of your readers will have more knowledge than you about a subject your work touches on, and you won't be able to preempt every valid criticism they have. Given the impossibility of the task, the fact that "watertight lore" seems to be increasingly considered a necessary benchmark for a good work of fantasy fiction feels ridiculous and almost "anti-human" to me.

But it gets worse, because the criticisms they have *aren't necessarily true*. As shown by that ASOIF commenter I mentioned above, both of us think we have enough of an understanding of orbital mechanics to reason about the relationship between orbit and seasons . . . But we don't agree with eachother. I'm pretty sure they're wrong, but I could be wrong, and fantasy orbital mechanics that one of us gives a pass to, the other would object to. Even if the author were right, they wouldn't be able to please both of us, and they wouldn't be able to convince either of us that we were wrong while the author was right.

So, fundamentally, even if the seeds of these "lore head scratchers" are found in the text, the *experience* of them is brought by the reader, and they won't be the same ones for every reader. It is a problem the author *can't* solve, and it is a problem the reader, in some sense, "causes", even if it's justified, so perhaps there is a degree to which the onus lies with the reader and not the writer.

Whenever you encounter a lore "head scratcher" you can both acknowledge the fact that this was probably an oversight on the part of the author, AND go through the process of "looking for setting-coherent explanations" followed by "looking for explanations why you don't receive those explanations" if the first one fails. There comes a point where passive suspension of disbelief isn't enough, and active suspension of disbelief via deeper engagement of the text, is what's necessary to meet a work where it's at. There are works you won't be able to do that for, and there are works that it isn't *worth* doing that for, but it's as often the case that that work, or that aspect of that work, wasn't a good fit for you as it is that the work was genuinely flawed.

The better a reader or writer I become, the fewer works I find that I don't have genuine and serious criticisms of, and at this point I'm not sure I can name a single work I remotely cared enough about to examine that I couldn't fairly nitpick.

That all being said, deeply considered lore that is *saying* something is almost always preferable to unconsidered lore that says nothing. But, there will always be unconsidered aspects of a work, and while the writer ought minimize them, it's only when *nothing* is deeply considered that it becomes an objective problem.

And finally, on the point that when an empire of the future takes up the mantle of an empire of old it is nonetheless a new empire, yes, but the nationalistic cultural narrative being woven by the new empire says otherwise, and there is a sense in which the whole point of fantasy fiction is to make the mythic and figurative into the literal. I'm not a fan of nationalistic cultural narratives as a general rule, and not only are they often problematic if left unconsidered but *boring* as well, so genuinely 0 for 2, but that only puts ancient empires in the same category as many other fantasy staples. Good kings. Evil foreigners. Righteous wars. Chosen Heroes and all other forms of "Self Made Great Men". Even the concept of abstract "Evil" divorced from deeper intentions and separate from specific actions. All of these are both problematic and boring if used without consideration, but all of them are also trivially easy to explain, so it's not that they're "un-natural" that's the issue. It's that they're boring and problematic if you're not trying to say something with them.

Sorry if this seems rambly. I know I probably took a good few turns in this that felt obvious to me but might come off like irrelevant non sequiturs, or like I'm wasting a lot of time explaining things that are too obvious. I'm writing this very tired.

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[asterafroditis]

hiiii

ik your requests are closed rn so please ignore this until you have time :>

i just really need more of that forgetful reader fic, and i would forget about requesting this unless i sent it quickly lol.

but i'd like for it to either be with vice housewardens (+ruggie, platonic for ortho or no ortho) or just anyone you'd want to write for lmao

with a gn reader thx

Love-Anon

𐔌 . ⋮ memory markers .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Vice-Housewardens (+ Ruggie) x forgetful gn! reader

𓏵 1316 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff, (once again, like for every work I make with Rook, the French may not be totally accurate)

This has been rotting in my drafts for a very long while, and it's not exactly proofread and sticks to the idea of the original request/housewardens ver., so yeah; but I hope this fulfills your request!

feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Trey notices your memory troubles pretty early. He’s used to watching out for others, especially in a dorm like Heartslabyul. You forget small things often: if you turned off the oven, where you left your notebook, or what someone just asked you to do seconds ago. But Trey never calls you out in front of others or sighs in frustration.

Instead, he quietly adapts.

“Did you tap your ring twice before walking away? That’s how you mark when you finish something, right?” he asks, cleaning flour off his fingers during a baking session. You nod, a little embarrassed. He gives a soft, understanding chuckle.

“Hey, if it helps you remember, it’s not silly. Everyone’s got their own systems.”

Trey’s always gentle and straightforward. When he helps you in the kitchen, he’ll pause and ask, “Want me to say something out loud when you start the next step? Might help it stick.” If you're feeling overwhelmed or second-guessing yourself, he never rushes you—he just stands by, ready to pick up where you left off.

He encourages you to build consistent, repeatable patterns, not just for yourself, but so he can support you better. “You snap when you're done with the eggs. Okay. I’ll watch for that, and if you don’t do it, I’ll give a nudge. Sound fair?”

He never pities you, though. Trey is practical and calm, and he knows stress doesn’t help memory one bit. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You remembered to bring me that weird strawberry-salt combo I mentioned once in passing. That says a lot.”

He respects how observant you are in other ways; how you notice when he’s clenching his jaw whenever he's unsure, or how he adjusts his glasses twice when he’s thinking. You may forget instructions, but you remember people. Trey sees the effort, and that means more to him than perfection.

─────────────────────────

Ruggie catches on fast, probably because he’s spent his whole life working around other people’s messes. When you forget something the third time in a row, he doesn’t get mad; he just sighs and offers a solution.

“You do that snap noise every time you finish a chore, right? Kinda weird, but hey, it works,” he grins. “Wanna teach me your system so I can back you up?”

He jokes a lot, calling your forgetfulness “goldfish mode”, but the teasing is lighthearted and never cruel. If anyone else dares mock you, he’s quick to defend you with a sharp glare and a, “You ain’t perfect either, y’know.”

Ruggie starts building reminders into your shared tasks. “Let’s clap twice before sweeping. That way you’ll know it’s done. Boom. Efficiency.” He’s surprisingly clever at helping you make your memory tricks fun and quick— “Work smart, not hard,” he says, tapping his temple.

He especially notices that you always remember his favorite food, how he likes his tail scratched, and how he stashes bread rolls for later.

“Ha! You forgot which class we had, but remembered I hide stuff in the third drawer? You’re somethin’ else,” he says, shaking his head but grinning.

─────────────────────────

Jade is… a little too fascinated.

“I see. So, your memory retention increases when associated with physical or auditory cues. Intriguing.” His tone is polite, but you can feel the curiosity burning under the surface.

He watches your routines intently. You snap your fingers, then spin once to remember you watered the plants. Jade does not intervene—he observes. Quietly, thoroughly.

When he starts assisting, it’s subtle. You go to double-check something, and it’s already done. Jade did it after watching your pattern break.

“I noticed you didn’t make your usual snapping sound. I assumed the task slipped.” He smiles, eerie but sincere.

He offers experimental solutions, too: “Would associating smell improve recall? I could prepare small samples for you to test—harmless, of course.”

If you forget and panic, he never scolds. “Calm down. The mind is complex. Yours simply takes a different path.”

You once recited the exact way he brews his special tea— from timing to the tealeaf brand. His eyes lit up, impressed.

“Fascinating. So you forget where you placed your book, but recall my blend perfectly? Truly… selective memory is a marvel.”

─────────────────────────

At first? Jamil felt some frustration. Not at you, but at the situation.

“Didn’t I just say—ah. Right. You didn’t mark it.” He sighs and rubs his temples.

But once he understands your condition better, he adjusts. He’s practical, organized, and deeply perceptive.

“You remember sounds and movement? Then let’s make a checklist. Dance-step it, if you have to.” He even helps choreograph simple foot taps or claps for tasks.

“Brush teeth: clap and snap. Got it?”

He never babies you, but he always keeps track. You can rely on him to step in when your memory hiccups mid-way through something important.

You’re checking the doorknob for the fourth time? “It’s locked. You tapped the frame three times. I watched.”

You once mentioned the exact number of times he adjusts his collar when he’s stressed. He stopped mid-fidget.

“…You really remembered that?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. It’s one of your tells.”

That… hit him deeper than he let on.

“Even when your brain’s a mess, you notice that? Hmph. You’re something else, huh?”

─────────────────────────

Rook notices your forgetfulness right away— not just because you space out or repeat tasks, but because you use little actions to anchor yourself: tapping your knuckles, humming softly, or snapping your fingers after completing something.

He finds it fascinating.

“Ah, magnifique,” he murmurs the first time he watches you knock twice on the desk after finishing an assignment. “You remember the smallest details of those around you, but daily tasks vanish in an instant… how endearing.”

Rook never mocks you, never sighs. Instead, he picks up on your cues and gently reminds you when needed. If he sees you hesitate, he calmly says, “You tapped your fingers just now, non? That was your signal.” He’s observant enough to reinforce your system without making you feel embarrassed.

When you get frustrated, Rook reassures you with a warm smile. “Mon ami, do not let this trouble your heart. The memory of the soul is far more valuable than any fleeting errand.”

Around the dorm, Rook smooths things over when others get impatient, whether it’s teasing Epel to relax or reassuring Vil that you’re doing your best.

To Rook, your forgetfulness isn’t a flaw; it’s a unique trait that makes you even more intriguing.

“Life is full of moments we forget,” he tells you softly one evening. “But do not worry… I will remember for you.”

─────────────────────────

Lilia finds your memory lapses endearing.

“Ah, déjà vu! Or perhaps… you’ve simply forgotten again? Either way, it's charming!”

He playfully teases—“You asked me that three times, my dear!”—but he’s always gentle. And he offers solutions, often magical in nature.

“I once knew a knight who tied bells to their sleeves to remember chores. Want me to enchant something for you?”

You hum, tap, snap, and he starts joining in with your rhythms, dancing as he hands you reminders:

“Brushed your teeth? Tap twice and do a spin!”

“Fed Grim? Knock on the counter and hum a tune!”

He’s surprisingly good at helping you feel okay when you’re overwhelmed. When your voice cracks from forgetting something important, he just pats your head. “Even I forget things after these many years. Don’t fret, sprout.”

