#i was watching from the sidelines for AGES

[elikajinnie]

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

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

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

Wordcount: 19k

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

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

You never had much luck with people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breaking point was simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unknown Number. No message. Just a missed call.

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

Unknown Number. Incoming Call.

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

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

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong number.

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The line stayed quiet. Waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow, he decided.

Tomorrow, you'd get a gift.

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

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

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

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

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

Inside lay a single, perfect white lily.

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

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

Your heart dropped.

Unknown Number. Again.

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

Click.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You went still.

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

Your mouth opened—no words came.

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

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

And maybe he did.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hairdryer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung nearly smiled.

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

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

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

So brave. So stupid. So perfect.

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

The white mask. Simple, smooth, emotionless.

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

But in his hands… it became something else.

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

He could be both. And he was.

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

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

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

And tonight, watching wasn’t enough anymore.

You had just passed the living room.

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

It was already too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t dare breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clenched your jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head. “Shut up.”

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

“No, I don’t!” you snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please. Don’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then. Everything started to fade.

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

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

Click.

One picture. Just one.

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

His.

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

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

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

Silent. Swift. And gone.

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

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

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

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

“911, what’s your emergency?”

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

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

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

You paused. “But—he was here. I w—”

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

You were silent, lips parted, throat dry.

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

That’s all.

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

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

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

He wasn’t. But that didn’t calm you.

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

The knock on the door came an hour later.

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

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

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

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

You bristled, but didn’t say anything.

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

You blinked. “Why does that matter?”

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

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

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

You didn’t take it.

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

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

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

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

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

You sat up slowly.

The anchor’s voice was grim, serious now.

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

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

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

Overkill.

Personal.

You barely breathed as the reporter continued.

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

But you already knew.

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

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

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

No.No, no, no.

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

Every corner. Every surface.

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

And then you saw it.

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

A camera.

Recording. Watching.

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

Your phone rang.

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

Unknown Number.

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

The ringing kept going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart dropped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded numbly.

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

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

And you didn’t mention the camera.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s exactly what he wanted.

With Heeseung, you felt safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back off.

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

And Heeseung moved.

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

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

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

It happened slowly.

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

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

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

You silenced the call.

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

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

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

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

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

The only voice that mattered was his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ex-friend.

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

You froze.

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

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

And then..

He was there.

Like he had stepped out of thin air.

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

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

Glacial. Dangerous. Possessive.

Your ex-friend took a tiny step back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t happen all at once.

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

It started with the keys.

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

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

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

Then came the phone.

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

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

“But my passcode—”

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

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

Then, there were the mirrors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t feel settled.

It was just supposed to be a quick note.

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

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

A small, black external hard drive.

Not yours.

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

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

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

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

Your stomach turned, but you double-clicked.

And then the screen filled with photos.

All of you.

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

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

But they were still the same.

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

Your stomach twisted, your skin crawling beneath your clothes.

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

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

There had to be a reason. Right?

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

You’re making excuses.

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe he did. And pretended not to.

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

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

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

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

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

Did he know?

Had he always known?

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

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

Everything was fine. It had to be fine.

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

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

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

As if nothing had changed.

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

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

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

Like he was memorizing you all over again.

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

Just warm. Intimate.

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

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

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

And you told yourself—again and again—

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

You didn’t know what you’d do.

For once, you were alone.

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

He said he’d be home late.

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

Then—the craving hit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For once, everything felt… peaceful.

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

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

You looked up.

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

Rain.

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

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

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

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

You paused.

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

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

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

The mask.

White. Expressionless. Flecked with blood.

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

Ghostface.

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

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

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

No. No, no, no—

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

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

You just ran.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung.

Your breath hitched as your vision spun for a moment.

No. No, it couldn’t be—

But it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips trembled, but still nothing came out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laughter.

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

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

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

“All for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Heeseung. Lee Heeseung.”

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

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

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

And there he was.

Heeseung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fifteen. Fifteen victims. Fifteen names, fifteen lives.

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

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

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

Just like that.

Gone.

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

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

You should’ve felt safe. Free.

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

It took years.

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

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

You started small.

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

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

You made friends—actual friends.

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

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

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

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

Until that morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightened. Your throat went dry.

It couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t be.

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

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

You took a deep breath. Then another.

It was fine.

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

He’d be caught again.

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And eventually, you were alone.

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

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

Buzz.

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

One new message.

Unknown Number.

And your heart stopped as you read the words.

“Did you miss me, baby?”

Your hand trembled as you slowly lowered the phone.

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

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

Buzz.

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And stopped.

Cold.

Right there, on the mirror above the sinks..

Red. Dripping. Smeared with clear, deliberate strokes.

“No one can love you like I.”

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

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

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

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

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

Knock.

Right by your head.

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

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

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

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

And slowly...

He breathed out.

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

"XO"

Your body froze.

No.No, no, no—

Your fingers went numb.

And then, he slowly pulled back the hood.

It was Heeseung.

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

Like he never left. Like he never would.

And through the glass, he smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers reached the lock. Quiet. Careful.

Click.

Too loud.

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

You froze.

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

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

Too fast. Too close.

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

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

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

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

You needed to run. You needed help. Now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed down the sob rising in your throat.

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

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

It all returned.

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

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

And then he kissed you again.

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

You didn’t kiss him back.

But for a second, he believed you might.

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

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Perm taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny @dollyyun

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos

@hollxe1 @moonpri @cherriesfine @badtzsan @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@heeseungbabydoll @wondash @renjiishot @demigodmahash

@strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @honeybunnee @jjongstar111

@enhaprettystars @zorange13 @jiminie-08 @gyuuberriess

@enhamonsterghoul @mrsjjongstby @bussolares @kiripimaspillow

@sumsumtingz @norucking @tunafishyfishylike @txnwvc

@jakeluvrrs @firstclassjaylee @xnatqq @arclviie @aussie-boys-wife

@vvenusoncasual @bamguetismee @cristy-101 @lynreiii

[pricesprincess]

whisper | t. fushiguro x fem reader

18+ smut + age gap (20's/30's) + just a little something from this

Music pulsed around the room, booming from the speakers nestled in the corner as people spilt beer from their cups while they danced like they were in a mating ritual as you perched on Toji's lap.

A lot of the other women your age, young and in their early to mid-twenties, watched you with burning jealousy for bringing your older boyfriend to a frat party. It wasn't how he wanted to spend his Friday night, but it made you happy and shit, if he didn't love that for you.

Your smile was seductive, as was the fire burning in your eyes as you stared at him, your tits pressed together from wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing them together. "How long, princess?"

Toji's voice rasped against your ear, his fingers splayed across your bare hips from the tube top you slipped on before leaving for the party. "Just a bit, it's free drinks and we're out of the apartment."

He hummed and tipped his cup back, downing the cheap beer and noticing the group of guys standing in the corner like a bunch of creeps, watching the way your skirt rode up higher as Toji played with the hem. "At my place we don't have anyone watching you."

His voice was borderline irrational as he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, kissing the salty skin there, feeling you shift. "Toji...you want to go home and take my clothes off? One by one, kiss every inch of me, your tongue dragging from those lips down to my wet cunt? I want you to eat me out like it's your last meal."

Your voice was sinful and velvety against his ear as you shifted and straddled his lap, turning your back on everyone as you leaned in, raking your fingers through his damp locks. "Then I want to free your fat cock from your pants and suck you off until you're about to cum before I bounce on it because you should cum inside my pussy."

Toji's grip turned tighter as he flexed his cock under his sweats and he knew you could feel it. You grinned against his ear and nipped his earlobe with a giggle. "Or we can do prone bone with me in a headlock. I want to feel all your weight pressing me down on the mattress, pinned, nowhere to go as you fuck me dumb. Want it?"

"You're fucking filthy, my nasty girl." Toji grunted and moved to push you off his lap gently before he took your hand in his and tugged you upstairs while ignoring the looks from the women on the sidelines.

There was no denying the zip of excitement that shot up your spine as you let Toji guide you into one of the bedrooms, not caring if anyone was in it; thankfully, it was empty, a bit messy albeit.

He turned his head to look at you with a wolfish grin and shut the door before pointing to the bed. Obeying his silent command, you trotted over to the mattress and laid down on your back with your legs spread. "Are you going to make all that come true, Toji?"

[demie90s]

UConn x ꜰᴇᴍ!tattooed!reader

Bleed Blue… Literally

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Everyone knew #17 was fine. What they didn’t know—at first—was that she’s covered in ink under that uniform. And just when the team thought they’d seen it all… she shows up on game day with a fresh tramp stamp.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:Tattoos, minor swearing, implied obsession, mild thirsting from teammates, tramp stamp behavior

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.5k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: Baddie with ball-handling and back tats. “Huskies” tramp stamp reveal mid-stretch. “You got our team name tattooed on your ass?!”

Everyone already knew I was fine. That wasn’t news. But the tattoos? That always caught people off guard. The first time the team found out, it shut practice down. I’d taken my hoodie off mid-drill and Azzi straight-up choked on her water. Full sleeve down my right arm—black and gray with roses, script, thorns curling around my wrist like they belonged there. KK literally walked into a cone. Paige? She just stared. Mouth parted. Didn’t even try to hide it.

“You’ve had that?” she blinked. “The whole time?”

“It’s winter,” I said, nonchalant. “Y’all don’t see me outta layers.”

Then came the leg. I had my shorts rolled up for taping in the training room and boom—full thigh to ankle piece. Saints and sinners. Skulls. Angels. Vines. The whole damn Sistine Chapel wrapped around my quad. One of the trainers dropped the roll of tape. I didn’t say anything. Just let them look. Geno walked by, glanced down, squinted, and went, “You ever think about playing basketball instead of starring in a graphic novel?” I just smiled.

So yeah—they were used to me causing scenes.

But today? I outdid myself.

UConn vs. Tennessee. Championship energy. Whole building packed and hot. I showed up with my warmup hoodie tied low around my waist, stretching before the game when Paige caught a flash of new ink peeking out the top of my waistband. She froze. Blinking like her brain stalled. “Pause,” she mumbled. “Is that…?”

Azzi leaned in. KK was already squinting. And then it hit.

Big, bold, clean-lined blue script. Cursive. Perfect placement.

HUSKIES. Right above my ass.

Tramp stamp.

KK yelled. Like screamed out loud. “NOOOO.”

Paige started laughing so hard she fell off the bench. Azzi looked personally offended and impressed. “Why does the font look like a lingerie ad?” she asked. I just kept stretching.

“You got our team name tatted like that?” KK gasped.

“I love us,” I said. “What better place to put it?”

Even Nika walked over, stared, shook her head, and muttered, “You’re sick. I like it.”

Geno walked in right then, took one look at the group huddled around my lower back, sighed like he’d aged five years, and said, “Don’t tell me. Just… win.”

So I did. Played my heart out. Hit everything. Stripped their point guard three times. Ran the floor like it was mine. But I knew people were watching me for other reasons. I could feel the cameras zooming, the sideline whispers. I even caught one of Tennessee’s players staring across the court during free throws, eyes locked on my waistline like it owed her answers.

But the real moment came after.

Post-game. Conference room. Cameras everywhere. We’d just won, everyone was still glowing and high off adrenaline when a reporter leaned forward, real cautious-like.

“Hey, number seventeen—question for you. During the second half, it looked like your team kind of… reacted to you a certain way. Any idea what that was about?”

I blinked. Tilted my head.

“Oh?” I said, lifting my warmup hoodie a little with a lazy smile. “This?”

The room gasped. Not exaggerated—actual gasps.

I turned just enough to show the very top of it. The “H” in Huskies peeking out above my waistband. Subtle. Clean. Just enough.

“We’re national champs now,” I said, eyes gleaming. “Thought I’d make it permanent.”

Cameras clicked like crazy. KK buried her face in her hands. Paige couldn’t stop smiling. And Geno? He rubbed his eyes and whispered something like, “She did it again.”

I shrugged and sat back.

I mean… they should’ve expected it by now.

————————————————————————————————

@draculara-vonvamp

[natp20]

i don't know what it is about the fantasy high setting that drives me completely insane. the mall has an ice cream parlour owned by a djinn and a strudel place with direct supply from the strudel dimension. your gnome parents modified the lawnmower to have fun with their new "friends." death means nothing if you've got your spells prepared. generational curses that make your life miserable recognize that you're not the stepdad, you're the dad that stepped up. we wanted something else from our god, so we made her into something else. your wizard principal is on a time travel roadtrip with his half-phoenix daughter and spent an obscene amount of money on a jet ski. there's a strudel dimension.

[kylermalloy]

for the book asks:

2, 6, 25

!!!