You once mentioned remembering the song he hummed under his breath in his room—something he hadn’t sung in a long while.

“…You remembered that?”

You nod.

“…My, my. Your mind holds treasure in the strangest corners.”

[sumluckr]

Forbidden fruit

Pairing: Oh Beom-seok x female reader

Summary: You hate your new stepbrother. Until the night you kiss him. Once the line is crossed, there’s no going back — only secrets, stolen nights, and the ruin that follows when you’re caught.

Warnings: step-sibling relationship (not blood related), explicit sexual content, emotional manipulation, family abuse, and a heavy, angst-filled ending.

You slam your bedroom door shut, the wood rattling on its hinges. Your heart is pounding with frustration after yet another shouting match with Beom-seok. Living under the same roof with him has become a daily exercise in restraint and resentment. Ever since your mom married his dad a few months ago, it’s been a war zone in this house. Each day seems to bring a new argument — over bathroom time, over what to watch on TV, even over who finished the last of the cereal. Petty little battles that mask a much deeper tension.

You stomp across your room, tossing your phone onto the bed as you replay the latest altercation in your mind. Downstairs, you can still hear the muffled echoes of your parents’ exasperated voices: your mom pleading for peace, his dad sternly warning both of you to “knock it off.” They don’t understand how hard it is to suddenly act like family with someone who’s practically a stranger — a moody, sarcastic, impossible stranger at that. A stepbrother in name, but hardly the doting sibling they might have hoped for.

Beom-seok has been nothing but cold stares and sharp remarks since day one. You tried to be cordial when your families merged, you really did, but he clearly wanted nothing to do with you. Fine. Two can play at that game. Every eye-roll he gave, you answered with a scoff; every muttered insult, you lobbed one right back. It’s become routine: the two of you bickering in the hallway, voices low but heated whenever your parents are within earshot. The moment they leave, the volume rises along with the venom in your words. And oh, how it frustrates them — the perfect newlywed couple, their perfect new family, cracking at the seams because their kids refuse to play nice.

Sinking onto your bed, you let out a harsh sigh. If only they knew the full story… If only you yourself could make sense of it.

Because beneath all the door-slamming and shouting, something else crackles in the air whenever you and Beom-seok clash. It’s an electricity you don’t want to name. In those taut moments when you’re squared off, chest heaving with anger as he glares at you with those dark, stormy eyes — there’s a heat there that leaves you more breathless than fury should. More than once, an argument has ended not with one of you storming off, but with a charged silence, noses inches apart, both of you forgetting whatever the fight was even about. Your hands have trembled afterward, disgusted with yourself for the unwanted thrill that coursed through you when he stepped in close.

You rub your palms over your face, as if you could scrub away the memory of the last time it happened.

It was just a week ago — late at night in the kitchen. He’d cornered you by the fridge, accusing you of moving his things, a stupid misunderstanding. The house was dark and quiet, your parents long asleep. You’d hissed at him to back off, he’d growled at you to quit playing dumb… and then, suddenly, that damning silence. The two of you, alone in the bluish refrigerator light, faces drawn so close in confrontation that you could feel the heat of his breath. Your pulse had pounded in your throat; his eyes flickered down to your lips. You remember the way your stomach flipped, the way time seemed to freeze. You should have shoved past him and left. But you didn’t.

It was a blur of clumsy motion — his hand clenching the front of your shirt, your fingers curling into his hoodie — and then his mouth collided with yours. You still don’t know who moved first. The kiss was hard, almost bruising, all pent-up anger transmuted into raw hunger. It lasted only a few reckless seconds before you both jerked apart, panting in shock at yourselves. He had stared at you like he’d seen a ghost or committed a crime, eyes wide and lips parted. In the heavy silence that followed, you had fled back to your room without a word, your heart banging against your ribcage. Neither of you ever spoke of it. In the days after, the arguments resumed as if nothing happened — if anything, they grew more intense, fraught with an unspoken acknowledgement of that night.

Your cheeks burn at the memory. Shame twists in your gut, but so does a twisted sort of longing. As much as you tell yourself that kiss was a mistake — one born of misguided anger and proximity — you can’t stop thinking about it. Late at night, when you can’t sleep, you find your fingers touching your lips, remembering his rough desperation and the unexpected softness beneath. It makes you furious at him, at yourself. This is wrong on so many levels. He’s your stepbrother now, for God’s sake, no matter that there’s no shared blood. But the more you try to bury it, the more it seems to surface in every charged glance across the dinner table, in every accidental brush when passing in the hall.

You know he feels it too. You’ve caught the way Beom-seok’s gaze lingers when he thinks you’re not looking — a flicker of something dark and conflicted. It’s there in the taut set of his shoulders when you waltz out in a skirt a little too short, in the way his jaw ticks as if he’s biting back words whenever you mention some guy from class. And though most of your fights end with him walking away in a huff or you slamming your door, a few have nearly tipped into something else, just like that night in the kitchen. A shove becoming a graze, a shout trailing off into panting silence. Every time it happens, you swear it’s the last time. That you’ll never let it go that far again.

But part of you — the part that you’re trying so hard to ignore — aches for it to happen again. It’s a dangerous, irrational desire, and you hate yourself for it. You bury your face in your pillow with a frustrated groan. No. You refuse to be that girl — the one who lusts after her own stepbrother just because he’s brooding and convenient and happens to know how to kiss you in all the ways that leave you dizzy. You won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how he affects you. If he wants war, you’ll give him war. Anything to keep this messed-up attraction from surfacing again.

_____

It’s past midnight when you finally tiptoe through the front door, shoes in hand to avoid waking anyone. The house is dark, save for the faint glow of the living room lamp. You silently curse when you see a figure seated on the couch — Beom-seok, waiting. He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight. At your entrance, his head snaps up. Even in the dim light, you can make out the storm brewing in his eyes.

“Where the hell have you been?” he hisses, keeping his voice low. There’s a clipped edge to his words. You bristle immediately, defensive.

“Out,” you reply flatly, stepping further inside. You move to slip past the living room, but he rises to block your path. In the close quarters, you catch a whiff of his scent — soap and something darkly musky — which mingles with the faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging to your hair and clothes from the party. His nose wrinkles.

“Out where? It’s late,” he growls. “Your mom was worried. She was pacing the kitchen, wondering if something happened to you.”

Guilt pricks at you; you hadn’t meant to stay out so long. But you refuse to let him see that. Instead, you fold your arms and glare back. “Well, I’m home now. Safe and sound. So move.”

He doesn’t budge. His gaze drags over you, taking in your outfit — the snug dress that clings to your curves, the scuffed heels in your hand. His jaw flexes, and there’s something accusatory in his eyes that puts you on the defensive. “What?” you snap. “Go on, say whatever it is you’re dying to say.”

Beom-seok’s lip curls. “I’m just wondering how many guys you let put their hands all over you tonight.”

Your stomach lurches at the venom in his tone. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he whispers harshly, stepping closer. “You reek of smoke and sweat. You look like…” His eyes flick down your body with blatant disdain. “Like a desperate slut.”

The word drops like a grenade between you. For a split second, you’re stunned into silence by the sheer audacity and ugliness of it. Heat flares in your cheeks — part indignation, part humiliation. Yes, you went out hoping to forget about him, maybe even danced with a cute guy or two to drown out the thought of his perpetual glare. But you did nothing to deserve this.

Anger surges, white-hot and blinding. “At least people want to fuck me,” you bite back, every word sharp. “You’ll die a virgin.”

You barely register the hurt that flashes across his face, quickly swallowed by a mask of rage. In an instant, his hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. Before you can gasp, you’re shoved back against the wall. The heels in your hand clatter to the floor. Your back meets the hallway wall with a dull thud, not enough to hurt, but enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Beom-seok’s face is mere inches from yours, eyes blazing.

“Take that back,” he growls, voice low and shaking.

Your heart is hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. But you tilt your chin up in defiance, even as his grip on your wrist tightens. “Why should I? Struck a nerve, did I?”

He snarls, a sound more animal than human, and for a second you wonder if he might actually throw a punch. But instead, he surprises you: his free hand suddenly cups the side of your jaw, fingers digging just enough to make you gasp. He forces your head back against the wall, exposing the line of your throat. You freeze, a thrill of fear and excitement shooting through you.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Beom-seok says in a harsh whisper. His breath fans hot over your neck. “You think I can’t fuck? That no one wants me?” His words drip with bitterness. “Is that why you keep taunting me? Because you think I don’t have it in me?”

Your pulse skitters as his insinuation registers. The air between you is smoldering, heavy with something dangerous. “I— I never said—”

He presses in closer, and you feel the solid weight of his body pinning you. Your hands come up to push at his chest, but you don’t put much strength into it — your senses are reeling, confusion and desire swirling inside you. This is wrong, a voice screams at the back of your mind, but God, the way his fingers are cradling your jaw and the intensity in his eyes… it sets your blood on fire. “Shut up,” he mutters. “Just shut up for once.”

His mouth crashes onto yours, swallowing whatever retort you had prepared. It’s not a gentle kiss — it’s teeth and fury, a claiming of territory. For a heartbeat, your mind goes blank. Then instinct kicks in. You’re kissing him back just as ferociously, fury and desire intertwining until they’re indistinguishable. Your fists bunch in the fabric of his shirt, and you yank him closer even as he presses you hard against the wall.

His tongue forces its way between your lips, and you meet it eagerly, a moan vibrating at the back of your throat. The taste of him floods your senses — a hint of mint and something coppery from where you bit his lip in the collision. It only fuels you more. He growls into your mouth, one hand leaving your jaw to grab your hip roughly. You arch against him, shocked at how quickly your body ignites under his touch.

The hallway is too exposed, too risky — some shred of sanity registers that. Without breaking the feverish kiss, you use your hold on his shirt to tug him toward your bedroom door just a few steps away. He seems to get the hint. In a flurry, you fumble behind you for the doorknob, twisting it open. The two of you stumble into your room, lips still locked, knocking into the dresser with a thud. You kick the door shut clumsily, praying the noise wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone.

Beom-seok spins you around in the dark, and now it’s you pressed up against the back of your door. His hands roam down over your ass, fingers digging in possessively through the thin fabric of your dress. “This what you wanted?” he rasps against your lips. “You want your stepbrother to fuck you like the slut you are?” His words are cruel, but his voice shakes — whether from anger or need, you can’t tell. Maybe both.

A whimper leaves your throat at his vulgarities, part outrage but mostly pure arousal. You should slap him for saying something so filthy. But the reality is, you do want him to. You’ve never been this turned on in your life, and it’s by the very person you claimed to hate just minutes ago. The forbidden nature of it all only makes it more intoxicating.

In answer, you bite at his lower lip and tug, earning a hiss from him. “Fuck you,” you breathe against his mouth — the insult coming out far more like a plea. Your hips roll forward of their own accord, grinding against the hardness you feel between his legs. A strangled groan tears from Beom-seok’s throat.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he grits out. His forehead presses to yours, both of you panting in the dark. His hands gather the hem of your dress, rucking it up to your hips. Cool air brushes your thighs. “Tell me to stop,” he says suddenly, voice rough, almost pained. “Tell me to stop now, and I will.”

His words hang in the charged space between you. It’s the briefest window of opportunity — a chance to put an end to this madness before you both cross a line you can’t uncross. Your mind flashes images of consequences: your mother’s devastated face, the family imploding. This is insane.

But you don’t say stop. Instead, your fingers find his hair, tangling in the soft, dark strands, and you pull him into another searing kiss, giving him the only answer you have.

That’s all it takes. Beom-seok groans into your mouth, any last semblance of restraint snapping. His hands slip under your dress, rough palms skimming up your thighs. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and yank them down unceremoniously. The lacy fabric slides down your legs and you kick it aside. A thrill shoots through you — you’re bare under your dress now, completely exposed to him. The thought is as scary as it is arousing.

You fumble at his clothes, desperate to feel skin. Your hands yank up his hoodie and T-shirt beneath; he hastily helps you pull them off over his head, tossing them blindly into the dark. Your palms roam over his now-bare torso, and you feel the lean muscle beneath warm skin, the way it tenses at your touch. He gasps when your nails scrape lightly over his nipples, and you marvel that you elicited that sound from the usually stoic Beom-seok.

Emboldened, you trail your hand down his stomach, fingers grazing the front of his jeans where you feel his arousal straining against the denim. He curses under his breath and covers your hand with his own, pressing it harder against his length. The heat and solid throb of it sends a pulse of need through you.

“Off,” you whisper urgently, tugging at his belt. You need him — need to feel him, all of him. Your boldness might have shocked you in any other situation, but right now you’re beyond caring. All you know is that you’re desperate for him, consequences be damned.

He fumbles with the buckle and button, hands shaking in haste. Together you shove his jeans and underwear down just enough to free his cock. Your breath catches as you feel it spring against your stomach, hot and rigid. In the dark, you can’t see much, but your hands eagerly wrap around him and you hear him suck in a sharp breath. He’s big enough to make your heart skip — thick and warm and velvety in your grip.

Beom-seok hisses through his teeth as you give an experimental pump of your fist along his length. “Fuck…,” he swears softly, his head tipping back. The raw need in his voice sends a thrill through you. Before you can do more, he’s grabbing your wrist again — but this time he guides you, pinning your hand above your head against the door. The sudden assertion makes you whimper, your core clenching around nothing.

“Turn around,” he commands hoarsely. When you hesitate, he nudges you, spinning your body so you’re facing the door. His chest presses against your back; you can feel his heart hammering as wildly as yours. One of his hands splays over your front, rough fingers grazing your throat then descending between your breasts. His other hand grips his cock from behind you, aligning it between your thighs. You realize what he intends and your pulse skyrockets.

He’s going to do it. He’s really going to—

“We—we shouldn’t,” you whisper urgently, panic and desire warring within you. “We don’t—”

“Just the tip,” Beom-seok pants against your ear. His hips press forward and you feel the hot, smooth head of his cock glide through your slick folds. A strangled moan tears from you as he slides it up and down, coating himself in your arousal. Your body betrays you, thighs widening in anticipation. “I’ll just put in the tip,” he rasps, voice barely coherent. “Okay? Just… just to feel you. I won’t go further.”

It’s a lie — you both know it on some level. But you nod frantically anyway, arching your back to angle your hips, needing that little bit of him inside you even if it’s wrong. “O-okay… just… just a little,” you hear yourself whisper.

A low groan vibrates from his chest. His hand on your front slides down to grasp your hip. You bite down on your forearm to muffle yourself as Beom-seok begins to push forward. The thick head of his cock stretches you, and even though it’s only the tip, the burn and pressure draw a choked sob from your throat. He pauses, breathing ragged. “Fuck, you’re tight…” he whispers, almost as if in awe.

The pain melts quickly into pleasure as your body adjusts, and you realize you’re rocking back, trying to take more of him. It’s insane and desperate, but you can’t help it. You want more. You want all of him.

“Just…just a bit more,” you gasp out, barely recognizing your own voice. You press your forehead against the door, your nails scratching at the wood as you push your hips back. Beom-seok curses behind you, a hand flying to your shoulder as if to steady himself — or to slow you. But he doesn’t really stop you. With a shuddering breath, he inches deeper, feeding you another few centimeters of his cock.

“Shit,” he groans, the word drawn out. “So good… you feel so…” He doesn’t finish, lost in sensation. You feel it too — the overwhelming fullness even with just part of him inside. It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough.

All pretense of restraint crumbles. In a sudden motion, Beom-seok snaps his hips forward, driving himself all the way in to the hilt. A shockwave of pleasure-pain rips through you and you cry out into your arm, the only thing muffling your scream. He clamps a hand over your mouth for good measure, pinning you to the door as he buries himself fully inside you. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but the way he fills you is maddeningly perfect. Your walls clench around him, fluttering as you adjust to his girth.

“Oh f-fuck,” you whimper against his palm, eyes rolling back. Behind you, Beom-seok lets out a guttural sound that you’ve never heard from him — raw and broken. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his body trembling against your back. “I’m sorry… I c-can’t—” he chokes out, and then he starts to move.

He tries to keep it slow at first, pulling out an inch before pushing back in, as if to let you both absorb the enormity of what you’re doing. But the feel of him rubbing against your inner walls sends bolts of electricity through your veins. Any pain has dissolved into molten pleasure. You rock back to meet his next thrust, silently begging for more.

That undoes him. With a muted curse, Beom-seok grabs your hips with both hands and begins to fuck you in earnest. Deep, driving strokes that have you biting down on your arm again to smother the cries threatening to escape. The door rattles softly with each thrust. Every slap of his pelvis against your ass is indecently loud in the silence of the house, but it only spurs him on. You feel every inch of him claiming you, over and over, and it’s bliss. Forbidden, delirious bliss.

“So good… oh god, you’re so good,” you find yourself babbling in a shattered whisper. Tears prick at your eyes from the overwhelming intensity of it all. He responds with a strained moan, one hand sliding up your body to cup your breast through your dress, squeezing in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation coaxes a high-pitched whine from you.

Your climax hits you out of nowhere. One moment you’re teetering on the edge, the next you’re gone — body clenching around him like a vice as waves of ecstasy crash over you. You sob into your arm, knees almost buckling. Beom-seok slams you forward, pinning you harder to keep you upright as you convulse around his cock. He chokes out a ragged groan at the feeling of you tightening on him. “Fuck… gonna—”

With a final thrust, he stills deep inside you. You feel him throbbing, hear the breath catch in his throat as he finds his own release. Even through the haze of your orgasm, you’re distantly aware of warmth flooding you as he empties himself deep within. His teeth sink lightly into your shoulder, muffling a guttural moan. The sensation of him coming inside you — hot spurts painting your insides — wrings a final aftershock from your oversensitive body.

For a long moment, the two of you remain like that, locked together, trembling and panting in the dark. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, your own matching it beat for beat. His forehead is still pressed to your shoulder, and when he finally releases your mouth and lifts his head, you catch the faintest brush of his lips against the nape of your neck — a gesture so tender it almost breaks your heart.

Reality crashes down a second later. Beom-seok eases himself out of you, and you both hiss at the sensitivity as your bodies part. You turn around on shaky legs, leaning back against the door for support. He’s backlit by the sliver of moonlight coming through your curtains, just enough for you to see his face. What you see there sends a pang through your chest: he looks stunned, lips parted as he struggles to catch his breath, a glimmer of raw emotion in his eyes that he quickly tries to hide.

You don’t know what to say. What can you say after this? You just had sex — wild, reckless sex — with your stepbrother. And god help you, it was the most incredible experience of your life. The weight of what you’ve done settles heavily in the silence. You can see the same realization mirrored in his expression, the way his throat works as he swallows hard.

Beom-seok opens his mouth, then closes it. His fists clench at his sides. For a moment, you think he might say something — an apology, an angry outburst, anything. But he doesn’t. Without meeting your eyes, he reaches down, yanking up his jeans and fastening them with jerky motions. You hurriedly pull your crumpled dress back down over your thighs, cheeks burning.

The silence is suffocating. You want him to at least look at you, acknowledge what just happened, maybe even console you because your emotions are a mess. But he keeps his gaze averted. His features have shuttered closed, an echo of that emotional repression you know so well in him. Finally, barely above a whisper, you hear him say, “This never happened.”

Your stomach twists. Before you can respond, he’s already unlocking your door and slipping out into the hall. He shuts it behind him with the softest click, leaving you alone, still leaning bonelessly against the door. You press a hand to your mouth, feeling the swollen ache of kissed lips, the tender sting where his teeth marked your shoulder. Your legs feel like jelly. Inside you, you can still feel the slow trickle of his warmth leaking out. A fresh wave of heat floods your face as you slide down to the floor, clamping your thighs together. What have you done?

_____

In the days that follow, reality becomes a blur of guilt, craving, and secrets. By the light of day, you and Beom-seok maintain your hostile charade. It’s almost easy to believe nothing has changed: you still trade barbs over breakfast; he still holes up in his room, brooding and silent; you still pretend to be annoyed when your mother pushes the two of you to spend time together. But beneath that thin veneer of normalcy, everything is different now. You carry the memory of that night like a brand on your skin — every time you shift in your seat and feel a faint ache between your thighs, you flush with the reminder of how he felt inside you. And every time he looks your way, you see it in his eyes too: the hunger, the conflict, the barely contained need.