2. Did you reread anything? What?

Yes! I love rereading stuff. I listened to some books I hadn’t read since high school English—A Separate Peace, The Great Gatsby. It’s amazing what you pick up from a book when you’re not 15 years old anymore.

Also infinitely more embarrassing but I am currently rereading SM’s The Host and getting just as into it as I was at age 17. Maybe more. So…yay?

6. Was there anything you meant to read, but never got to?

Sort of! I meant to do some of Jane Austen’s novels, since I’ve only read one (Pride and Prejudice) but ended up doing the Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice instead. What a tradeoff! Oh well. There’s always next year!

25. What reading goals do you have for next year?

No concrete goals per se, but I want to finish the Queen’s Thief series. I’ve only read the first two, and my library doesn’t have them in audiobook format. So I have to resort to…other means ;)

Book asks!

[80syaoi]

el protecting holly is more compelling than another army lab fight, honestly.

[tanjir0se]

I’m in that stage of writing original fiction where I’m coming up with like two new OCs a day and I swear to god in terms of pure instant serotonin making up OCs is better than meth

[lewiswhatshisname]

God it's so strange having a show I like that actually has regular and consistent output, after so many fandoms with years between seasons/series.

Venture Bros: get rekt

Sherlock: Fuck the fans

Marvel: lol wtf is an output schedule? Fans are replaceable anyway

Meanwhile Taskmaster over here giving us two series per year, plus a yearly special, plus another special every five series (ish, scheduling depending). It's nice to be fed and happy for a change.

[yellowmagicalgirl]

I had an odd dream the other night, in which there was a fanfic website that was dedicated to taking the concept of the gift economy way too far.

So, at first glance, the site looked fairly normal. It took the open-source code from AO3 and based itself off of that, though the default site skin was dark pink comic sans on a light yellow background. The difference was that there was an in-site way of commissioning authors. Not for money - the site was as against monetizing fanfic as the average (reasonable) fanfiction website is.

Instead it had something called either CommentBux or FicBux (I'll use the latter from now on bc that's shorter). You'd earn one FicBux if you left a kudo on the author's work, and another FicBux for every 10 words you left in a comment. There was a plagiarism checker so you couldn't just quote the fic when commenting, emojis didn't count, and I'm not sure if words rolled over from one comment to the next. FicBux were separated by each author, because they were used for commissions.

10 FicBux = 100 words that you could commission from the authors. Authors couldn't turn commission requests off, but they could

Change "prices" from the default.

Report harassing commissioners.

Reject commissions.

Accept requests and refund them later (but not after publishing!), but there was a 3-day wait time between doing so.

Set it so that readers couldn't request fandoms, characters, ratings (not rated wasn't an option on the website), relationships, archive warnings, or additional tags beyond what you had already written.

Readers, on the other hand, could report authors for not writing what was requested (within reason, which is to say the staff/volunteer got to decide what they wanted). They could also cancel the commission any time before the author finished, but they then couldn't request from that author for another 7 days.

Authors wouldn't be able to publish a commissioned fic until they reached the word count, but they could offer a partial refund. However, the commissioner would have to accept this before the author could publish. If an author went more than 33% over the paid word count, a warning would pop up, and if they went more than 66% of the paid word count they couldn't publish the fic.

Due to the way the site was putting the economy into the gift economy, they got rid of prompt memes and gift exchanges as well as regular old gifts for non-"paying customers". Sure, you could write in your author's note that this was a fic written for your friend Alice's birthday without actually gifting it to her because she didn't pay you, but it was frowned upon.

[himbopunk]

listening to lucanis and neve flirt on iktoms playthrough is so cute i love them.

[ds-angel1]

TEACHERS LITTLE PET

cw: SMUT(18+), teacher x student relationship, hitting it from the back(in the classroom), big age gap(ages aren´t specified), reader is a senior, i´m not american and have no idea how the school system works so please just smile and nod

wc: ~ 5.1k

a/n: tell me what you think of this dynamic and if you want more cause i have some ideas!! also this is the longest fic i´ve ever written, not my best work but atleast i managed to write something?? keep in mind i had a fever when i wrote this

Rafe had no idea how he ended up here.

Well, if he was being honest, he did. He just hated admitting it.

He hated kids. Teenagers weren’t much better. If they weren’t whining about something trivial, they were loud, obnoxious, and bursting with opinions they thought were groundbreaking. And high schoolers? They were the worst of the lot, caught in that unbearable limbo between childhood and adulthood, convinced they knew everything and that the world had been tailor-made to inconvenience them.

He hated his job, too. But after his father had all but shoved him into college, and he had somehow managed to scrape together an art history degree through a chaotic jumble of barely thought-out course selections, he needed a paycheck. He needed something, anything, to make use of the four years he had spent drowning in essays about the Renaissance and lectures on the symbolism of Baroque architecture.

And there it was, a high school history teacher.

He was fairly certain the school had been desperate. Desperate enough to hire the first applicant who could string a coherent sentence together about the American Revolution. And lucky him, that applicant had been Rafe.

The school itself was unremarkable. Small, under 400 students, just two squat brick buildings separated by a weather-beaten schoolyard that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and teenage apathy. Five hours from the Outer Banks, he could visit home whenever he wanted. Not that he did. There was nothing left for him there, nothing worth the drive, and frankly, there was nothing for him here either.

His days were a loop, a monotonous, uninspired cycle of standing in front of rows of disinterested, hormonal teenagers, rattling off lessons about long-dead historical figures far more interesting than any of his students would ever bother to realize. He graded half-assed essays, endured halfhearted excuses about missing assignments, and spent more time than he cared to admit staring at the clock, willing the hours to pass. Then, when the final bell rang, he trudged back to his apartment, a bare, impersonal space that he never bothered to decorate. No photos, no art, and no signs that anyone lived there. Just a bed, a couch, and a kitchen table that mostly went unused.

And then there were the truly miserable days, the ones where he was roped into subbing for freshman P.E., a biweekly exercise in self-inflicted torture. Half the girls refused to break a sweat, acting as if running a single lap would somehow lead to their untimely demise. The other half of the class consisted of cocky, over-competitive boys who treated dodgeball like a blood sport. He spent most of those periods standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, blowing the whistle when things got too heated, and watching the clock even more desperately than usual.

It was a dull, uninspired existence; monotonous, predictable, and entirely void of passion. He lived his life the way his students listened to the outdated documentaries he played in class: half-awake, uninterested, just going through the motions because it had to be done.

Until you walked into his class.

The first day of school after summer break always carried a certain energy; electric, restless, filled with voices overlapping in an unfiltered rush of stories from the last few weeks. As Rafe pushed open the door to his classroom, that familiar wave of chatter hit him like a sudden gust of wind. Laughter, exclamations, the scrape of chairs against the floor—it was all as chaotic as he had expected.

With a quiet sigh, he made his way to his desk, setting his thermos down on the bleached oak surface before picking it up again almost instinctively, taking a slow sip before returning it to its place. His fingers moved on autopilot, retrieving his school-issued laptop from his bag, pressing the power button, and waiting for the screen to glow to life. His gaze lifted, sweeping across the students, his students. The same faces he’d taught last year, now a little older, a little different, officially juniors.

But one face wasn’t familiar.

You.

Rafe spotted you almost immediately, sitting in the third row, right by the window where the morning sky stretched in endless hues of soft blue. You were listening—well, nodding, at least—to Amanda, whose mouth moved a mile a minute. He didn’t have to hear her know she was spewing an endless stream of conversation; Amanda was known for filling any silence, anytime, anywhere. But his attention wasn’t on her. It was on you.

A dark navy skirt draped over your thighs, the fabric shifting in gentle waves with every slight movement. Your top, a delicate white spaghetti strap with tiny baby blue flowers, hugged your frame, lace tracing the neckline, a small bow nestled right at its center. A beige cardigan hung loosely over your shoulders, two buttons left undone as if they had never been intended for use in the first place. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not rigid, not loose, just… effortless. A few strands framed your face, soft wisps that moved when you turned your head, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal.

And sure, you looked beautiful, undeniably so. But it wasn’t just that.

It was the way your eyes flickered around the room, quietly observing, absorbing. The way your lips parted slightly every so often, murmuring the occasional “Uh-huh” or “Yeah” in response to Amanda’s nonstop chatter, even as your mind seemed elsewhere. There was something in your expression, an almost hesitant curiosity, a quiet awareness, that made Rafe’s fingers pause over the laptop’s keyboard.

He had seen many faces in this classroom. Some familiar, some forgettable.

But yours?

Yours was impossible to ignore.

"Uh— okay, let’s get started. Settle down," Rafe called out to the students, his voice steady despite the chaos. The room buzzed with post-summer chatter, desks scraping against the floor as students found their seats. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to exhale. The first day back was always like this, full of energy, distractions, and the struggle to rein everyone in. But today, there was another battle brewing beneath the surface, one he wasn’t prepared for.

He hoped that once the lesson began, he could shift his focus, and force himself to look anywhere but at you. He clung to that hope like a lifeline, but the moment he commanded their attention, he had yours.

And when your eyes locked onto him, he was trapped. Hypnotized. His breath hitched, pulse stuttering in a way it had no right to. For what felt like an eternity, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, couldn’t shake the invisible thread tightening between you. His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing against his skin.

Shit.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to snap out of it, dragging his attention back to the board. He took a measured breath, gripping the chalk like it might anchor him. "Alright, I know you’re all still in vacation mode, but we need to get talking about history."

The usual grumbling came, but it was muted, fading as students settled into their seats. Good. The routine was safe. The routine was predictable. The routine wouldn’t let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t.

"Before we dive in, we have a new student joining us this year from the senior class," he announced, keeping his tone even, impersonal. His gaze flickered back to you, just for a second, just long enough to acknowledge you without giving himself away. "Would you introduce yourself?"

A brief silence. You hesitated, shifting under the weight of so many eyes before murmuring your name.

"Great," Rafe said, far too quickly. He cleared his throat, turning back to the board. "So, what do we know about American history from the Industrial Revolution to the modern age?"

The next forty-five minutes passed in a blur of discussion, textbook readings, and writing exercises. Normally, this was when he’d catch up on grading or chip away at whatever administrative work he had. But today? No. Today, his focus splintered, frayed at the edges every time he felt your presence in the room.

His eyes kept drifting.

To you.

It was reckless. Stupid. He knew it was wrong, knew exactly how it would look if anyone noticed. He wasn’t blind, he’d found students attractive before, but it had always been a fleeting thing, a passing thought dismissed before it could take root. A moment, nothing more.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t just acknowledging that you were pretty, though you were. Incredibly so. This wasn’t just an absent-minded recognition of beauty. No, this was something deeper. Something that twisted in his gut and settled in his bones, something that made his breath catch when he wasn’t prepared for it.

Something dangerous.

His fingers raked through his hair as he stared down at his keyboard, typing nothing. He could tell himself it was just a dry spell, that he’d been avoiding distractions for too long, that it was simply physical. But that would be a lie.

Because it wasn’t just about desire.

It was about you.

And that was a problem.

The shrill chime of the bell split the air, and the classroom erupted into motion. Notebooks snapped shut, chairs scraped against the tile, and a low hum of voices swelled as students shoved books into backpacks, eager to escape into the chaotic freedom of lunch. You swung your bag over your shoulder, weaving through the shifting maze of desks, your focus locked on the door. The cafeteria was called, an oasis of noise and anonymity where you could blend in, and where no one was analyzing your every move.

But just as you stepped forward, a voice cut through the chatter behind you.

"Hey."

It wasn’t loud, but it had weight, like an anchor dropping into the sea of departing students. Something in the tone made your stomach twist. You turned, pulse hitching slightly, to find Mr. Cameron watching you from behind his desk. His expression was unreadable, calm but not necessarily kind.

"Yes, Mr. Cameron?" you asked, hesitating.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

It was phrased like a question, but you both knew it wasn’t. He gave a small nod toward the door as the last few stragglers trickled out, a silent instruction.

With a quiet sigh, you nudged the door shut behind them, the click of the latch sealing you in. The classroom, so full of life just seconds ago, now felt cavernous, the quiet pressing in around you. You hesitated before making your way back to his desk, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Mr. Cameron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the surface of his desk, fingers steepled together. "So… I wanted to talk to you about last year." His voice was measured, and neutral, but something about it put you on edge. "You were in Ms. Wallace’s class, right?" His eyes flicked to a sheet of paper in front of him, though you were certain he already knew the answer.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Mhm." A simple answer for something far more complicated. Your history with Ms. Wallace wasn’t just a class; it was a long, exhausting battle, a relentless tug-of-war between frustration, unmet expectations, and a sinking feeling of inevitability.

Mr. Cameron studied you for a moment before speaking again. "Can you tell me what didn’t work? Was it her? The material? Her teaching style? Or was it something on your end?" His head tilted slightly, voice smooth, probing.

You hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers clenched the strap of your bag. "I guess I was just… kind of unfocused last year," you admitted, your voice barely above a murmur.

"Mm." He hummed, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "Just last year?"

Your stomach tightened.

"Because judging by today’s lesson, it seems like you're still a little… distracted. More interested in doodles than in history, huh?"

Heat crept up your neck, shame pooling in your chest. Your gaze dropped to the floor as if looking anywhere else might soften the weight of his words.

"You’d think," he continued, his tone carrying the faintest edge, "that after the school let you pass the year and only required you to retake this class, you'd put in a little more effort."

His words landed like a slap, sharp, deliberate. He knew exactly how unfair that was. Knew how it would make you feel. And yet, for whatever reason, he didn’t stop himself.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“You want to pass, yes?”

His voice was low, almost teasing, each word curling around you like smoke. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, dark eyes locked onto yours with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a quick, eager nod.

Rafe watched you for a lingering second, dragging it out just long enough to make you shift where you stood. Then, with an exhale that was almost too casual, he pushed himself up from his chair. He didn’t simply stand, he moved. Slow. Deliberate. A quiet display of control as he braced one hand against the edge of his desk, his weight settling into a lean. The aged wood creaked under him, but he didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.

His focus remained entirely on you.

“And what do you think I could do to help you achieve that?”

Smooth. Measured. But there was something else beneath his tone, something just sharp enough to catch. Playfulness, maybe. Amusement. Or something more dangerous.

His gaze flickered, sweeping over you in a way that felt too quick at first, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to act on. But then, you saw it. The hesitation. The way his throat bobbed, how his fingers flexed at his sides before he rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to shake off whatever had just slipped through the cracks. But it was too late.

You had seen.

And by the way, his jaw clenched a second later, the way his lips pressed together, you knew he realized it too.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. Instead, your fingers fidgeted with each other, twisting and untwisting, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The silence between you stretched, thick and electric, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of you dared name but both of you felt.

Rafe inhaled deeply, the sound filling the quiet space between you. The air itself seemed different now, charged, like something unseen was pressing in, urging one of you to break.

He let the breath out slowly, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that somehow felt… controlled. Intentional. And then, his eyes moved again.

This time, there was no rush. No flicker of hesitation.

Now, he studied you.

It was slow, almost methodical, th

6e kind of look that made heat crawl up the back of your neck, the kind that lingered just long enough in places that made you second-guess every inch of yourself. When his gaze reached your thighs, a nervous jolt ran through you. Almost instinctively, you gripped the hem of your skirt, twisting the fabric in your fists, your knuckles turning white.

A nervous habit.

One he noticed.

One that made his eyes darken, not dramatically, not in some exaggerated, obvious way, but just enough. Just enough for you to catch the shift, to see the amusement flicker across his face like the hint of a smirk he didn’t fully let through.

“Hm?” The questioning hum he let out brought you back to reality, back to his question, and back to the answer that you had yet to give.

“Um… I- I don’t know…” you stammered out.

His eyes flick down again, taking in your upper body, eyes practically circling in on your chest. As if your body has a mind of its own, you straighten your back, puffing out your chest.

Rafe’s eyes flickered up to yours, and for a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The air between you had thickened, dense with something unspoken, something dangerous. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, slow, almost pensive as if he were considering something he shouldn’t be. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a breath that almost sounded like a laugh but carried no humor, just tension.

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, quieter like he was testing the waters, like he was trying to figure out how far this would go before one of you came to your senses.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat felt tight, your skin burning where his gaze traced. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something vast, something that couldn’t be undone.

His fingers tapped once, twice against the desk, a steady rhythm that contradicted the barely concealed restraint in his posture. His body language told two different stories, one of hesitation, and another of inevitability. He was too close, and yet he wasn’t moving away.

Your breath hitched as he shifted, his body angling just slightly towards yours. It was a minuscule movement, one that could’ve been mistaken for a simple change in weight, but you knew better. It was deliberate. Calculated.

“You want to pass this class?”

The question was a mere whisper, his voice dipped in something that made your stomach twist. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding, too fast, too eager.

His lips twitched, almost smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He leaned in just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and musky, something entirely him.

“Then you’re gonna have to focus.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate—sent a shiver down your spine. His words weren’t inappropriate, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice wrapped around each syllable, made them feel like something else entirely.

Your knees felt weak, your heart pounding against your ribcage as your grip tightened around the strap of your bag. The classroom, once suffocating in its quiet, now felt electric, charged with a current that neither of you dared acknowledge aloud.

Rafe exhaled again, this time slower, measured. His hand moved, not towards you, not touching, but close enough that you felt the shift in air between you.

“You’re nervous.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your breath shuddered. “I—”

His head tilted slightly, watching, waiting. His pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable but entirely focused on you.

His jaw ticked, his fingers twitching at his side like he was fighting something. A beat of silence stretched between you.

And then, Rafe moved.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was a slow descent, a moment stretched into eternity. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you felt the ghost of his breath against your skin, close enough that your lips parted in anticipation before your mind could catch up.

He paused—just for a fraction of a second, just enough to give you the chance to pull away. Just enough to make it clear that if this happened, it was your choice, too.

But you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

And before you could let a single other breath out, his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. A barely-there brush that sent a sharp current through your veins, igniting something dangerous and uncontainable in your chest.

He exhaled against your mouth, and in that moment it seemed like something in him snapped.

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying against the fabric of your cardigan as he pulled you just slightly closer. His other hand lifted, skimming along your jaw before his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so.

The kiss deepened, slow but demanding, every movement deliberate, every touch igniting another spark beneath your skin. He wasn’t rushing—no, he was savoring, taking his time like he wanted to memorize the exact way you fit against him. He knew this was a mistake but couldn’t bring himself to care.

Your hands found his chest, pressing lightly against the fabric of his dress shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair at the contact, his grip on your waist firm but careful, as if he was anchoring himself as much as he was anchoring you.

The sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway shattered the fragile haze that had settled between you two, yanking you both back into reality.

Rafe was the first to react, pulling away, but only just. His forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath still ragged, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. His fingers, warm and possessive, lingered at your waist a second too long before he finally, finally, let go, stepping back just enough to put a sliver of space between you. But not enough to erase what had just happened.

His eyes searched yours, dark blue depths swirling with something unreadable, something dangerous. His exhale was sharp, tension coiling through his jaw as he dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the strands like he was trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough and uneven. Then, with more force, “Fuck. Fuck.”

His eyes shut tight, his head shaking in frustration as if the motion itself could erase the last few minutes. When they opened again, they were filled with something even more intense. In two strides, he was in front of you again, his hands gripping your upper arms, fingertips pressing just a little too hard, just enough to make you feel trapped between the heat of his body and the reality of the situation.

“This didn’t happen, okay?” His voice was firm, but there was a slight tremor to it like he wasn’t sure if he believed the words himself. His grip tightened before loosening again, as if he was at war with himself as if he didn’t trust his restraint.

You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, your pulse thrumming wildly, your breath uneven. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, then back to your eyes, and something in him cracked. His hands slid down your arms in a slow, deliberate motion, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When his fingertips finally settled at your hipbones, pressing in lightly, his resolve wavered even more.

“This…” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

His voice was different now, lower, more raw. His fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of your skirt as his mind spiraled, thoughts tumbling into a chaotic storm. Why was he doing this? This wasn’t like him. He had met you, his student, his goddamn student, less than an hour ago, and he had already crossed every possible line. And yet, even knowing that he wasn’t pulling away. He was moving closer.

His hands ghosted up your sides, the touch sending shivers across your skin. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. Can you do that for me?”

If someone had asked you that morning how you thought your first day of senior year would go, never in a million years would you have said this? Sure, you’d heard the whispers in the halls, and seen the way every girl’s eyes lingered when he walked past. Mr. Cameron was the forbidden fantasy, the subject of countless rumors and stolen glances. But he was also your teacher. And he had just kissed you.

You knew it was wrong. You should run, tell someone, do the right thing. And yet, as your mind battled between logic and desire, only one thought rose above the rest: he had kissed you.

Mr. Cameron, the man every girl in school lusted after, had kissed you. Had he done this before? Had he chosen others before you? Or was this different?

Even as doubt twisted itself into a tight knot in your stomach, you found yourself nodding, unable to speak, afraid your voice would betray you with the high-pitched, breathy sound of a girl who had just been touched by fire and didn’t want to step away.

“Good.”

His voice was barely a whisper, almost more breath than sound. The tension in the room grew, thick and suffocating, but you didn’t want to breathe anything else in. His fingers glided upward again, teasing over your waist, grazing over your ribs, leaving a trail of heat that made your entire body burn with anticipation.

Then, gently, with a tenderness that contradicted the fevered hunger in his eyes, he cupped your face. For one impossible moment, you thought he was going to kiss you again, that he was going to throw every bit of logic and control out the window and claim your lips as he had minutes ago. But instead, he tilted your head slightly, his breath warm against your throat.

Then his lips were on your neck, barely touching, soft and slow.

A sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, escaped you, and his hands tightened ever so slightly, grounding you, making you feel small under his grasp. His mouth moved lower, pressing another kiss, and then another, each one more deliberate, more intoxicating than the last.

You barely registered the moment he turned you around, your back now facing him. Your hands trembled as they found purchase against the smooth surface of his desk, the dark wood cool beneath your fingertips.

Then, with the kind of confidence that sent a shiver racing down your spine, he placed his hands on your thighs, massaging them slowly, possessively.

His voice, low and dripping with something dark and dangerous, ghosted over your ear.

“Stay quiet for me.”

You sucked in a deep, long breath, letting your head fall and your eyes close.

The feel of the Rafe´s fingers slid under the skirt and the pads of his fingers started tracing along your panties, each tiny motion making your body stutter and tremble.

“You´re… you´re real special, you know that?” He spoke from behind you but you couldn’t respond, still holding your breath as if letting out the air would make the situation you found yourself in truly real.

When he had had enough of feeling the warm, twisted feeling in his stomach as he let his fingers glide over your clothed cunt, he pushed your underwear aside with his thumb, letting the tip of his index finger dip into your already quivering hole. The action intensified the feeling and buried it even deeper in his gut.

As if a shock of lightning had hit you, you bolted away from his hand a few inches, clenching your thighs tightly as you finally relieved your lungs of the air they were keeping trapped.

“M- Mr. Cameron…” You started to sputter out but stopped when you felt long, gruff fingers curl around the sides of your panties before pulling the black lace material down tantalizingly slow.

A cold rush of air hit your most intimate body part, making you gasp and pant. When you heard rustling and what you could only assume was the clink of your teacher´s belt, you shut your mouth and froze as you waited for the man´s next move.

“Listen,” he whispered your name like it was a sin he committed and you were a pastor, “You understand that this stays between us, yes?” His large hands massaged your ass and thighs, cursing under his breath when he saw how soaked you were.

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement. You weren´t sure why. He was your teacher and by the looks of it and the feel of his hands on you, apparently a pedophile. But god did you want this; you wanted it, him, so bad.

Before you could so much as even let another thought pass through your head, he thrust forward, burying his cock inside you as deep as he could with multiple rapid movements of his hips. You moaned and practically screamed, the sounds of pleasure from you making Rafe reach around and cover practically half of your entire face.

“Fuck, you´re so tight,” he muttered sharply next to your ear as he started moving inside of you again, dragging his hips back only to snap them back forward less than a moment later.

“You like that, huh? Like being fucked by your teacher. Little teachers pet.”

He knew this was wrong, you were his student, and you probably didn´t even actually want this but for some fucked up reason that made it even better for Rafe, and as the thought crossed his mind it only made him thrust into you faster. At that point, you were damn near choking and sobbing into his hand, his palm making it hard for you to get a deep breath of fresh air in.

With a sense of panic taking over you, you tried to move your hands off of the desk to claw him off of your face but your attempts proved futile when Rafe pushed you flat onto the desk, forcing you to take his cock even deeper.

His free hand which wasn´t taking away your ability to breathe, found its way between your legs, his index, and middle fingers drawing squiggly circles on your clit. At the shock of pleasure that ran through you as he teased your extremely sensitive bundle of nerves, you clenched around his pipe and arched your back. You felt that familiar coil spring up in the depths of your stomach, your body rocking slightly backward against Rafe´s to help you relive the press soon.

Rafe pushed into you harder than he had any of the other time before then, hitting your sweet spot with a force that would have made you cry out, had you had your mouth free. His fingers applied pressure to the shapes they were making on your clit. The mix of heightened attention and force made your pussy squeeze around him and pushed you over the edge, coming with tears in your eyes.

After a few more brutal thrusts into your soppy cunt, he came as well, unloading into you, his thoughts barely registering anything at that point except for you and your body bent over his desk, his cum dripping out of your used up hole and onto your thighs.