For two days, neither of you makes a move. You’re not sure if it’s out of regret or fear or stubborn pride. Maybe all three. At home, you skirt around each other anxiously. At night, you lie awake replaying every second of that encounter, a tangle of shame and desire twisting in your gut. You wonder if he’s doing the same in his room just across the hall. There are moments you almost convince yourself to knock on his door, to talk about it — to do something about this unbearable tension. But you don’t.

It’s Beom-seok who finally snaps first. On the third night, you’re tossing in bed in the small hours of the morning, unable to sleep. Your body still yearns for a release only one person has ever given you, even as your mind scolds you for wanting it. That’s when you hear it: the soft creak of your door easing open. You sit up, heart in your throat, and see a silhouette in the darkness. You know instantly who it is — you could recognize the quiet shuffle of his feet anywhere by now. He slips inside and shuts the door behind him. Moonlight from the window catches the angles of his face, highlighting the uncertainty in his eyes and the determined set of his jaw.

You don’t even get a word out before he’s crossing the room in two strides. He sinks onto the edge of your bed, hesitating only a split second, and then his hand reaches out to cup the side of your face. The gesture is oddly gentle, considering how hungrily his eyes are raking over you. Your breath catches. “Beom-seok—” you whisper, but he cuts you off by leaning in and pressing his lips to yours.

It’s nothing like the furious clash of your first kiss. This one is tentative, almost trembling — as if he’s afraid you might reject him. That thought flees your mind the instant you taste him again. You answer with equal softness, angling your mouth against his. A quiet, relieved sound escapes him, and then the kiss deepens, slowly building in heat. Before long, you’re tugging him down fully onto the bed, your limbs entangling in a desperate need to get him closer. The covers rustle as he crawls over you, and you feel the suppressed shudder that runs through his body when you card your fingers under his shirt, tracing the bare skin of his back.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses hoarsely against your lips, the words rushed out as if he hates admitting them. It sends a thrill through you, knowing the normally reticent Beom-seok is admitting even that much. “Then don’t,” you murmur in reply, fisting your hands in his shirt to yank it off. “I’m yours tonight.”

That night, he makes love to you in your bed, under the cover of darkness and the thick blanket of shared secrets. It’s frantic at first — clothes tossed to the floor in haste, legs tangling as he positions himself between your thighs. But once he’s sheathed inside you again, a different kind of intensity takes over. He moves slowly, almost reverently, watching your face in the dim light with an expression that borders on agonized. Each roll of his hips coaxes gasps and moans that you muffle against his shoulder. He dips his head to capture your cries with his mouth, swallowing every sound. It’s as if he’s trying to memorize you, as if you might slip away if he doesn’t consume you whole.

When you come undone beneath him this time, he follows right after, spilling warmth inside you once more as he groans your name into the crook of your neck. The way he clings to you in the aftermath — arms wrapped around you with a trembling tightness — feels less like lust and more like desperation. You hold him just as fiercely, fingers raking gently through his hair. Neither of you speaks. In the darkness, gestures speak louder: the press of his forehead to your collarbone, your lips ghosting over his temple. It’s an intimacy that scares and thrills you in equal measure.

After that night, there is no going back. What was once unthinkable becomes your new normal. By day, you continue the facade of bickering step-siblings; by night, you lose yourselves in each other’s bodies again and again. It’s a risky game, a twisted dance on the knife’s edge of discovery, but neither of you can stop. If anything, the fear of getting caught only adds to the feverish excitement.

Sometimes it’s quick and urgent — like the afternoon you both got home early and he wordlessly dragged you into the bathroom, pinned you against the sink and fucked you deep and hard, one hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your cries as your parents chatted just down the hall. Other times it’s painfully slow — like the night he teased you for what felt like hours, bringing you right to the brink with his fingers and mouth until you were begging, tears in your eyes, for him to finally take you. He had smirked, a rare sight, and whispered against your inner thigh, “Say please, and I’ll think about it.” The mix of humiliation and raw need as you sobbed out a “please” only seemed to inflame him more. He made good on his promise, though, and the reward was worth every second of torment.

The more you have him, the more you want — like a fire that keeps growing, insatiable. You find yourself inventing excuses to touch him even in passing: brushing by him in the kitchen to feel the heat radiating from his body, or slipping a daring hand under the table to squeeze his thigh during dinner. Every stolen moment feeds the addiction. And with familiarity comes a strange sort of comfort between you. There are nights you don’t even have sex at all — nights when he simply crawls into your bed after another screaming match with his father, and you just hold each other until sleep takes you both. In those moments, he clings to you like you’re his lifeline, face buried in your hair, and you stroke his back softly until his ragged breathing calms. It’s in those quiet hours that you see the cracks in his armor most clearly.

One such night, you awaken to muffled shouting from downstairs — the unmistakable boom of his father’s voice in anger and a quieter, tremulous response from Beom-seok. You slip out of your room and tiptoe halfway down the staircase, heart pounding. Through the railing, you see his father towering over him in the study doorway, face twisted in fury. “…embarrassment to this family,” his father is saying, voice dripping with contempt. “I didn’t spend all that money on your education for you to turn out like this.”

You flinch as you see the man jab a finger hard into Beom-seok’s chest. Beom-seok’s head is bowed, fists clenched at his sides. He doesn’t talk back — he just stands there and takes it. A sick feeling churns in your stomach when you realize this is far from the first time. Memories click: the faint bruises you once spotted on his ribs when his shirt rode up, the way he’d winced and pulled away when you touched them. You hadn’t pressed him then, but now it’s heartbreakingly clear. How long has this been going on? The vitriol spewing from his father is awful enough, but you fear what might happen if it escalates. Your feet move before your brain can catch up, drawing you closer in case you need to intervene.

Suddenly his father seizes Beom-seok by the collar, shoving him against the wall. The thud of impact sends rage and terror lancing through you. You’re about to rush forward, not caring what you reveal in the process, but then your mother appears, drawn by the commotion. She gasps, “What on earth—!” and grabs her husband’s arm. “Stop it! Let him go!”

His father releases Beom-seok with a snarl, adjusting his tie like nothing happened. “My son needs discipline,” he snaps at your mother without remorse. Beom-seok says nothing; he just ducks his head further, shaggy hair obscuring his eyes. You can see his trembling even from the stairs. Without another word, he turns and walks briskly towards the staircase. You scurry back, not wanting to be caught witnessing this ugly scene. By the time he reaches you, you’re hovering at the top of the stairs, concern twisting your insides.

In the darkness of the hallway, Beom-seok pauses when he sees you. For a moment, you think he’ll retreat, ashamed to have you see him like this. But something in your expression must break through, because he suddenly closes the distance and grabs your hand. Wordlessly, he tugs you into his bedroom and shuts the door. The moment it clicks, he comes apart. His breathing is ragged, and in the faint light you see tears of frustration or humiliation — or both — shining in his eyes. “I’m sorry you… heard that,” he manages to choke out, voice thick with emotion.

You shake your head, throat tight. “Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Anger at his father simmers in your veins, but you push it aside and gently touch his face. He flinches at first, then leans into your palm, eyes squeezing shut as if he might cry. Your heart cracks at the sight of him so vulnerable. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

The next thing you know, his lips are on yours — not out of lust this time, but a desperate search for comfort. You meet him with equal tenderness, guiding him to the bed as your mouths linger in soft kisses. Tonight, there’s no hurry. You undress each other slowly, shedding not just clothing but the layers of hurt and stress. When he enters you, it’s with a care that brings tears to your eyes — slow, deep thrusts that carry as much solace as pleasure. He intertwines his fingers with yours beside your head, holding on like you might slip away, and you whisper soothing words between breathless moans. By the end, when you both lie spent and entwined in the dark, he finally speaks the words that have hung unspoken in the air for weeks: a shaky confession murmured into your hair. “I need you… I need you so much.”

You tighten your arms around him, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promise quietly. In that moment, it feels true — that no matter how wrong it is, you’ve become the most important person in each other’s lives. In the silent aftermath, you both drift to sleep tangled in warmth and in each other, blissfully unaware that the fragile world you’ve built is about to come crashing down.

_____

It all falls apart on a gray Sunday morning. You wake to the sound of your bedroom door creaking open and your mother’s voice calling your name softly. Your eyes fly open in panic — in your half-asleep haze, you realize that Beom-seok is still in your bed, lying beside you with an arm draped over your waist. The two of you are tangled in the sheets, bare skin pressed together under the thin cover. In the weak morning light, there’s no mistaking the intimacy of the scene.

Your mother stands frozen in the doorway, a tray with what looks like breakfast for you shaking in her hands. The smile she’d been wearing collapses into horror as her brain processes what she’s seeing: her daughter in bed with her stepson. A strangled sound escapes her — the tray slips from her fingers, dishes shattering on the floor.

Beom-seok jolts awake at the crash. You both sit up abruptly, the sheet slipping down to your waists. Your mother’s face has gone ashen. “Mom—” you choke out, reaching a hand toward her, but she recoils like you’ve struck her. “What…what is this?” she whispers, voice trembling. “Oh my God… what have you done?”

Her broken sob galvanizes the rest of the house. Heavy footsteps pound up the stairs — his father’s. He appears behind your mother, first confusion crossing his features at the mess of breakfast on the floor, then dawning fury as he takes in the tableau beyond her. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” he barks. Your mother is crying now, hand over her mouth. “They were… they were in bed—”

The next seconds are a blur. His father pushes past your mother and lunges into the room. Beom-seok barely has time to throw himself out of bed and in front of you before his father’s hand cracks across his face. The sound is like a gunshot in the small room. You scream, scrambling to hold the sheets to your chest as Beom-seok staggers but remains firmly planted between you and his raging father.

“You disgusting little filth,” his father seethes, grabbing him by the shoulder and wrenching him away from the bed. “How dare you— in my house? With your own sister—”

“Step-sister,” you croak out automatically, tears blurring your vision. It’s a pathetic, irrelevant correction, and his father’s attention snaps to you. You shrink under the burning hatred in his eyes. “And you,” he spits, “I welcomed you into my family, and this is how you repay me? Spreading your legs for him like a whore under my roof?”