Slowly he took away his hand from your face, a trail of spit following. As soon as you got a few much-needed breaths, you collapsed onto the desk, your body falling limp. Rafe pulled out of you, not wasting any time before he pulled his pants back on and redid his leather belt around his hips. He leaned over you, his body covering all of your sweaty skin as he dressed you in your underwear again.

“You did so good, darling. So, so good."

[arctic-bookclub]

one day i am going to snap at people excluding phil from morning crew while including all the other "honorary" morning crew members (and apparently some qsmp members that barely ever log on and barely line up with the "morning crew")

[stillwatervoid]

Invincible’s special healing treatment | Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: Your healing powers—marketed as “Revitalizers”—made you a vital asset to both heroes and civilians. They erased fatigue, sealed wounds, boosted strength, and mended broken bodies like magic. Everyone loved them. Especially Mark Grayson.

That is, until he found out the secret ingredient behind your power was… your spit.

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Heavy Making Out, sort of Spit Kink? (subtle), there’s some grinding at the end but nothing explicit.

Tags: Reader Has Healing Powers, humor?, Fluff, mutual pining, and Mark being totally whipped.

w.c: 7k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language, so there may be some mistakes here and there. This was a draft I started ages ago and finally decided to finish. It was supposed to be kinkier than it turned out—I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote the first draft back in January... I was probably just horny or something. I guess I couldn’t live up to the expectations of past me. I don’t even like it that much but I wanted to get rid of it already!!! (And yes, I still owe you pt. 2 of ‘Now nothing’s the same’, but please accept this as compensation.) Hope you enjoy it!

It starts when Mark’s nose scrunches in disgust as he stares at the small plastic cup in his hand, the truth of its contents finally dawning on him.

“Oh my god, stop being such a baby,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you monitor his vitals on the med-bay screen. “You’ve been drinking this for months and never complained before.”

“Yeah—when I didn’t know it had your spit in it!” he snaps, pushing the cup away like it personally offended him. His face twists into a grimace, torn between horror and betrayal. “This is disgusting. Someone should’ve told me! I have a right to know what I’m putting in my body!”

You cross your arms, irritation prickling under your skin. “It’s just a bit of saliva, Mark. And it’s mixed with, like, 80% water. You literally can’t taste it.”

He pouts, eyebrows knitting together stubbornly. “Still…”

“You know what?” you snap, cheeks flushing—partly from anger, partly from embarrassment. It isn’t your fault your healing powers work this way. “Fine. Don’t drink it. Enjoy waiting a month for your ribs to heal naturally. I’ll let Cecil know you’re benched until further notice.”

Before he can protest, you snatch the cup from his hand and down it yourself, locking eyes with him in a silent challenge. It tastes exactly like water. No big deal. Mark is being ridiculous. When you finish, you set the cup down with a shrug, feeling refreshed and perfectly fine.

“There,” you say curtly, grabbing your things along with the report of his vitals. “Now suffer alone.”

“Wait, wait—!” Mark jerks forward, wincing as his injuries protest the sudden movement. “You can’t just leave! I—I need to heal fast! I can’t be sidelined for a month!”

“Oooh,” you drawl, mocking. “Well, that was the last one left. Too bad, Invincible—oh, wait. Guess you’re not so invincible right now, huh? Stuck in a hospital bed, bruised up, with broken bones…”

You shrug, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you turn for the door again. 

Mark’s face falls. “Wait. You’re joking. There’s no more?” 

“Nope,” you say, popping the p, watching as his eyes widen in panic. “I came here to make more stock for Cecil. Felt bad for you, so I whipped up one on the spot—but hey, you didn’t even want it, Grayson.” 

“Wait, Y/N—” he scrambles, voice turning desperate. “C’mon, I’m sorry, okay? I need that Revitalizer! I need to keep training! Please? Please?” 

You pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder with a slow, unimpressed stare. 

“So now you want my spit—the one that was ‘disgusting’ literally ten seconds ago?” You arch a brow. “Yeah, no. Have fun with the crutches. Later, Grayson.” 

Mark’s desperation instantly shifts to irritation. “Hey! You can’t just leave! This is your job! So do your job, Y/N, or—or else!”

You stop again, a brow twitching. “Or else… what, exactly?” 

Mark fumbles, his bravado faltering. “Or else I… I dunno—I’ll tell Cecil to fire you or something?” 

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. Because firing me, the guy who keeps all his damn heroes—including you—on the field, is such a brilliant idea.” 

Mark crosses his arms, smirking like he’s found a loophole. “Well, you’re not exactly keeping me on the field now, are you? And by the way, I’m his best guy. Cecil’s not gonna be happy you’re refusing to heal his best guy.”

You press your lips into a thin line, irritation bubbling in your chest as Mark’s cocky, self-assured smirk grates on your last nerve. He was already pushing it, eating up time you didn’t have, and now he was really pissing you off. 

But there was no more stock left. Making a new batch would take at least ten more minutes—minutes you couldn’t spare. What could you do?

Then a dark, petty idea slithers into your mind.

“Fine,” you mutter, shutting the door and stepping back into the room. “If you insist.” 

With swift strides, you move toward him, grabbing his face between your hands, fingers pressing into his cheeks just enough to squish them together. His smug expression falters, confusion flickering across his face—just as you lean in and kiss him. Full on the mouth. Tongue and all. 

Mark makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, his whole body jerking as your tongue slips past his parted lips, brushing against his demandingly. You don’t give him a chance to react, to pull away, to breathe—you just press in deeper, holding him still, making sure he gets a direct dose of your healing power. 

Because, yes, your saliva contains the ability to heal. That’s why you dilute it in water—so heroes can take it without things getting… weird. It works. It’s enough, and really, Cecil would never ask for more from you.

But this—this direct contact, exchanging spit with Mark, making sure he’s drinking it straight from your mouth instead of a diluted version—is the raw, unfiltered version of your power. The kind that knits bone and flesh back together in seconds.

And if Mark was that desperate for it, then here. Take it. 

His breath hitches, throat bobbing as he instinctively swallows the saliva between your entwined tongues. Under your fingers, you feel the swollen bruises on his face smooth out, the lingering pain vanishing in an instant. Only then do you finally break the kiss, a faint line of spit still connecting you both before it snaps. 

“There. Happy?” you pull away completely, scowling as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “You’re dismissed. Go home.” 

“W-what?” Mark’s mouth opens, then closes. A flush creeps up his neck. “I—you—what the…?” 

You look away, your own face heating up. “This is the last time I’m doing this. Don’t tell anyone—” your voice drops to a dangerous whisper “—or I’ll kill you.”

And with that, you turn on your heel and walk out, leaving a spluttering, red-faced Mark behind.

The second time it happens is while you’re both on the field.

Mark is in the air, fighting off the bad guys. You’re on the ground, checking on injured civilians and offering help. 

You’re not really paying attention to what Invincible or the other heroes are doing. Your focus is entirely on offering assistance, stabilizing wounds, and evacuating as many people as you can from the area. You don’t worry. You never worry. Not when it comes to them—and especially not when it comes to Mark Grayson.

The boy’s basically a force of nature wrapped in a spandex suit. Inexperienced, sure. A little reckless at times, yeah. But strong, strong. The kind of strength that makes his skin impenetrable, his body durable, and his raw power overwhelming.  The kind of strength that makes you believe, really believe, in corny hero names like invincible.

That’s why you’re so surprised when he suddenly comes crashing down from the sky, his body slamming into the asphalt like a meteor, carving a trail of shattered pavement before slamming through the side of a building. Concrete buckles. Steel bends. The whole structure groans under the impact.

One second passes. Then two. Three. Ten.

And he doesn’t get up.

Panic grips you, and you’re already sprinting before you realize it.

“Invincible?!” you call, voice cutting through the air as you swipe the dust from your face and enter through the whole he made. “Shit—Invincible?” 

The building creaks ominously around you, but you push forward until—

A low groan echoes from the rubble.

There, buried in a mess of rubble and twisted metal, lies Mark.

Your eyes narrow, instincts kicking in as you assess his condition with clinical precision while carefully making your way over. He’s in bad shape—bruises swelling across his face, blood smearing his skin, breaths ragged and uneven, and one of his arms is bent at an angle it definitely shouldn’t be.

The sight twists something sharp and awful in your chest, but you bury the feeling beneath your professional mask. You can’t afford to panic.

“Invincible?” you mutter, kneeling beside him and brushing debris off his chest and shoulders. No answer. Just a weak, pained sound—barely more than a groan. “Mark?” you try again, softer now, a hand slipping behind his head to lift it gently. He lets out another weak noise, eyes fluttering, but there’s no real awareness behind them.

No, you realize quickly, the Revitalizer won’t cut it. Not for this. Not fast enough. Mark’s breathing is shallow and quickening—too quick, too sharp. Collapsed lung, maybe. Add that to the concussion and the internal injuries you’re certain he’s hiding under the surface. The diluted solution of your power works on minor injuries and fractures, but this is beyond that.

You pause, weighing your options, the conflict mounting in your chest. Outside, the battle still rages—the heroes definitely need Mark’s help if the panic and screams are anything to go by.

Which means this calls for a direct transfer. Maximum potency. And you know exactly what that means.

Your jaw clenches.

“Goddammit, Grayson,” you whisper to his barely-conscious form, already making the decision. “People need you out there.”

The building groans and creaks ominously above you, dust raining from the ceiling. But you pay no mind, heart hammering.

One hand slides behind his neck, the other tilts his chin up. “Sorry for this,” you mutter, even though you doubt he can hear you. Your gaze flickers briefly to his lips, the sudden thought making your stomach churn. “Trust me, man, I don’t want this more than you do. So when you wake up… no hard feelings, okay?”

And then, without another second of hesitation, you’re sealing your mouth over his. Your tongue pushes past his lips, shoving the raw, undiluted potency of your power straight into him. It’s messy, desperate, laced with the taste of blood and grit. Mark jolts under you, a weak groan trapped between your mouths—but you don’t stop. You count the seconds in your head, focusing on the transfer, making sure he gets enough. Enough to mend everything.

Then you feel it—the sharp, deep breath he takes as his lung reinflates. His ribs shifting under your palm, bones snapping back into place. His arm realigning itself with a sickening crack.

Then, the soft gasp you swallow when his consciousness starts to return.

Mark makes a confused noise, his tongue brushing against yours, clumsy and startled. You freeze, heat rushing to your cheeks in a mix of embarrassment and shock, and pull back immediately.

“Y/N...?” Mark’s voice is hoarse, and it makes your skin burn. “What... did you just—?”

You glance away, quickly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to hide the flush creeping up your neck. “Can you stand?”

Mark blinks, still dazed but healed, already flexing his newly-mended arm. “I… yeah. Yeah, I think—”

“Good,” you snap, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright. “Then move.”

But Mark just stands there, staring down at himself—then at you—then back at himself. And then, with a breathless laugh, he beams.

“Oh-ho-ho, I feel amazing!” he exclaims. “I feel great! Like, better than great!”

To prove it, he hovers a foot off the ground, spinning in a gleeful pirouette like a complete idiot. You fold your arms, glaring at him as he flexes his muscles and stretches, putting on a ridiculous display of his newfound energy.

Then the building groans again—a low, warning sound that cracks through the air.

Mark halts mid-spin, looking up at the ceiling. “That... doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you mutter, eyeing the unstable column just behind him. “We better go before—”

You don’t get to finish.

The ceiling gives out with a thunderous crack, and before your brain can catch up, Mark’s arms are around your waist, yanking you off the ground. Your eyes squeeze shut instinctively, arms wrapping tight around his neck as he blasts up through the collapsing hole he made when he crashed through earlier.

The world whips past you in a blur, and when you blink again, you’re outside. The building is falling behind you, collapsing in on itself, sending up a cloud of dust and debris that engulfs the area.

You both land a safe distance away, unscathed, while the building continues its dramatic descent.

“Aw, shit,” Mark mutters, pouting as he stares at the wreckage. “I did that?”

You hum, shooting him a side glance. “You’re lucky I evacuated that thing before it came down.”

Mark turns to look at you, his pout deepening like a sulky kid. But this time there’s a shift. He’s... uncomfortably close. Closer than you realized. You can feel his breath against your cheek, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with yours. That’s when you realize—his hands are still curled loosely around your waist. And your arms are still looped around his shoulders.

Both of you seem to notice at the same time.

Mark drops his arms like he’s been burned, quickly turning away to scratch the back of his neck and coughing into his hand. You shift your weight, eyes darting anywhere but him.

“Well—” his voice cracks, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks for, uh. The whole. You know. The thing with the—” he makes a vague gesture toward his mouth.

“Sure,” you reply, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. “Anytime.”

A mutual, full-body cringe.

The moment is mercifully shattered by Immortal calling out to Mark, urging him to get back in the fight.

Mark jolts like he’s been electrocuted. “Right! Yeah. Duty calls. Gotta—” he gestures weakly toward the fight, already floating backward. “So, uh. Thanks. Again. For the—”

“Go,” you interrupt, already turning toward a group of civilians still trapped in the area.

He throws you a final awkward half-wave, then rockets away—but not fast enough to hide the way his ears burn crimson. You watch him fly away, cheeks heating up, too.

The third time it happens, Mark isn’t bleeding, broken, or even remotely in danger.

No—he’s bored, crashing into your workspace at the GDA’s hospital wing, apparently done with his hero duties for the day—and, shockingly, with catching up with his college classes too. How he manages both, you have no clue. But here he is, picking up and poking around your things like a kid in a candy store.

“What does—”

“I swear to god,” you cut in sharply, patience already fraying, “if you ask one more time what anything in this lab does, I’ll gut you, Grayson.”

Mark pouts, carefully placing a large syringe back where he found it. “You’re no fun.”

“This isn’t a damn playground,” you mutter, returning your focus to the screen in front of you. “Now, unless you’ve got a severed limb or third-degree burns, get out.”

Mark flops into the nearest chair with a groan, legs sprawling like a petulant teenager. “Okay, fine. I’m here for, uh… a headache.”

“Oh no, how tragic,” you don’t even glance at him. “Take a pill.”

There’s silence.

An unnaturally long silence.

Long enough that you sigh and finally drag your gaze from the screen to find Mark staring at you with the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes you’ve ever seen.

“What,” you ask flatly.

Mark fidgets under your stare. “I just—” he sighs. “They take forever to kick in, okay?”

“So?” you arch a brow. “Suck it up, Invinci-boy. I’ve seen you take a hell of a lot more and never flinch once.”

“Yeah, but—” he glances away, wincing while pressing his fingers to his temple exaggeratedly. “This is a migraine. Like, brain-melting pain. Totally screwing with my focus.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flickering in your gaze. But as he keeps avoiding your eyes, fidgeting awkwardly, wincing every time he shifts—one hand pressed to his temple—you finally sigh and lean back in your chair.

“Fine,” you mutter.

Mark straightens up immediately, his eyes wide with surprise, cheeks flushing a faint pink. “Really?”

You blink at the sudden change in energy, head tilting. “Yeah…?” you say slowly, reaching into your desk drawer. Inside are several little Revitalizer cups—80% water, 20% your saliva. You grab one and set it in front of him with a soft thud. “Here. Thank me later. Cecil’s weirdly strict about the inventory—he hates wasting these on stupid things like a damn headache.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn back to your computer, resuming the work you’d been organizing before Mark decided to drop in unannounced.

Silence falls again—long, lingering, and just awkward enough to pull your attention back.

You turn to him, exhausted. “What now.”

Mark’s expression sours into a pout, his shoulders slumping as he stares down at the little cup, as if it’s the most disappointing thing he’s ever seen.

He sighs, closing his eyes before weakly reaching for the cup. “Nothing. It’s—nothing.”

Mark pops the lid off, staring at the clear liquid with exaggerated contemplation before drinking it all in one gulp. You watch silently, noting the way his throat moves as he swallows. Finally, Mark exhales, setting the empty cup on the desk.

Then he blinks, licking his lips with a curious hum. “Huh. Now that I’m really paying attention... it really does taste like nothing.”

“It tastes like water,” you point out distractedly, returning to your task.

“And water tastes like nothing,” Mark grumbles. He puts a hand to his chin, like he’s suddenly contemplating life’s biggest mysteries. “But it’s weird… did you know your spit has a taste?”

Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, you turn your chair to face him fully. “Huh?”

“Yeah!” Mark springs up, suddenly animated, twirling the empty cup between his fingers. “It’s got this...I dunno, this flavor. Kinda—I can’t describe it.”

In all your years working with the GDA, through countless medical exams and power analyses, never—not once—has anyone mentioned your saliva having a flavor.

Your brows knit together in confusion. “You mean... like how everyone’s spit tastes?”

“No, no way,” Mark insists, shaking his head vigorously. “This is different. It’s like—” he waves his hands around, struggling to articulate. “Sort of... sweet? But not too much. More like—a feeling. But also a taste? And it lingers. You really can’t tell? It’s your spit after all.”

You tilt your head, gaze drifting in thought. “Not really.” Then your eyes narrow. “Can you taste your own spit? I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, fair,” he admits with a shrug, though his cheeks are now dusted with a light flush. He glances back at you, this time with a different kind of glint in his eye. “Hey—so. This thing—” he shakes the empty cup, “—hasn’t really worked yet.”

“It’s been, like, fifteen seconds—”

“The other method was instant.”

You glare. He looks away like he finds the ceiling lights particularly fascinating.

“The other method?” you repeat slowly, raising an eyebrow. “You want me to kiss your migraine goodbye or something?”

Mark chokes on air, spluttering. “No, no, I didn't say that! I just want, uh, I want—I just want to know what your spit tastes like!”

A long beat.

“For science!” he rushes to add, flustered beyond salvation. “I wouldn’t want to kiss you! I mean, ew, eugh, no, I—that’s—I don’t—”

You hum thoughtfully, tuning out the rest of his babbling. The scientific implications are intriguing. Flavor? In your saliva? That’s a whole new variable. Could you isolate whatever this is? If there’s something in the taste that links to your power’s effectiveness, maybe you can concentrate it, increase the strength of each Revitalizer beyond the current 20% dilution. If Mark’s being honest about all this… it could be groundbreaking.

“—and kissing dudes? Not my thing! Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I just—”

“Alright,” you cut in sharply, standing up from your side of the desk. “C’mere.”

Mark’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “Hmm?”

“Come here,” you repeat, already grabbing a notepad. “You’re going to describe this supposed ‘flavor’ in exact detail.”

Mark’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide in disbelief, and for the first time in the last five minutes—he’s finally silent.

“Wait—so you’re saying—does this mean we’re…?”

You roll your eyes. “What do you think, Grayson? Unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind.”

Mark scrambles to his feet so fast he almost knocks over his chair. “No! I mean—yeah, I want to,” he says, and you catch the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he adds, weaker, “for science.”

“For science,” you echo with a slow nod, watching him as he rounds the desk with nervous, rigid movements. “Then I need you to be very attentive, okay, Mark?”

“Sure,” he says quickly, voice lower now, eyes flicking over your face before landing—and staying—on your lips. “Super. Attentive. So... how exactly do we—”

You reach for his chin, thumb pressing lightly on his lower lip. “Shh.”

He goes still, sucking in a sharp breath.

Then you guide him in, sliding your hand to the back of his head as you draw him into a kiss. Mark comes willingly, lips already parted. The moment your mouths meet—warm, tentative, tongues brushing in a slick, electric glide—it sends a jolt through you both. A quiet groan rumbles from deep in his throat as his body melts into yours, tension giving way to something softer, needier. You take a single step back from the force of it, your breath catching, but neither of you pulls away.

You move slowly, letting your tongue sweep languidly against his, the taste of him mingling with your own as saliva slicks between your mouths. As the seconds pass, Mark’s movements grow more eager, his confidence rising with the heat between you. Then, without warning, he licks and sucks on your tongue in a way that makes your whole body shiver, goosebumps scattering across your skin.

“Mmh,” you groan softly into the kiss, one hand drifting to his chest—his firm, toned, distractingly solid chest—and you try to pull back just enough to catch your breath.

But Mark whines, his grip tightening, pulling you back in.

“Mmph?!” you mutter, muffled and breathless. 

His hands, which had been awkwardly hanging by his sides, finally move, fingers sliding up to your hips. His touch is hesitant at first, then turns urgent, twitching with anticipation. Your heart pounds in your chest, lungs burning from the lack of air, as his lips move hungrily against yours. His grip tightens, drawing you impossibly closer, until you feel every inch of him pressed against you—the steady beat of his heart syncing with your own.

Hell, you can even feel the bob of his throat as he drinks from you.

When you finally wrench your mouth free, a glistening thread of saliva connects you for one obscene second before it snaps. Mark chases after your lips like a man starved, but you press a cautious hand against his mouth.

“Grayson,” you pant, “that’s enough. I need—data.”

Mark blinks, dazed. “Huh?”

“The flavor,” you remind him, voice rougher than you’d intended. “The point was to, y’know, describe it.”

His pupils are blown wide, lips parted and panting. He looks confused for a second—then realization dawns across his face.

“Right! Right. It’s, uh—” his tongue darts out, licking his swollen lips. “Definitely... sweet. But like, honey-sweet? Only—more subtle. I think—” he clears his throat, voice rough, “I think I might need... further testing. For accuracy.”

“Accuracy,” you repeat flatly, raising a brow.

At this point, you seriously doubt he came here out of curiosity about the taste of your spit, or that he gave a damn about the ‘science’, or that he ever had a migraine to begin with. That realization makes your cheeks burn hot, your heart thudding harder.

Still, you pull him closer, noses brushing. “Well,” you murmur, “it can’t be helped, then. We do need to be extra accurate. So pay attention, yeah?”

His breath hitches, forehead resting against yours as his fingers flex on your hips. “Yeah…” he breathes. “I’ll be super attent—”

You cut him off with another kiss.

Science demands repeat trials, after all.

It keeps happening as the weeks go by, for reasons you can’t quite understand.

If Mark’s seriously injured, it’s become your go-to method—because, really, the world can’t afford to have its strongest hero benched for weeks just waiting to heal. If he’s just feeling sore or tired, it’s your method too—because otherwise, he’ll whine and mope and follow you around all day. And if he says he just needs an energy boost, claiming your powers make him feel like he could fly to another universe and back, then yeah, it’s your method again—because he won’t stop asking until you finally snap and kiss him just to shut him up.

But this time, it’s not Mark who’s critically injured.

It’s Rex.

Somehow, he survived a bullet to the head, severe blood loss, and an amputated hand. And even now, after all the surgeries and treatments, still confined to a hospital bed, he has the nerve to act cocky and cheerful.

“C’moooon,” Rex groans the second you step into his room to check his vitals. “You’re my only hope here, Y/N. I can’t take another day in this prison—I’ve read every magazine Eve brought me twice, and I’m dying of boredom.”

“No,” you reply, not even glancing up from his chart. “You know Cecil—”

“Cecil doesn’t let you waste your powers like this because it’s ‘pointless,’ because he’s got it all covered, blah blah blah,” Rex mocks, rolling his bloodshot eyes. “I just don’t get why we have a healer hero who’s not actually healing me, y’know?”

“You are healed,” you mutter, irritation seeping into your voice. “You just need to stay in bed, rest, and let it be.”

Rex glares. “That’s not being healed. That’s the boring process of healing!” Then he squints at you, brows scrunched. “Why are you even here if you’re not gonna do your job?”

You scoff and drop the clipboard onto the end of the bed with a thud, fully turning to glare at him. “For your information, the only reason you’re still alive is because my Revitalizers kept your dumbass brain together while they rebuilt your skull.”

“Oh, those little cups?” Rex shrugs, unimpressed. “Yeah, they’re fine, but we both know there’s a way faster method to get me out of here.”

You press your lips into a tight line, brow twitching as he gives you a pointed look, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously.

“No.”

He sighs dramatically. “C’moooon, Y/N. It’s not like I want to do it either, but if—”

You don’t hear the door slide open as you continue glaring at him.

“—a kiss is all it takes to fix me up, then get over here, baby,” Rex puckers his lips, closes his eyes, and starts making exaggerated smooching noises. “One little magical mouth-to-mouth and we’re both outta here. C’mon, lemme taste some of that miracle spit, mmh?”

You open your mouth to go off on Rex, but another voice cuts in, sharp and disbelieving.

“What.”

You whip your head around, glare softening instantly as your eyes land on Mark. He’s standing at the doorway in his civilian clothes, wide-eyed and frozen.

“Oh, hey Mark!” you say quickly, snatching the clipboard from Rex’s bed as you move to leave. “Came to visit Rex? Good luck—he’s extra insufferable today.”

“Hey!” Rex shouts, trying to prop himself up, waving his good arm like a flag of protest. “Don’t bail yet! What about our special healing session?”

You scoff, eyes still fixed forward. “Didn’t promise anything, asshole. Bye now.”

Mark doesn’t move. He stares at you, then at Rex, then back at you again with a look of wide-eyed panic and something suspiciously like betrayal. Just as you reach for the door, he suddenly jumps forward, blocking your path.

“Wait—!” his voice cracks, just slightly. “Do you—do you do that a lot?”

You blink, thrown. “Do what?”

Mark pouts, hesitating for a second before glancing over at Rex, who’s watching the scene unfold with curious eyes. Mark scowls, jaw tense, then puts both hands on your shoulders and pulls you close, not taking his eyes off Rex.