The words hit you like slaps. Your mother finds her voice at that, stepping in front of her husband with an anger you’ve never heard from her. “Don’t you dare talk to my daughter that way!” she shouts, voice cracking. “They’re just kids—”

“Kids who are plenty old enough to know what the hell they’re doing,” he roars back. He shakes off her attempts to hold him back and turns on Beom-seok again, fury radiating from every line of his body. “Have you lost your mind? You degenerate!”

Beom-seok stands oddly calm now, though a red handprint is blooming on his cheek. He doesn’t defend himself or you; he merely lowers his head, eyes on the floor. You realize with a pang that this is the well-practiced response his father has beaten into him: endure, go silent, weather the storm. But you can’t stay silent.

“It’s my fault,” you sob, desperate to draw the ire away from him. You scramble off the bed, clutching the sheet to cover yourself. “I-I seduced him. I…I made him do it.” It’s a frantic, foolish lie, but you’ll say anything to keep his father from hurting him further.

Beom-seok’s head snaps up at that. “No,” he rasps, voice thick. “That’s not—”

His father silences him with a vicious yank on his arm. “Quiet. I don’t want to hear a single word from you.” Cold, terrifying rage laces each syllable. He throws a glare at your mother. “Separate them. Now. I will not have this–this abhorrence continue for another second.”

Your mother, pale and shaking, nods and rushes to you. She grabs your arm with trembling hands and pulls you away, trying to wrap a discarded blanket around your shoulders to cover your nakedness. “How could you, how could you…” she’s whispering, voice choked with anguish. You’re crying too hard to respond, reaching desperately over her shoulder to see Beom-seok.

His father is already dragging him out of the bedroom by the arm. He stumbles once, his eyes meeting yours in frantic dismay. He shouts your name hoarsely, the sound of it like a plea ripped from his throat. You struggle against your mother’s grip, wanting to go to him, but she holds you back with surprising strength. “Beom-seok!” you scream, voice cracking. “Stop! Please—!”

But mercy doesn’t come. His father hauls him down the hall as if he weighs nothing. Before they disappear from view, you see Beom-seok reach out toward you futilely, his face twisted in despair. Then he’s gone, wrenched out of sight, and a moment later you hear the slam of his bedroom door. Locked away like a prisoner.

Your mother turns you to face her, gripping your shoulders. She’s crying openly, a mix of rage and sorrow contorting her features. “What have you done?” she demands, voice breaking. You have no answer besides broken apologies and sobs. She pulls you into her arms, whether to comfort you or herself, you can’t tell. You cling to her, knees buckling as the weight of what’s happening crashes over you. Through the fog of your own sobbing, you hear his father making calls, voice ice cold: arranging to send Beom-seok away somewhere effective immediately. Each word is another nail in the coffin of your heart.

It’s over. You know it, even as you pray to wake up from this nightmare. The secret world you and him built is destroyed, exposed to the harsh light of day and parental outrage. And in the span of minutes, you’ve lost him.

_____

Two days later, Beom-seok is gone. His father wastes no time carrying out his solution: that very afternoon, he drives his son out of the city, dispatching him to live with an uncle three provinces away. There was talk of enrolling him in some rigorous program or perhaps sending him abroad — you caught fragments of heated discussions between your parents while you hid behind your bedroom door. The specifics hardly matter. What matters is that he’s gone from your life.

You aren’t allowed to see him before he leaves. In the chaos after you were caught, your mother refused to let you out of her sight. You cry and beg, half-dressed and hysterical, just to talk to him, to say something — anything — but no one listens. Your stepfather bundles Beom-seok out the door as if escaping a burning building, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a bag your mother wordlessly packed through her tears. The last glimpse you have is through your bedroom window: his figure being shoved into the backseat of the car, wrists hanging limp at his sides, head lowered in defeat. You don’t even know if he looks back; you’re crying too hard to tell.

Now, the house is oppressively quiet. Too quiet. Your mother hasn’t spoken to you beyond the bare minimum, heartbreak radiating off her in waves. Your stepfather barely acknowledges your existence, which is perhaps a blessing given the disgust that still darkens his eyes if he so much as glances your way. You spend most of your time holed up in your room, staring at the ceiling through red, raw eyes.

Every corner of this house is haunted by him. The bedroom where he first took you, the kitchen where you shared forbidden kisses, the hallway where he first pressed you against the wall and changed everything… Even the scent of him seems embedded in your pillows, torturing you with phantom memories of happier nights. The emptiness left in his wake is staggering. You wander into his bedroom when no one is watching, standing in the middle of the stripped-bare space. It feels hollow, robbed of the warmth it once held when he was there brooding in the dark or clutching you in his sheets. You sink to the floor where his bed used to be and curl into yourself, fingernails digging into your arms to keep from screaming.

You ache in places you didn’t know a person could ache. A part of you keeps expecting him to be there when you turn a corner — to find his glare fixed on you from across the dinner table, or to feel his hand brush yours in passing. But each time reality reminds you he’s not coming back, the knife in your heart twists a little deeper. At night you lie awake, eyes burning, chest hollow. You press your face into the pillow and imagine it’s his shoulder. You wrap your arms around your own body, pretending it’s him holding you. But the illusions shatter as quickly as they form, leaving you sobbing quietly into the silence.

There’s talk of therapy, of moving to a new town to escape the scandal — your mother murmurs things outside your door, but you hardly register them. Nothing really matters. The only person who made this house feel like home, who made you feel seen and needed and alive in a way you never had before, has been ripped away. And you’re supposed to simply go on.

On the third night after his departure, you find yourself in front of your window, looking out at the dark empty street. You wonder where he is at this exact moment. Is he lying in some unfamiliar room, staring at a ceiling that isn’t yours? Is he hurting just as much as you are? The image of his face in that final moment — eyes filled with despair, arm outstretched as if reaching for you — is seared into your mind. You hug yourself tighter, the ache in your chest nearly doubling you over.

“I need you… I need you so much,” he confessed to you in the dark. You press a fist to your mouth as a sob threatens to break loose. You wonder if, wherever he is, he needs you now. You wonder if he knows that you feel the same — that you’re half a person without him here. You never got to say it, but you’d hoped he understood.

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. There’s no closure, no goodbye — just a rift carved through your life where he used to be. Maybe in another world, another life, you could have been happy together, free to love each other without fear. But not in this one.

In this life, all you have is the memory of his touch, now painfully out of reach. And the knowledge that somewhere out there, Beom-seok carries the same shattered pieces of your shared secret, the same ache in his soul. You close your eyes and let the grief wash over you, drowning in it, because it’s the only piece of him you have left.

The house remains silent and still around you, bearing witness to the quiet tragedy. And as dawn approaches, you finally crawl back into your cold, empty bed, the finality of what you’ve lost settling heavily in your bones. He’s gone, and with him, a part of you is gone too. All that remains is the hollow echo of what could have been, and a secret love that must now live on only in memory.

[frostedfragments]

could you do prompt 19 with caleb? :D

caleb x reader

19. getting turned on by their partner's new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit

cw: inappropriate use of evol, handcuffs note: first time writing for caleb !! i'll admit i've been putting off writing for him bc aahh he's such a hard character for me to figure out for some reason, i cant seem to get into his head as well as i can with others! but i hope i've done him justice for the caleb enjoyers!

When you walk into your apartment after work one night, you expect to find Caleb draped across some piece of furniture, watching tv maybe. It's pretty common for him to come over, especially when he's home for the short time he has from the Farspace Fleet.

What you don't expect, however, is to walk in to find the room bathed in the warm glow of candle light. The flickering light illuminating a single, dark figure standing beside a chair in the centre of your apartment. For a few brief moments, you're almost tempted to call the police - because, what the fuck - but soon you recognise the broad cut of figure's shoulders, the outline of the peaked cap he wears with his uniform.

Instantly you relax, and then your gut pulls tight with anticipation, curiosity lacing your words as you step further into the apartment, closing the door behind you.

"Caleb?"

"You'll address me as Colonel, and nothing else," He steps forward, voice hard and authoritative, brandishing something silver that gleams even in the low light, "hold out your hands. I need to ask you some questions, and it will be better for you if you are restrained,"

Oh, you think, so this is what we're doing. "Yes, Colonel," is your reply, excitement bubbling deep in your gut, warmth dusting your cheeks. You should have known Caleb would do something like this as soon as you told him how sexy you found him in his new uniform.

Holding out your hands as told, Caleb clips one of the cuffs onto your wrist, leaving the other free before dragging you over to the waiting chair behind him. He tugs you, roughly, into the chair before moving around to your back and cuffing your hands. You're mostly immobile, except for your legs of course, and you're attached to the chair thanks to the cuffs. It's a concept that would probably frighten some people - being restricted in such a way - but for you, it only manages to fan the flames flickering to life in your stomach, the warmth travelling between your legs and through your thighs.

When Caleb steps back to the spot in front of you, he kicks your feet so your knees part for him. He gazes down at you, though thanks to the low lighting in the room, you can't see much of his face under his cap. Just the slight tilt of his lips, a smirk that seems to mock you in your submissive state.

You're sweating.

Bending at the waist, he lifts a hand to cup your face, squeezing your cheeks in the leather claps of his gloves. His eyes are dark, heated as he trails a look over your face before moving lower, lingering on the way your thighs are draped either side of him. You can already feel how wet you are, underwear clinging uncomfortably to the skin between your legs, but you play along.

"Colonel, I don't understand -"

Caleb's hand shifts slightly, his thumb pressing against your lips to keep them closed, "I don't remember saying you could talk," his eyes drift from yours to land on your parted lips beneath his thumb. He watches closely as he slowly parts your lips further, forcing his thumb into your mouth. You gasp, the taste of the leather hitting your tongue as Caleb caresses it, pushing further, just enough to have you on the edge of gagging.

"Are you going to be obedient?" He asks, his fingers digging into your face just a little more as he removes his thumb from your mouth, smearing your lipstick with your own saliva. You nod, eyes bleary as your thighs shift around Caleb's legs, itching to press together and soothe the ache between them. He watches the whole thing, scoffing quietly before moving away and waving his hand. Instantly, his evol parts your thighs again, holding them open, almost uncomfortably so. Your skirt rides up, and you know by now your underwear is probably exposed to his wandering eyes.