“You know…” he mutters, voice low and pointed, “that.”

Your still confused, baffled expression only makes Mark deflate. He sighs, looking away shyly, his cheeks turning pink, though his face is still tinged with a touch of disappointment.

“You know…” he mumbles again, quieter this time. “The  ‘special treatment.’ I didn’t know it was… Rex, too. I thought I was the only one you kisse—mmph!?”

Mark is swiftly silenced when you slap a hand over his mouth with an echoing clap, panic rising in your chest as it hits you halfway through what he’s talking about. But by then, it’s too late. You know it’s too late.

Five seconds of pure silence drag on.

Then, behind you, Rex gasps dramatically. “No way…” he whispers, eyes widening with dawning comprehension. And then, louder, “No way!”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god…”

“Dr. Y/N!” Rex clutches his chest in mock outrage, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Kissing your patients? That’s highly unprofessional! What would Cecil say if he knew? You know he hates wasting your power like that.”

“Oh my god,” you groan again, dragging your hands down your face, trying to hide from the embarrassment.

You whip around to glare at Mark, who shrinks under the intensity of your glare. But whatever you were about to say dies in your throat as Rex’s obnoxious cackling rings through the room, making your last nerve snap.

“So you are into special treatment, huh?” Rex laughs, eyes squeezed shut in amusement. “You were all high and mighty, denying it to me earlier. Well, look at you now!” Then he pauses, blinking in confusion, tilting his head. “Wait wait wait—so why does Invincible get the premium package, but I’m stuck with the watered-down version? That’s some bullshit favoritism! I don’t wanna be stuck here any longer! Hey! Do your job!”

Your jaw clenches. In one fluid motion, you throw the door open, grab Mark by the collar, and turn back to Rex with your most dangerous glare.

“Your treatment is called shutting the hell up.”

And with that, you drag Mark out of the room, slamming the door behind you with a resounding bang.

It’s silent at first—just the pounding of your heart and the flush burning across your cheeks. Embarrassment, dread, and the terrifying thought of Cecil ever finding out. You flinch just imagining the long, agonizing lecture he’d have locked and loaded if Rex opened his mouth. You have to make sure he doesn’t. And oh, you can think of several ways to ensure Rex’s silence—each more creatively painful than the last, all of them tempting—

“I’m sorry,” Mark says softly, cutting through your dark thoughts. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize there were... others.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and damn it all, when he looks up with those wounded puppy-dog eyes, your anger dissolves into mist.

You cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Mark. There are no ‘others.’” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “You seriously think I go around swapping spit with every hero who gets a paper cut?”

He winces. “No...”

“You think I’d kiss Rex of all people?”

His nose scrunches. “No.”

“Think that—” you pause, suddenly aware of the barely-there space between you. Of how your breaths mingle, how he’s leaning in without realizing it. Drawn to you like instinct. Like gravity. The next words come out softer than you mean them to. “That I’d do this with anyone but you?”

Mark’s eyes widen. His lips part—whether to answer or ask for clarification, you’ll never know, because you choose that moment to shut him up the only way that ever really works.

Closing the distance and kissing him.

Your lips crash together, deep and intense and hungry. His tongue meets yours halfway, practiced and eager, moving against your mouth in the way he’s learned you like. His arms wrap around you, hands slipping down your back, pulling you in closer, pressing you tight until there’s nothing left between you—not air, not space, not thought.

Your heart stutters and then races, excitement surging through your veins, raw and electric, leaving you lightheaded and weightless.

You hum into his mouth, slow and content, before finally pulling away—only to place one last, lingering peck to his lips.

Mark grins at you, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, that familiar giddiness and energy radiating from him—just like always when he feels the effect of your power. You can’t help but grin back, your chest warming at his boyish enthusiasm, before letting your forehead drop against his shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“Cecil’s gonna skin me alive if Rex blabs about this,” you mumble into the crook of Mark’s neck, feeling him shiver at your breath against his skin. “That little bastard’s definitely gonna hold this over me...”

Mark stays quiet for a long moment, his hands rubbing comforting circles on your back. His warmth and steady presence grounds you, but you can feel the slight tension in him—the guilt he’s trying to hide, stretching the silence longer than it should.

Then—

“What if...” he starts, hesitates, then tries again, voice low and unsure. “What if we just... dated?”

You blink, pulling back just enough to study his face. He’s red. Like, really red. Avoiding your gaze like it physically hurts him to meet your eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows, clearly nervous.

“I mean,” he rushes to explain, “Cecil can’t exactly lecture you about healing kisses if they’re just... regular boyfriend kisses, right?” He nods to himself, clearly pleased with this flawless logic. “Totally normal couple behavior. He can’t be mad if your power just happens to work that way…”

You stare at him for a few seconds, the weight of his words slowly sinking in. You notice the way his lips pout slightly, the hopeful look in his eyes, and how his fingers twitch lightly where they rest on your waist.

“Is this your subtle way of asking me out by pretending it’s not a big deal?” you ask, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Mark Grayson—oh, my hero, swooping in to do the favor of dating me so my boss doesn’t scold me for kissing one of his heroes an unnecessary number of times, just because he whines and cries like a total baby when I don’t?”

“Hey!” he protests, though there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It was justified! I was—y’know, in severe pain and everything…”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, tilting your head. “Like that time you said you needed extra energy and a good luck kiss before your Mars mission? Was that also you being in pain?”

“Well—that—I did get lucky from that, okay?” he stammers, cheeks flaring red. “And we succeeded, didn’t we? Thanks to your power enhancing my power.”

You can’t help but laugh, and soon he’s joining in, the sound warm and bright as you stay wrapped in each other’s arms. His laughter does funny things to your heartbeat, sends warmth blooming across your cheeks.

Then he sobers, his expression turning uncharacteristically shy. “So... is that a yes? To the... dating thing? Or…”

You smile softens, fingers brushing along his cheekbone with tenderness. “Well,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his lips, “we did skip a couple of steps, didn’t we?”

He huffs a breath of laughter, relaxing a bit. “Yeah… I guess we did.”

“Then why are you even asking, Grayson?” you murmur, lips brushing just barely against his as you lean in. His breath catches. “Of course I’ll date you.”

The kiss that follows is sweeter than any before it—slow and certain, filled with promises rather than excuses. Mark sighs into it, his arms tightening around you as if to say mine, finally mine.

You smile into the kiss, kissing him back with just as much eagerness, heart full, lips willing. You weren’t going anywhere.

It happens late at night, when Mark’s bruised, battered, and still trembling after a draining fight with Angstrom. The man hurt his mother, his little brother, and left him stranded in some godforsaken alternate universe. Mark’s body is shaky, yet he’s profoundly grateful to be back, grateful that your healing powers pulled his family together in minutes as soon as you learned of it. Grateful that you’re here now, with him tonight, wrapped in his arms, sharing a bed, and sharing kisses, because there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

His kisses are desperate things—raw, needy, equal parts gratitude and desire, as if he’s trying to imprint the feel of you beneath his hands into his memory in case the universe decides to be cruel again.

“You know,” you murmur against his mouth when he pauses to breathe, “sometimes I think you like my powers more than me.”

Mark nips at your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp, his hands sliding down your sides with possessive certainty.

“Course not,” he growls against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you. His knee slots between yours as he rolls you gently onto your back. “I like you because it’s you.” His teeth graze your jaw, sending a shudder down your spine. “Because you’re stubborn.” A soft kiss to your pulse point. “And brilliant,” he adds, as his hands mold to the curve of your waist, fingers slipping beneath your shirt like he’s desperate for more contact. “And you taste like warmth.”

You hum, rolling your tongue against his in a slow, deliberate movement, a tease that leaves his breath hitched and ragged. The slick slide of your mouths against each other fills the quiet room, punctuated by Mark’s low, guttural groan when you suck gently on his tongue. His hips buck instinctively, pinning you deeper into the mattress. His body is warm and heavy and grounding. His hands roam, bolder now—urgent with the need to feel you, have you, anchor himself to you after almost losing everything.

And you let him.

Because you need it too.

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” you whisper, breath hitching as you rock your hips up, seeking the delicious friction of his body against yours. A soft moan escapes his lips in response. “Even if you didn’t… like me back or whatever. I’d still let you have me. Give you anything you needed.”

Mark’s head snaps up.

“But I do like you,” he says, like it physically hurts him to think you’d believe otherwise. His hand slides down, purposeful and shaking just slightly, squeezing the growing bulge in your jeans. He swallows your gasp in a hungry kiss, lips messy and desperate. “Shit—I love you. I love you so much.”

The second the words escape him, Mark freezes. His whole body stiffens, eyes going wide with panic, like he hadn’t meant to say it at all. Like the confession yanked itself out of him before he could stop it. He pulls back, breath catching, lips parted  like he’s about to take it back or apologize—

But you just laugh softly, even as your heart slams against your ribs.

“I love you too, Grayson,” you murmur, pulling him back down by his collar, lips brushing lightly against his. “So don’t go getting yourself trapped in some alternate wasteland again, okay? You scared the shit out of me.”

Mark’s entire body sags with relief, the tension melting from his shoulders as he nuzzles into your touch like a starved man.

“Okay,” he says with a breathless laugh. “I’ll try. I mean—I’d really rather not be stuck in a version of reality where I’m not with you. Or where you don’t exist. That’d suck.”

You huff, amused and affectionate. “Then be more careful next time.” And before he gets a chance to reply, you seal your lips over his.

Mark groans against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours as you tug him flush against you.

“Yeah,” he breathes between kisses, his voice rough with longing, his hips rolling against yours in a way that makes your vision blur. “Yeah, I’ll—mmph—be real careful next—”

The rest of his promise dissolves into the hungry press of lips and the slick slide of tongues—but the way his fingers lace through yours, squeezing like he’s afraid to let go, says everything he can’t put into words.

Then, of course, Mark ruins the moment.

He pulls back with a breathless chuckle, eyes locking with yours—dark, dilated, cheeks flushed, forehead damp with sweat, and chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Hey so—” he rolls his hips deliberately against yours, drawing twin groans as denim strains between you. “The way you keep kissing me like that?” Another teasing grind. “Think I might have enough energy to last all night and morning.” His lips brush your earlobe. “What d’you say, baby?”

You stare at him, heat blooming across your cheeks like fire—but you can’t help the smirk that creeps in.

“Well,” you say, playing along easily, “I don’t exactly have anything better to do the next couple days… Might as well give the world’s strongest hero all the healing treatment he needs.”

Mark’s answering kiss is filthy—all tongue and teeth and saliva, like he’s trying to drink every last drop of your power straight from the source.

Then he pulls back just enough to pant, “God, I love your powers.”

You grin cheekily. “Yeah, yeah. Just remember who they belong to.”

He huffs a laugh—and before you can say anything else, he steals another kiss. There’s nothing patient about the way Mark moves—like he’s got something to prove, and you’re the only one he wants to prove it to.

No matter—you’re happy to let him.

A/N: Oof, I know... I didn’t really know where I was going with this either. I swear this was supposed to be worse—like, a lot kinkier, definitely 18+—but here we are. Thank you for reading!

[thebibliosphere]

I’m ill and miserable so I’m tinkering with my Pennyworth universe fics and giving myself emotions about Patricia Wayne, of all people.

Non-Pennyworth fans can scroll on if you want, but do we think, just for a moment, that Bruce might adopt his party boy persona a little bit from his Aunt Pat?

I do. I think he looked at his bottle blonde auntie with her giant sunglasses, ditzy demeanor, cigarette always in hand, rumored to have a coke spoon up her sleeve, and a different lover ever week and saw someone sad and hurting but also someone smart enough to put up the exact kind of facade that lets her maneuver through their world, this high society minefield of gossip, judgement and scrutiny, and force people to look the other way out of sheer mortified scandal.

“Did you hear what Patricia Wayne got up to last week?”

“No, tell me.”

She’s all anyone can talk about. This ditzy socialite heiress with her too blonde hair and her too short dresses. Too loud, too bold, too much.

But none of them really know her.

The real her—the auntie with the sad eyes and the biggest smile who used to show up out of nowhere and take him for ice cream in the middle of the school day much to Martha’s annoyance.

The auntie who used to stand behind his father and mimic his serious facial expressions just to make Bruce laugh.

The auntie who showed up to the school run one time looking like a Christmas tree, hair still in foils from the salon because Alfred got detained and when Tommy called to ask she left before the hairdresser had a chance to take them out.

His Auntie Pat who lets him ask questions about the sister he never met and who everyone else is too sad to talk about.

Patricia Wayne who appears at Wayne Manor the moment she heard about Tommy and Martha’s deaths, looking pale and gaunt, aged about a hundred years in the time it took to drive from New York to Gotham because while flying might have been quicker, driving let her scream and howl her grief out because Bruce is a quiet child who needs quiet words and Patricia has never been very good at that but for him she’ll do it. She’ll rip her vocal cords out to give him the quiet solace he needs if that’s what it takes.