Caleb moves away for a moment, his evol still gripping you tight, keeping your legs parted despite your attempts to shift. Sweat begins to mist your skin as your gut squeezes like a fist, pulling down and down. Your clit throbs, begging for mercy, a touch to sooth the persistent ache.

When Caleb turns back to face you again, he's holding his baton. The long, thin weapon is usually closed up, hanging from his belt, but he has opened it to its full span, holding the object out and pressing under your chin. He lifts your face to greet his own, his body bending so he can kiss you sloppily, his tongue licking heat into your mouth. You gasp into the kiss, already eager for this torture to end and for Caleb to fuck you already.

He shows no signs of giving into such demands yet, however, as he pulls away, leaving your lips wet and shiny in the low light of the room. His violet eyes appear almost black as he watches you beneath heavy lids. Instead, he steps forward, hand dropping to your shirt as he begins to undo each button deftly with nimble fingers, even in the thick leather gloves. Soon, your bra is bared to him, breasts heaving to escape the confines of the black lace.

"You think I haven't noticed how you act when I am wearing this?" He murmurs, bringing the baton up until its resting on your lower lip, "Suck. Get it wet,"

You oblige only too eagerly, wishing it was him instead, allowing your eyes to meet so Caleb can imagine you suckling just as greedily and messily on his cock. His jaw clenches, eyes hazy for a second as if the idea might be enough to tempt him into giving up this whole charade, but the expression fades just as quick as it appeared. He drags the baton from your lips, the wet tip of it tracing a path down between your breasts, over your stomach. It stops briefly at your skirt, and Caleb's lips twitch at the way your hips shift slightly.

"Cale- Colonel, please," You whine, and Caleb tilts his head, "please touch me. Please do something,"

"Watch your mouth," He replies, voice lethally soft, "I never said you could speak," he tuts gently, lifting the baton and bringing it down quickly against your thigh. Pain flashes hot against your skin, melting into something liquid, something addictive. You moan softly.

"So disobedient," Caleb murmurs. He drops the baton, kneeling at your feet, quite unlike the cold colonel. His leather-clad hands find your thighs in a rough grip, hard enough to leave marks, and you hope they do. Caleb lifts your skirt, giving him a clear view of your black underwear, the lace so damp now that he can see the wet spot on the seat below, "Messy too,"

You try not to beg him, trying to keep silent and stay obedient so that he might touch you. His lips grow wet as he drags his tongue over them, staring intently at your parted thighs like he might wish to lick you clean himself, though he doesn't move. His hand makes its way up your thigh, over the reddened mark where he'd smacked you with the baton. The skin, sensitive now, hums under his tough as he runs a thumb over it, a soothing gesture cutting through his act.

"You've thought about this a lot," He says, voice softer now, "I have noticed every time your eyes watch me when I leave. Whenever I wear this uniform your eyes seem to glaze over like you're in the middle of a daydream," his hand moves further towards your clothed pussy, the leather soft and cool on your heated skin, "Is this what you were thinking about?"

You nod eagerly, unsure if he will stop if you were to speak. He smiles, almost looking like the Caleb you know again, though the grin soon sharpens with an edge as his fingers meet their mark. He presses hard against your clit, rubbing the wet lace against your skin in a slow, taunting circle. He does this twice, taking his touch away and observing the shiny wetness on his gloves. He pauses, like he might bring the fingers to his own lips for a taste, but instead he lifts them to your own mouth, pushing them past the seam of your lips.

"Taste it," He speaks, gruffer than a moment ago, "Taste the mess you've made,"

You moan around his gloved fingers, the familiar bitter taste of the leather soothed slightly by the salty tang of your own arousal. You lick every drop, sucking hard until your cheeks hollow, and Caleb's lips part to accommodate a low, quiet moan. When he pulls his fingers out, he returns them in a swift movement, rubbing your clit again and again.

"Come," He grits out, watching your face hungrily, the cool, calm pretence from earlier vanishing with each second, "Fuck, come nice and quick for me and I'll reward you with my cock,"

Your thighs tremble against the hold his evol still has on you, hips barely managing to chase his fingers, though you seem to crash into your climax unexpectedly. The force of it takes the air from your lungs leaving your lips parted on a silent moan before you drag in a broken gasp, "Oh- oh god, fuck, Caleb -"

"Good," He says, dazed, "So good, you did so good for me,"

His evol vanishes, your thighs clamping around his hand as he continues to rub and rub and rub until you're leaning forward, biting into the material of his jacket to quell the scream building in your throat. When you come a second time, Caleb seems to moan with you, so attuned to your body that he can feel your pleasure for himself.

He stands as you begin to gather yourself, panting in the chair and watching his movements with teary eyes. He doesn't bother removing his uniform, pulling out his cock through the slit in his trousers. It's hard, almost angrily red and shiny - your mouth waters with the need to taste, and thankfully, Caleb doesn't keep you waiting. He parts your lips with the head, gripping your hair in one hand while the other braces on the back of the chair you're sitting on.

"Oh fuck, oh god -" He's throbbing in your mouth already, hips stuttering as he shallowly fucks into your mouth, "Gonna come, oh fuck, gonna come. Yeah, yeah -" you suck hard, hollowing out your cheeks in order to bring about his release quicker. He comes with a broken groan of your name, chair creaking in his vice-like grip, and he uses the hold on your hair to pull you up and down his cock slowly, dragging out every thick rope of come he has to give.

When you're both panting, Caleb braces himself on the kitchen counter, dragging in deep lungfuls of air before he walks over on shaky legs to uncuff you. When you're both feeling human again, he brushes your hair from your face and looks down at you with wide, glassy eyes.

"Did I do good?" He says, "Did you like it?"

You shake your head, laughing, "You did really good, believe me,"

Caleb nods, satisfied, his playful demeanour so at odds with his uniform that it makes you laugh. The two of you shower and spend the rest of the night watching movies, though you make it known that should he want to welcome you home like that in the future, you are more than willing to play along again.

[noitrik]

I agree with the challenges to faith, I think it is super important. I cannot say how many times that a belief I held as a child was challenged when I got older, and that challenge helped me develop an understanding that helped strengthen my faith. Sometimes it changed my perspective of my beliefs entirely, because "when I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child". It is part of growing up and into your faith and it is appropriate. Similar to a tree that is growing in a windy plain. As it grows and the wind blows hard the tree gets strengthened against it, its roots grow deep to secure it. It is necessary to develop into what you should be. However, sometimes the winds are quite strong and can be harsh. I myself was uprooted once, my roots were shallow and I wasn't as strong as I thought I was. God planted me again but this time I have grown better than before, the uprooting was an unfortunate necessity to help me grow. I don't think I agree with the statement of "If you choose to believe something, you don't." though. I think faith should be evidence based. But similar to how with a spouse you must face every day and choose your spouse above any others including yourself, you must choose to love your spouse even when things are hard, even when you have fought and don't feel it. To quote Deuteronomy 30:19-20 (I want to include the previous verses 11-18, but its pretty long winded. Context is "who will go and proclaim it back to us so that we may obey it?") 19 This day I call the heavens and the earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live 20 and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him. For the Lord is your life, and he will give you many years in the land he swore to give to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob."

Go in faith my fellows in Christ, a faith that is both anchored in evidence and strengthened in choice. Choose the Lord God every day, and encourage me to do the same!

Hey, don't be afraid of things that challenge your faith. Seriously, don't.

Either they'll give you a new perspective on things, or you'll become more secure and confident in your current beliefs. But avoiding the hard questions leaves you in an echo chamber with half-baked ideas and an insecurity in yourself. Step out of your comfort zone so you have room to grow.

[riddlesrizzler]

slytherin boys x bunny! reader

mattheo riddle

Mattheo with a bunny!reader tried to keep his distance at first. He told himself he was doing the right thing-staying away from someone so gentle, so bright. Someone who looked at the world with wonder instead of war. But no matter how far he ran, she was always there-curling up at the edge of his world like a whisper of spring, and suddenly, he didn’t want to run anymore.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader wakes up one morning to find a plush pink bow tied neatly to the strap of his satchel. He scowls at first, but doesn’t take it off. The next day, there's a glittery heart drawn beside his name on his class notes. By the end of the week, he’s got a pink pen in his pocket and a stuffed bunny on his bookshelf-and he’s smiling more than ever.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader learns quickly that soft doesn’t mean submissive. She’s sweet, yes-but when someone flirts with him too boldly in front of her, that dainty little bunny on his lap bares her teeth. And suddenly, he’s cradling a very grumpy fluffball who thumped in warning and bit someone’s hand, and gods help him-he’s never been more in love.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader pretends to be annoyed when she falls asleep in random places-in his laundry basket, on top of his Charms textbook, once even curled in his sock drawer. But he always finds a way to cover her with a spare hoodie or gently nudge her awake so she can shift back and crawl into bed beside him.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader starts leaving her little gifts without thinking-bits of chocolate, shiny trinkets, notes scribbled on torn parchment with things like you made today better. He never used to believe in softness or light. But she made him want to protect something fragile-for the first time, he wanted to be someone good.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader finds his temper cooling just from her touch. A gentle nuzzle against his shoulder, a little hand in his, and suddenly the storm inside him softens. She doesn’t have to say a word-her presence is a balm, a gravity that pulls him back to earth, every time.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader never imagined he’d end up slow dancing in the common room with a girl who still sleeps with plushies and ties ribbons in his hair when he naps. But now, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. She’s his quiet rebellion against everything dark he thought he’d become.

theodore nott

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader wasn’t expecting company that afternoon behind the greenhouses. He lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke into silence-and then she appeared, soft and scowling. “That’s disgusting,” she said with a scrunched nose, holding out a strawberry hard candy like a peace offering and a challenge all at once. He raised a brow. He didn’t take the candy. Not then. But the next day, he brought one back to her.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader didn’t know what to do with someone who always looked so sweet and happy, who hummed while brushing crumbs from his shirt and offered him flowers she braided into a chain. She asked questions he’d never heard out loud-Are you lonely? Do your hands ever shake when you're angry?-and didn’t flinch when he didn’t answer.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader acts completely indifferent when she hops into his lap in bunny form during study hall. He just adjusts his book, continues reading, and mutters “You’re warm. Stay still.” The others don’t dare say a word, not after she bit that Slytherin girl who reached for her without asking.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader has a subtle way of softening around her. He doesn’t coo or coddle-but his fingers find her ears absentmindedly, his eyes soften when she looks confused, and when she forgets what she’s saying mid-sentence, he finishes it for her, every time.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader keeps her secret without question. No teasing, no pushing-just quiet understanding. When she’s too overwhelmed to shift back, he tucks her behind his scarf or inside his coat and dares the world to try him.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader doesn’t write love letters. But his margins are filled with doodles of bunnies and sleepy-eyed girls, small and hidden and sketched in ink. His favorite one is folded into the back pocket of his journal, right next to a strawberry wrapper she once pressed into his hand.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader pretends he doesn’t like sweets, but there’s always a tin of fruit chews in his nightstand now. He tells himself it’s for her. But some nights, when she’s not there and the silence stretches too long, he eats one and remembers the way she smiles when she unwraps them for him.

lorenzo berkshire

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader thought she was a literal stray bunny the first time he saw her. She’d been hiding beneath the Ravenclaw table, nibbling a half-eaten scone. He dropped to his knees, cooed way too loudly, and offered her a sugar cube from his pocket. She bit him-not hard-but enough. He was in love immediately.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader gets way too excited whenever she shifts into her bunny form. He scoops her up with zero warning, presses kisses to her head, and narrates her actions in a ridiculous voice like “And here we see the majestic floof, preparing to pounce-wait, no, she’s napping again.”

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader once built her a literal pillow fort under his bed so she could have a “bunny burrow,” complete with fairy lights, a snack stash, and a tiny “no Slytherins allowed” sign-except for him, obviously. He even added a little bell she could ring when she wanted attention. She’s never used it, but he listens for it obsessively.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader is incredibly protective in the loudest way possible. Someone talks over her in class? He raises his hand and says, “Sorry, I think you interrupted my girlfriend.” She gets anxious at a party? He immediately offers to leave and take her to the kitchens for hot cocoa. She’s never felt more safe-or more seen.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader rambles to her constantly. About his dreams, about which Bertie Bott’s beans are a scam, about the time he got stuck in a suit of armor. Even when she’s in bunny form and can’t respond, he swears her ears twitch in judgment. Still, she listens. Always.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader doesn’t just shower her with affection-he matches her softness, too. When she’s quiet, he’s quieter. When she’s overwhelmed, he’ll sit beside her, pinky barely touching hers, and wait until she’s ready. His chaos doesn’t smother her; it wraps around her like sunlight.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader once tried to knit her a scarf. It was a disaster-lumpy, uneven, too long. She still wears it in the winter. Even in bunny form, dragging it behind her like a cape. He nearly cried the first time he saw it.

draco malfoy

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader at first, truly didn’t know what to make of her. She was all softness and sincerity in a world where everything was sharp edges and expectations. It unnerved him-how unafraid she was to be gentle. How her kindness wasn’t performative, just instinctual. He avoided her. She followed anyway.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader started noticing her in the smallest of ways. The way she tugged her sleeves over her hands when she was nervous. How she always gave the house-elves compliments. How she'd disappear some evenings only for a tiny white bunny to appear in the library, curling up beside his chair like she belonged there. And somehow, she did.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader won’t say he’s protective-he insists he’s just aware. Aware of how her ears twitch when she’s anxious. Aware of who makes her uncomfortable. Aware that if anyone so much as breathes wrong in her direction, they’ll find themselves on the receiving end of a venom-laced glare. He says nothing. They back off.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader doesn’t laugh often, but she has a way of drawing it out of him in quiet bursts-usually when she does something utterly nonsensical, like falling asleep in his trunk in bunny form or trying to duel Peeves over stolen snacks. He hides his smile behind a book. She pretends not to notice.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader keeps her warm without thinking. Slips his scarf around her neck before she asks. Pulls her toward the fire when she’s cold. In bunny form, she often wakes up curled into the fold of his cloak. He pretends it’s inconvenient. It’s not.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader won’t say he likes the bows she ties on his quills or the sparkly stickers she sneakily places on his notebooks. But he never takes them off. Even when Blaise teases him. Even when Snape raises an eyebrow. He just shrugs and says, “They’re charmed for luck.” No one questions it.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader once asked her, in a low voice and without looking at her, if she wasn’t scared of being so soft in a world like theirs. She smiled, leaned in close, and said, “Softness isn’t the opposite of strength.” He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

blasie zabini

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader first noticed her in a moment no one else did. Everyone else was buzzing through the corridors, but she was sitting on the windowsill, nose tucked in a book, sunlight in her lashes. He didn’t speak. Just paused, observed, and quietly made a space for her in the back of his mind-like a pressed flower in a journal.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader isn’t one for grand gestures. His care shows up in small ways: offering her his scarf when she shivers, holding open a door with a slight nod, leaving a soft, folded note beside her tea that reads, "Don’t forget to rest." She never hears him approach-but he’s always there when she needs him most.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader was caught off guard the first time she appeared in bunny form. She’d gotten herself stuck behind a stack of books in the library, ears twitching in embarrassment. He didn’t laugh. Just knelt down, scooped her up carefully, and said, “You’re alright,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader doesn’t talk much, but his silences are never empty. When she curls up in his lap in bunny form after a long day, he strokes her fur slowly, and even though no words are spoken, she always feels understood. His presence is quiet comfort-the kind that says, “I’m not leaving.”

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader likes how she balances him. Where he’s reserved, she’s warm. Where he pulls away from the world, she hops straight into it. He never imagined someone like her fitting into the quiet corners of his life-but now he doesn’t know how he went so long without her curled against him like a heartbeat.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader is endlessly patient. When she gets overwhelmed or forgets things in her flustered way, he never mocks her. He gently brings her back to the present-touching her wrist, murmuring, “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.” And she always is, when he’s there.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader has never needed to raise his voice to protect her. His gaze alone makes people back off. But when someone once reached to touch her bunny form without asking, he stood between them and said, low and clear, “Don’t.” No threats, no heat-just the calm certainty of someone who won’t let anything hurt what he loves.

[reareaotakubackup]

My Lover is an Alien

Summary: Having a complicated relationship with Mark was hard enough without him being half alien. Tw: Angry Mark, Trying to Breakup with Mark, Unhappy Relationship… Kind of…. Angst??

[Did yall know people with Bipolar are 70% more likely to drop-out of college compared to their peers?]

(I slight fried/burnt my arm on the top of my oven and god I hate ovens- but I also love that they cook my food… But so hot)

You liked Mark, like a lot. He meant the world to you and you were sure he knew that but sometimes you felt like a back burner on his life. At first, you didn’t blame him because he was a superhero… kind of? But after a while, it got unbearable.

You’d have dates that he’d cancel on because of a villain attack. Watching a movie? Bad guys are approaching. Taking a walk? Not anymore-

He explains that he does it for you and it makes you feel selfish, but could you really be blamed? Who wouldn’t want just one day with their boyfriend with no interruptions?

You had finally decided that it would be best if you broke up. It was a last resort, but you couldn’t take it anymore. You wanted a present partner and Mark wasn’t that.

—-

You invited Mark over to your place, of which he graciously accepted. He was excited to finally spend time with his girlfriend. Little did he know that you were going to break up with him.

The night started off smooth, Mark didn’t suspect a thing. But then he started to get a little suspicious. You were too calm, and you weren’t mentioning how he always went off on your dates. He understand that it can be frustrating, he’ll it frustrates him too. but he has to deal with it. 

He tried scoping out the conversation- but you were not budging. You waited till it was late and he was finally ready to leave.

“Mark, I need to tell you something.”

He felt like Spider-Man with the way his body just tingled. This wasn’t good. It never was. He could feel the sweat drip from his forehead as he tilted his head slightly. “About what?”

“Us. I want a break.”

His whole world seemed to crash at your statement. What do you mean? Break up?

As if you could read his mind, you continued. “We’re not necessarily breaking up, but we’re not together either. You need to figure out what you want, Mark. I would wait for you for a thousand years, but I don’t want you to be with me and give my hopes up that you’ll come to me. At least let me free for now.”

His mind with blank. He couldn’t think, couldn’t blink, couldn’t breathe. what was supposed to say? It felt like you were stabbing him in the heart. Where are you doing this on purpose? You had to be. Why else would you hurt him in this way?

God, he wanted to hurt someone or something. Just release the frustration. How could this happen. But as he saw you look away from him, a tear stream down your face he understood why. He just wasn’t a good boyfriend.

[viviale]

𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓 who says “i love you” way too early. you have been dating for a few weeks, barely a month at this point. and yet, every kiss leaves him starstruck, brown eyes hazy as he observes you living from right beside you. how he admires you! his feelings are all over the place and he has a hard time understanding them. but this he knows — it’s too early to declare his love for you. and he didn't mean to, really. it almost scares him when the words tumble out of his lips. did he just say that? he’s frantic, trying to distract you by changing the topic drastically, brushing aside the careless comment. logan howlett who tries to be casual about his unplanned confession but fails dramatically. because he can not hide the gentle glimmer in his eyes and the way his gaze softens whenever he looks at you. it’s painfully obvious — he really does love you. a lot. the thing is, he says it as soon as he realizes. it’s that part that takes him years. logan is utterly oblivious, unused to his own heartbeat, having ignored it for so long. we’re talking countless missions side to side, evenings spent in a sanctuary you build moment by moment. logan who endures an eternity of pining to realize he wants to, needs to be with you, but once he knows, he won't waste any time informing you about it. logan who has always been a blunt man. a lonely man, too. his life is unlimited, but he’d hate himself for wasting time he could have spend with you instead.

[theaxolotlkween]

Okay. So. I had to process this information. I think I'm still processing it a bit, not as much as I was initially, but like. Fucking hell.