Patricia Wayne who signs over full custody to Alfred Pennyworth the moment she can because she loves Bruce but knows herself well enough to know that she’d be a terrible co-parent but also because it makes her want to jump into Gotham harbor with stones in her pockets seeing Tommy looking up at her from behind his eyes.

Auntie Pat who dips in and out of his adolescence like a lightning strike, teaches him how to act and move and glide through the world his parents tolerated and Alfred only knows how to interact with from the sidelines.

Teaches him how to flirt and charm and smile, how to be a darling of the press while never giving anything away.

Auntie Pat who catches him hiding in his parents old bedroom at a party, looking at himself in Martha’s old mirror and listens to the heartbreak in his voice when he admits he can see Martha’s features fading in his face as his jaw squares out. Pat pierces his ear for him, holding a needle over a flame, so he can wear one of Martha’s earrings, Thomas’s cufflinks on his wrists.

Patricia Wayne who watches him start to bulk out. Sees the bruises and cuts that definitely don’t come from polo practice or whatever the fuck Bruce claims they’re from.

Patricia Wayne who looks Alfred dead in the eye when a caped crusader begins stalking the streets of Gotham and remarks loudly at a party that she has no idea where Bruce has got to, but if she had to guess, he’s been detained by a pretty face. You know how Tommy was at his age, the apple never falls far from the tree…

She’ll never ask, and Alfred will never tell, but she’s always got an alibi ready.

Bruce was with her the whole time, officers. Batman? Don’t be absurd. He’s a Wayne. What kind of family do you think they are? Why, you might as well accuse her dearly departed brother of being a secret agent for the government. His wife too while you’re at it. Honestly, the nerve…

Patricia Wayne who coos sweetly at eight year old Dick but tells him quite seriously if he ever calls her “Great Aunt Patricia” ever again she’s taking the toaster for a bath.

She hasn’t had this much work and Botox done for nothing, thank you very much.

I dunno man. I just want him to have someone in his life that when the Brucie Wayne persona jumps out the whole of upper Gotham goes, “oh, he got those Wayne genes. Oh okay. Carry on.”

[unconventional-lawnchair]

okay, because you broke my heart with everything is blue, I want a barty x potter!reader where it's the mauraders seeing how barty and the reader love/take care of each other. I need to be healed, I might die

They'll Be Alright

Barty Crouch Jr. x Potter!Fem!Reader

AN: I've taken out all the stops to mend your heart

WC: ~5k

Summary: James Potter learns to like tolerate his sisters taste in men.

Warnings: Grumpy James, Snogging, cursing, tooth rotting fluff, self indulgent, this is literally the cheesiest things I could come up with

“I can't do this much longer, I'm going mad.” James hissed as he sat on the grass, watching from across the courtyard as you stood outside the Quidditch pitch with a bit of a pacing form. You were sitting with your big brother and his friends just moments ago, but RavenClaw was out for practice and you just couldn't wait for your precious boy to leave the stands.

“I think it's cute.” Lily sang sweetly. “She's as obsessed with him as he is with her. Only a Potter could match a Crouch’s insanity.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Sirius burst out laughing, collapsing onto the grass beside him. “It’s not cute, Lily,” James hissed, throwing a wild gesture toward you. “It’s deranged. She’s my little sister, for Merlin’s sake! And she’s practically glued to the sidelines for him. Him! Of all people.”

“She’s not glued, mate. Look- she’s pacing,” Sirius pointed out helpfully, grinning as he threw a snitch up into the air and caught it lazily. “And, to be fair, Barty’s just as bad. Didn’t he travel all the way from Hogwarts to the Potter Manor once just to say, what was it? Right!” He sat up sharply and threw in some jazz hands. “Hi, to her over winter break?”

James groaned louder, flopping onto his back in the grass. “Don’t remind me. He’s the one who’s mad, and now she’s gone mad too. My family’s turning into a bloody soap opera.”

“It’s not madness,” Lily argued, her voice soft with a knowing smile as she plucked a daisy from the grass. “It’s love, James. Messy, consuming love. And if you can’t see it, then you’ve forgotten what it was like when you were chasing after me.”

“Oh, don’t start,” James grumbled, sitting up to glare at her, though his face was tinged with a hint of pink. “That’s completely different.”

“Is it?” Lily asked, raising a brow as she tucked the daisy behind her ear. “Because I distinctly remember you doing some insane things for me- like charming the entire Gryffindor common room to play my favorite song every time I walked in.”

Sirius let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly choking on his snitch when he forgot to catch it. “Oh, that was brilliant! What was it again? Some Muggle tune about sunshine?”

“‘Here Comes the Sun,’” Lily said smugly, her smile widening as James grumbled under his breath. “And I’ll remind you, Potter, that it worked.”

“That’s different!” James protested again, jabbing a finger in your direction. “I wasn’t a bloody Crouch!”

Remus, who had been quietly reading nearby, finally looked up from his book with a raised brow. “And what, exactly, is wrong with being a Crouch?” He asked calmly, though his tone carried a faint edge of amusement.

James floundered for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You know what I mean! He’s- he’s- he’s bloody Barty! He’s reckless, obsessive, and- and-”

“And utterly devoted to her,” Lily interrupted firmly, her eyes softening as she looked toward you across the courtyard. “He’d send us back to the stone age if she complained it was too busy, James. And she’d do the same for him. That’s not something you get to stand in the way of.”

James sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “I just want her to be happy.” He muttered. “And safe.”

“She is happy,” Lily said gently, resting a hand on his arm. “And as for safe- well, that’s why she’s got you, isn’t it? To make sure nothing gets in the way of her happiness. I'm also quite sure if anyone is to defend her like you have all these years.. it would be him.”

James let out a long, slow breath, watching as you finally stopped pacing, your face lighting up as Barty appeared at the top of the Quidditch stands. Even from across the courtyard, the way your shoulders relaxed and your smile softened was undeniable.

“She looks so bloody happy,” James mumbled, almost to himself.

“She is,” Lily said softly. “Just like you were when you finally got me.”

James turned to her, his face scrunching up as though he’d tasted something sour. “Don’t make me feel good about this, Evans.”

Lily just laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Sorry, love. It’s my job.”

Remus chuckled. “Just watch mate.”

~~~

“My dazzling girl!” Barty called down from the steps as he hurried down. You couldn't help but feel a humiliating bubbling of excitement in your chest. Normally, you wouldn't be so shameless and public with your affections, but since dating the brazen Bartemius, you had forgotten what it meant to hold private affections.

“My brilliant boy.” You cooed back and he hurried across the yard to meet you. “How was it?”

“Dreadful. Humiliating. Humbling.” He rambled and stepped closer to you, taking your hand and kissing it, before slowly leading the kiss up your arm to your neck. You laughed and attempted to free yourself, only for him to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you in, flush against him. “You simply must make me feel better.”

“It was only practice!” You laughed and cupped his cheeks in your hands, stilling his unconventional attack before it could reach your face. He gave you that signature woman eating smile with dimples that pressed so far into his cheeks you could about die. “It couldn't have been that bad.”

“It was, you see.” He started and gave you a playfully firm dip before he spun you around to scoop you back up to a proper stand. “There was this dazzling girl-”

“You've used dazzling for today, Barty.” You teased and he gave you a wolfish grin.

“This beautiful, magnificent, breathtaking, awe inspiring-”

“Barty!” You laughed and he leaned in with a flurry of kisses to your cheek, effectively freeing himself from your hands.

“Irresistible, bewitching, stunning-”

“Barty-”

“Absolutely exquisite witch who promised to watch my every game, and yet, not this one.” He moped and you shook your head.

“That was practice, my love.” You muttered and he gasped.

“And thus it does not deserve your full undivided attention?”

You couldn’t hold back the giggle that escaped your lips, your hands playfully swatting at his chest as you shook your head. “You’re insufferable, Bartemius Crouch.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” Barty countered, his grin widening into something wickedly charming as he tugged you closer. “Which makes you either as mad as me or utterly bewitched. Shall we flip a coin to decide?”

“Bewitched, obviously,” You teased, raising an eyebrow as you leaned in closer. “But don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Crouch.”

“Too late.” He replied with a laugh, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your cheek. “My head’s been full of you for years, my star. You’ve left no room for anything else. I think it's only fair I consume your every thought from now on.”

“Sweet words don’t excuse your theatrics.” You teased, your hands gently slipping to his shoulders as you pretended to push him away, though neither of you truly let go. “You’re going to give James a heart attack if you keep this up.”

Barty’s grin turned mischievous, and he tilted his head to glance toward the courtyard where your brother and his friends were undoubtedly watching. “Good,” He said with mock seriousness, his tone laced with humor. “If I can survive Quidditch practice, he can survive the sight of me adoring his sister.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the smile off your face as you sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re perfect,” He murmured, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. “So I think that makes us even.”

“Even?” You repeated with a laugh, shaking your head as you leaned your forehead against his. “I think it makes you a menace.”

“I’ll take it,” Barty replied, his voice softer now, his green eyes locked onto yours with a sincerity that made your heart skip. “As long as it means I get to keep you.”

For a moment, the playful banter between you faded, replaced by the weight of his words and the warmth of his presence. You knew the world saw Barty as reckless, obsessive, even dangerous. But in moments like this, when he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him, it was hard not to feel the same pull that had always drawn you to him.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You said softly, your hands brushing down his arms before entwining your fingers with his. “Just… promise me you’ll try not to antagonize James too much. He’s already halfway to pulling his hair out.”

Barty smirked, his dimple deepening in that way that always made your heart flutter. “No promises,” He teased, though the glint in his eye told you he’d try- for you, if nothing else.

“Bartemius Crouch,” You huffed, feigning sternness as you tugged his hand. “I mean it.”

“And I mean it when I say you’re irresistible,” He countered, spinning you again for good measure before pulling you back into his arms. “Now, my alluring, charming, pretty girl- are you ready to make James’s day a little more unbearable?”

You let out a laugh, the sound bright and lighthearted, as he laced your fingers together and led you back toward the courtyard. You could already see the exasperation on James’s face from across the field, but Merlin did you hear it. Him and Lily.

“I wasn't THAT bad!”

“Oh yes you were!”

~~~

It was a quiet afternoon in the Gryffindor common room when James finally let out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t take it anymore!” He exclaimed, startling Lily, who had been peacefully reading beside him.

“What now?” She asked, though the amused quirk of her lips showed she already knew the answer.

“It’s them,” James hissed, pointing toward the window where you and Barty were clearly visible in the courtyard below. You were both sitting on the edge of the fountain, laughing at something Barty had said as he carefully wrapped a scarf around your neck, adjusting it as though it were a delicate treasure. “They’re insufferable.”

“They’re adorable,” Lily corrected, leaning over to peek out the window. She sighed softly, her expression turning fond as she watched Barty tuck your hair behind your ear and press a quick kiss to your temple. “Look at him. He absolutely dotes on her.”

“Exactly!” James groaned again. “Dotes! It’s unnatural. He’s supposed to be a Crouch-brooding and conniving, not… not whatever that is.”

“Love,” Remus supplied calmly, not even looking up from his book.

“Obsessive devotion,” Sirius added with a smirk, throwing a piece of popcorn into his mouth as he sprawled on the armchair.

“Same thing,” Lily said with a shrug. “And besides, James, weren’t you the same way with me? You practically worshipped the ground I walked on.”

“Still do,” Sirius muttered, earning a glare from James and a stifled laugh from Lily.

“That’s different,” James argued, his voice petulant. “I wasn’t… that. Look at him! He’s practically wrapped around her finger.”

“And she’s wrapped around his,” Lily pointed out, motioning toward the window again. Sure enough, Barty had pulled you to your feet and was holding your hand as he led you toward the castle steps, pausing every few moments to make you laugh with his animated gestures.

“He carries her books half the time,” Sirius added. “And she carries his cloak when he forgets it.”

“She fixes his collar when it's crooked,” Remus chimed in. “And he charms her quills when they snap.”

James groaned louder, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re not helping.”

“Prongs,” Sirius said with a chuckle, sitting up and clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve got to admit, they’re good together. Annoyingly good, yes, but still.”

“Annoying is an understatement,” James grumbled, but his protests faltered as the portrait hole swung open and you entered the room, Barty trailing behind you with an armful of books and an easy grin on his face.

You turned to him with an exasperated laugh. “You didn’t have to carry all of them, you know. I can manage.”

“Nonsense,” Barty replied smoothly, setting the books down on a nearby table before tugging at his crooked collar. “If I can’t carry a few books for my treasure, what kind of wizard am I?”