So first I feel like I need to start with the obvious. I know that this is fiction. When I describe the experiences and stuff as if it is real, I am aware that this is fiction. That this never actually happened. But it's more in the spirit of the fact that, by participating in the story, you kind of become a character. So I guess I'm writing it from a "character" perspective, but also from a third person perspective a bit as well? I also might not entirely understand what exactly this is saying, I have been having some neurological issues lately. Also spoilers for The Social Experiments, obviously. Anyway, here we go.

I've been wanting to talk about the experience of having participated in The Social Experiments for quite some time now. It's been hard to put into words because I don't exactly remember them, but I remember mostly how I felt at the time. I don't know exactly if I can explain it, either—I've never exactly been the best at quantifying my feelings and my memory's gotten a bit screwy since then, so bear with me here. But so far I've not forgotten the feelings I felt, especially if I rewatch the actual VODs. I remember being a bit confused at first at the comedy aspect of it. It can be difficult to remember that there was a time before TSE, that there was a time before we knew exactly how things worked, what exactly the story was, not knowing about the Founder or the Hetch, all of that, back when the Lostfield Incident was being teased and talked about and theorised on, all that. But there was. I remember some emotional ups and downs at first, loving the comedy, Christian Hell is still one of my favourite jokes, frustration at that one tube puzzle in episode two (did it break? I think it broke), and then there was that gut punch of a finale. I don't remember if this is how it actually went, because unfortunately I can't find any chat messages from myself in the VOD, I think I was just too shocked to process it and type anything. Again, I am not the greatest at expressing feelings. But this is what I remember happening:

I remember feeling shocked, maybe a bit betrayed. We did everything right, didn't we? The Hero found the button! They should've exited! Why was this happening? Did we do something wrong?

I remember the choices. Live or Die. Well, obviously the choice is Live, right? We've been trying to save the Hero all this time, surely we're meant to pick Live? But... Die is there. Why is there Die? The chat exploded with a way to save the Hero; get it 50/50. Break the game, try to take control, to do something! Of course, no one knew at the time how accurate the vote was. No one knew at the time that there could never be a true 50/50. There was not a secret third option, no way that we could save him, nothing we could choose other than Live or Die.

I remember thinking, even in my blind hope that there was something we could do, wait, this doesn't make sense. What would us getting the vote to 50/50 even do? Was that even a real option? It didn't make sense. And then the Hetch dropped the bomb. There was no saving them. Not really. Not in the way we wanted to. The Hero could Live, forced for eternity to be put into these experiments, these stories. Bound to a fate of life eternal in this endless (not Christian) hell. Or, at least, until he no longer had a use. Or, we could kill them. We could end this. But he would Die. There wasn't an escape from this.

I don't remember if I initially picked Live. I don't think I did, but I can't remember. I just remember that, in the end, I picked Die. I know I did. The box slammed shut. The curtains closed. The mousetrap went off. And this time there wasn't a piece missing.

And that's how I learned that I was capable of killing someone if it came down to it. Great lesson to take away from all this, definitely information to learn about oneself, thank you RanbooLive! Or, I guess canonically, the Founder? The Hetch??? Idk. Either one of them, I suppose. It was a bit of a team effort kind of? Not really? Anyway...

I tend to joke a lot about TSE as "that one time I killed someone live on Twitch", and the tape of The Founder's Cut I bought is "the home video of that one time I killed someone live on Twitch" because, honestly, yeah. It's a pretty fun and silly thing to say. But at that point in that story, fully immersed, I felt bad. I didn't necessarily want to kill the Hero, who had been through so much. In character, I wanted this character to know that I didn't blame him for the part he played, that I didn't think they were a monster, et cetera, et cetera. Of course, when TFC came out, the ending hurt even more. If being there was a gut punch, then TFC removed my rib cage and its associated organs with that swing.

That, I think, brings us to now. All this information. I have been focusing mostly on the Hero in having to process this, because even though if you think about TFG, the Audience is responsible for all the deaths just by watching, but the Hero's death is the only one I feel culpable for. All the other information here is sickening as well. From the perspective of someone that is observing the story as an observer and one of whom's special interests is storytelling and being a sucker for those involving the nature of choice, I love this. I love how sickening this is.

However, from the point of view of someone who was there, someone who tried to save this person in the only way he knew how, from the point of view of my, well, character, I guess, it made me ill. It made me a little angry. I might be reading this wrong, because yeah, I might be reading thing wrong, anyone is capable of doing so, but to me the implication is that the Hero's corpse is still being used. Maybe I'm confusing the concept of "every time you watch TSE the story happens again" with the concept of "the Hero's corpse is now being puppeted in other shows and stuff too", because that's a thing that could be going on. But it got me thinking, did my choices actually matter? Did I really make the right choice? Can there be a right choice if you don't have all the information? If you don't know what all the consequences will be? There was never any way to save the Hero, though. Not really. Their brain was full of wires, and his mask was sewn onto his face. There really wasn't an escape for them. There never was. Was it still the right choice, then, if his corpse is still being used, Frank-style? At least they aren't alive for it, right?

My actual self, the one obsessed with stories and how they work and are told and the philosophy of choice, is, of course, eating this all up. My "character" self, the one part of the Audience and involved in GenLoss, is, of course, disgusted and maybe even angry. But that's the beauty of Generation Loss, isn't it? You get to be a character, an active participant in a story, one of many, and you get to be here, too. Maybe the reason it's hard to explain my feelings about Generation Loss because it's not really something I've experienced before. Active involvement in a story that hits all the right beats for me. Not just reading or watching, but doing. Participating.

So, thanks for that story two years ago that completely changed my brain chemistry and that I wrote this long-ass post about. I can't wait to see what's in store in Gen 0, and the rest of the story. I have a lot of other thoughts about Generation Loss that I could infodump about, thoughts that I can only say, "hey, someone should make a video essay about that" about it's me, I'm the someone that should make a video essay about that

Also we know that the symbol is called the hetch now so that's cool.

Now, here's a couple GenLoss drawings I did awhile back because I like these a lot and didn't have the time/energy/cognitive function to draw anything new as a reward for sticking to the end of this insufferably long post:

Happy Anniversary

[charlesslut16]

-i am your husband, not your boyfriend!-

summary : you prank your husband, lewis, and call him your boyfriend in a tiktok

PAIRINGS : husband!ewis hamilton x wife!fem!reader

WARNINGS : none

note : I saw this on tiktok and i needed to write a story to it. I have another fic with a tiktok prank but i don't know if you will like it...

masterlist

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You were already dressed and glowing when Lewis walked into the room, still buttoning his shirt like he had all the time in the world. You looked at him in the mirror , his sleeves rolled just right, the jeans that fit like they were tailored, that casual confidence he always carried without trying.

“Okay, you look good,” you said, biting your lip.

He smirked. “I know.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone, opening tiktok. Plannin on pranking lewis. You had seen a couple doing an outfit check while she did a prank on him. You found it hilarious, and you wanted to see what Lewis would say to this.

So the idea of pranking Lewis came into your head. You could just say you would film an outfit check without him noticing your prank idea immediately.

“Let’s do an outfit check before we leave.”

He shrugged and stepped up next to you in the mirror, glancing at his reflection like it owed him rent. You hit record, keeping your tone breezy and nonchalant.

“Outfit check,” you say into the camera. “I’m wearing this satin black dress, a little slit on the side, some heels, and gold hoops.”

You pan the camera over to him. “And my boyfriend is wearing a black button-up, fitted jeans, and his usual go-to sneakers.”

For a second, it’s quiet.

Then Lewis stops. His whole body pauses to think about what he just heard. He was confused and focused at the same time. Maybe he had just heard wrong. You did not just say he was your husband, right?

“… Boyfriend?” he says, squinting slightly, eyes darting to the camera, then to you.

You don’t break. You stay looking at the phone, nodding calmly. “Yeah. My boyfriend.”

He takes a full step back, blinks, and dramatically looks down at his hand — where his wedding ring is very much visible. The ring that was on his finger for a long time.

“Wow,” he says flatly. “Wow.”

You can feel the laugh rising, but you fight it. He’s already deep in his reaction. You loved Lewis's reactions, as they were either too dramatic or funny. 

“So this is what we’re doing now?” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Calling your husband your boyfriend like the last seven years didn’t happen?”

Still poker-faced, you shrug. “I mean, technically we’re dating.”

Lewis looks straight into the camera. “Technically, I gave you a whole last name.” He could not believe what was happening before his eyes. 

That cracks you up— you burst into a giggle. But Lewis is on a roll now. This was too hilarious to not laugh.

“I memorized your mom’s Starbucks order,” he adds. “I set up Wi-Fi in your grandma’s house. I’ve sat through baking shows I didn’t even understand.”

He starts pacing, wanting to say so many things at the same time. You are his wife. You are husband and wife; that wouldn't change. So why were you saying boyfriend?!

“Remember that Ikea trip? I built a dresser, and we’re still together. That’s husband-level loyalty.”

You’re laughing so hard now your mascara might not survive. How could this man be so serious and funny at the same time.“Okay, okay! I was just joking—TikTok trend! I swear!”

Lewis stops, stares you down with a half smile. So that was what was going on. You pranking him.“Nah. I see how it is.”

He grabs his phone, holds it up mock-seriously like he’s filming a follow-up. “Outfit check with my girlfriend, who apparently forgot we’re married. She’s wearing a dress she didn’t ask me to zip up and the earrings I bought her, but whatever.”

You tackle him in a hug to shut him up, still laughing. This man was the love of you life. You did not know whatyou were going to do without him.

He grins, finally letting it go. “You’re lucky you’re cute. But next time? Call me ‘husband.’ Or at least fiancé. Give me something to work with.”

He pulls you tightly into him and gives you a hungry kiss. A reminder of who you are to one another and what you will stay to another. But what he won't say is that the prank was a bit funny, to be honest.

He walked away but not without saying. ''Her boyfriend, my ass. I will never go back to that name.'' You heard and just giggled; you knew that he wasn't mad, not even a little bit.

''I love you, baby,'' you called after him, a big smile on your face.

''Yeah, yeah, love you too,'' Lewis said while rolling his eyes. How has this woman wrapped him so around her fingers? But he wouldn't change that. He loved you to pieces. You were his love and his wife. Forever.