“A dramatic one,” You teased, stepping closer to him to fix his collar with practiced ease. “There. All better.”

“And this is why I adore you,” He said, grinning as he caught your hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss.

James let out a strangled noise from the couch, causing you to turn with a startled look. “Everything alright, Jamie?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Perfectly fine,” he said through gritted teeth, glaring at Barty, who had the audacity to wink at him.

Lily leaned over to whisper in James’s ear, her voice low but teasing. “Admit it, James. You’re just mad he treats her as well as you treat me.”

James’s face turned scarlet, and Sirius howled with laughter, nearly toppling out of his chair. “Got you there, mate!”

~~~

The clatter of hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor as you stopped in your tracks, turning just in time to see Barty sprinting toward you with an energy that bordered on reckless. His tie was slightly askew, his school robes flaring behind him as he called out, his voice full of dramatic flair, “Treasure! You simply must hear this- you’ll have no choice but to reward me with a kiss once you hear of my heroics.”

You furrowed your brow but couldn’t suppress the amused smile tugging at your lips. He always had a way of making everything sound like the most exciting tale in the world. As he skidded to a halt in front of you, panting slightly but grinning ear to ear, you took a moment to properly look at him.

For once, Barty had made an effort with his appearance. His robes, usually a little wrinkled or hanging off his shoulders in that endearingly careless way, were perfectly straightened. His tie was knotted neatly (if a little loose), and his hair was slicked back in a way that made your stomach twist, the gleaming coil of one rebellious strand falling charmingly over his forehead. He was maddening, and he knew it.

“Oh?” You replied, your voice playful as you arched a brow.

Barty straightened, smoothing the lapels of his robe with an exaggerated air of importance. “Correct me if I’m wrong- I hardly ever am- but you look like you might just kiss me unprompted.”

Your cheeks flamed at his words, the boldness of his statement making your heart skip. “Crouch!” You hissed, swatting lightly at his chest in mock indignation.

He caught your hand easily, holding it against his chest with a dramatic sigh. “See? Even your instincts betray you. Your heart is telling you to reward me already.”

“And what exactly did you do to earn this so-called reward?” You asked, your tone laced with amusement.

He tilted his head, his dimpled grin widening as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I managed to survive an entire Transfiguration class without turning our professor’s patience into dust. Surely that deserves a small token of appreciation.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head at his antics. “That’s your big heroic tale? Restraint in a single class?”

“Not just any class,” He countered, pulling you closer with the hand still held captive against his chest. “A full fifty minutes of maintaining decorum. You, of all people, should know what a trial that is for me.”

“Decorum, huh?” You teased, your lips twitching as you fixed his slightly frazzled lapel. “Then why are you so out of breath, running down the halls like a maniac?”

“Because the faster I reached you, the sooner I’d get my reward.” He grinned, tilting his head closer to yours. “Now, treasure, let’s not delay-”

“Barty!” You cut him off with a laugh, stepping back to put some space between you. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, utterly smitten,” He said cheekily, but there was a softness in his eyes that made your chest ache. He reached out, brushing an errant strand of hair from your face, and you felt your heart skip again.

Before you could respond, a voice broke through the moment, sharp and incredulous. “You two are going to make me lose my mind.”

You both turned to see James standing a few feet away, arms crossed and a look of pure exasperation on his face. Sirius was behind him, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Remus stood a little further back, his book tucked under one arm, an amused glint in his eye.

“Honestly, mate,” James continued, throwing his hands up. “Must you be this dramatic? She’s my sister, not the bloody queen.”

“And yet,” Barty said smoothly, not missing a beat as he turned to James with a smirk, “she deserves nothing less than a royal treatment.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face as Sirius burst out laughing, clapping him on the back. “He’s got a point, Prongs.”

You shook your head, trying to suppress your own laughter, but Barty caught your chin with gentle fingers, turning your gaze back to him. “Pay no mind to the peanut gallery,” He said softly, his tone dropping to something more intimate. “I’m only interested in you, treasure.”

Your heart swelled, and for a moment, you forgot all about James’s groaning, Sirius’s laughter, and the knowing look Remus was undoubtedly giving. All you could see was Barty- your boy, maddeningly confident yet infinitely tender, his green eyes locked onto yours as if you were the only person in the world.

And as maddening as it was, he certainly did deserve that kiss.

~~~

The firelight flickered warmly in the Potter living room as the group gathered for the holidays. Snow had blanketed the grounds outside, creating a cozy atmosphere inside the bustling house. You were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hands. James sat nearby, watching with a sharp eye as Barty leaned down to adjust the blanket around your legs, making sure you were tucked in properly.

The sight grated on James- he was used to being the one to look after you, his little sister, not this Crouch boy who had somehow wormed his way into your life. But then Barty turned, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside you, and James found himself watching the interaction more closely than he’d care to admit.

“You didn’t have to go out into the cold to fetch the marshmallows, you know,” You said softly, your voice filled with affection as you sipped your drink.

“Of course I did,” Barty replied, grinning up at you. “Your hot chocolate isn’t complete without them. It’s a crime to deprive you of anything less than perfection.”

James rolled his eyes, but Lily elbowed him gently, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Watch,” She whispered.

As if on cue, you reached for the plate of marshmallows to pop one into your drink, but Barty’s hand shot out to stop you. “Ah, ah, allow me,” He said with a dramatic flair, picking out the largest marshmallow with precision. He placed it delicately into your mug before handing it back with a flourish. “Perfectly placed, as all marshmallows should be.”

You laughed, a bright sound that made James pause. He couldn’t deny that it was genuine, the kind of laugh he hadn’t heard from you in a long time. And the way Barty looked at you in response- like your happiness was the only thing that mattered- made James’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

As the night went on, James watched the two of you more closely. It wasn’t just the over-the-top gestures or the playful banter; it was the way Barty noticed the smallest things about you. How he shifted your mug away when he noticed you leaning too far forward, how he reached for the book you’d left on the side table before you even asked for it, how he listened intently to every word you said, his focus unwavering.

Merlin even their parents loved him.

Later, when the others had dispersed to different parts of the house, James found himself in the kitchen with Barty. The younger boy was rinsing out a mug, his usual bravado toned down in the quiet moment.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” James asked suddenly, his voice steady but curious.

Barty looked up, surprised by the question. But then his expression softened, and he nodded. “More than anything,” He said simply, his tone devoid of his usual dramatics. “She’s everything to me, Potter.”

James leaned against the counter, his arms crossed as he studied Barty carefully. “You know, if you hurt her, I’ll-”

“Spend every waking moment trying to kill me?” Barty interrupted with a small, knowing smile. “I know. But you won’t have to. Because I’d rather tear myself apart than see her hurt.”

James blinked, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in Barty’s voice. For the first time, he saw past the theatrics and charm, and what he found there surprised him. There was a genuine devotion, a steadfastness that even James couldn’t deny.

“You’re good to her,” James said finally, his voice quieter. “Better than I thought you’d be.”

Barty smirked, but there was no arrogance in it this time- only a quiet confidence. “She deserves nothing less.”

James nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. For the first time, he found himself believing that maybe- just maybe- Barty Crouch wasn’t the worst person his sister could have chosen. In fact, as he watched Barty quietly return the mug to the cupboard, James couldn’t help but think that she might have chosen someone who truly knew how to love her the way she deserved.

~~~

The tension between you and Barty had been simmering all day, ever since that small disagreement in the courtyard earlier. It wasn’t anything monumental- just one of his reckless decisions clashing with your cautious nature- but it had left you feeling irritated and, perhaps, a little hurt.

Now, as you sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, picking at your dinner, the weight of the silence between you lingered in the back of your mind. Barty hadn’t come to sit with you, choosing instead to stay at the Ravenclaw table. Every so often, you caught him sneaking a glance your way, but neither of you made a move to close the distance.

“You’re brooding,” Lily said gently, nudging your arm with her elbow.

“I’m not brooding,” You replied, though your tone lacked conviction.

“She’s brooding,” Sirius confirmed from across the table, earning a glare from you. “You’ve got that ‘he’s an idiot, but I still love him’ look all over your face. I'm very familiar."

You rolled your eyes, but before you could retort, Remus leaned in, his voice calm and measured. “You know, he’s been sulking at the Ravenclaw table since lunch. Practically hasn’t touched his food.”

“I don’t care,” You muttered, stabbing at your mashed potatoes.

“Sure, you don’t,” James said, his tone laced with sarcasm as he leaned back in his seat. “That’s why you’ve been glancing at him every five minutes.”

“I have not,” You snapped, though your cheeks flushed in betrayal.

James smirked, folding his arms across his chest. “Look, I’ll admit it- he’s an absolute pain sometimes. But he’s your pain, and frankly, I’ve put a lot of effort into liking this one. Don’t break his heart.”

The entire table froze. Lily’s fork clattered against her plate, and Sirius let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, slapping a hand over his mouth like he’d just heard the most scandalous news of the year.

“Did… did you just admit you like him?” Remus asked, his tone full of disbelief.

James shifted uncomfortably under the weight of everyone’s stares. “I didn’t say I like him,” He grumbled, though the tips of his ears burned red. “I just said I’ve put in the time.”

“That’s the same thing, mate,” Sirius said with a grin. “And we’re never letting you live this down.”

Lily laughed, nudging James playfully. “I think it’s sweet. It only took him months of watching them make heart eyes at each other to admit it.”

“Shut it, Evans,” James muttered, though his scowl softened as his gaze flicked to you. “Seriously, though. He’s mad about you. Don’t let this stupid fight ruin something good.”

You blinked at your brother, caught somewhere between gratitude and shock. “You really think that?”

James sighed, his expression softening. “Yeah. I do. Just… go talk to him, alright? Put me out of my misery.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you as you stood, smoothing out your robes. “Fine. But if he’s still being a prat, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair,” James said, though he shot you a rare, encouraging smile.

As you crossed the Great Hall, you could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, the murmurs from the Gryffindor table blending with the soft hum of conversation around the room. When you reached the Ravenclaw table, Barty looked up, his green eyes widening in surprise as you stopped beside him.

“Treasure,” He started, his voice tentative, but you held up a hand to stop him.

“We need to talk,” You said firmly, though the corner of your lips twitched upward.

Barty stood immediately, his end of the bench scraping against the stone floor. “Anything. Anywhere.”

You nodded toward the doors, and he followed without hesitation, leaving behind his untouched dinner and a flurry of whispers in his wake.

Back at the Gryffindor table, James let out a heavy sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. “Finally.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sirius said, shaking his head in mock astonishment. “Prongs has feelings. Actual, human feelings.”

“Don’t push it, Padfoot,” James muttered, though the faint smile on his face betrayed him.

Lily rested her chin on her hand, watching as you and Barty disappeared through the doors. “I think it’s sweet. He finally gets it.”

“Better late than never,” Remus added with a small smile. “Though I’m sure he’ll deny it by morning.”

Sirius, smirked devilishly and Lily’s smile twitched just a bit.

“It's almost like we didn't catch them snogging a few days ago.” He sang and James's face turned pale and his eyes widened.

James shot up from his seat so quickly that his table toppled backward, the loud clatter echoing through the Great Hall. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Sirius threw his head back in laughter, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice, while Lily covered her mouth with her hand, clearly enjoying the chaos.

“I said,” Sirius repeated slowly, his grin widening, “it’s almost like we didn’t catch them snogging a few days ago. Almost.”

“You- you WHAT?” James sputtered, looking between Sirius and Lily with a mixture of horror and betrayal. “And you didn’t tell me? Evans! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side,” Lily said, struggling to keep her composure as she shrugged innocently. “I just didn’t think it was a big deal. They’re dating, James. What did you expect?”

“What did I- what did I- NOT THAT!” James shouted, flailing his arms toward the doors where you and Barty had disappeared. “I didn’t expect him to be sticking his tongue down her throat in public!”

“It wasn’t public,” Sirius said with a mockingly thoughtful expression. “It was a little alcove near the library, actually. Quite private. You’d be proud of them, Prongs- very stealthy, very romantic. A solid 9 out of 10.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Remus finally chimed in, his tone calm but amused. “James, they’re in a relationship. This isn’t exactly shocking.”

“It is to me!” James snapped, glaring at Remus as if he’d just committed treason. “And you lot just sat on this information like it was nothing?”

“Mate, you’ve been watching them practically live in each other’s pockets for months now,” Sirius said, still grinning. “I figured you’d have put it together by now.”

Lily patted James’s arm consolingly, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. “I think you’re just mad because you’re starting to like Barty, and this makes it harder for you to yell at him.”

James opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He closed his mouth, glaring at the table as his face turned an impressive shade of red.

“Admit it, Prongs,” Sirius said, leaning forward with a gleeful grin. “You like him. He’s grown on you.”

“I don’t like him,” James muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I tolerate him. For her.”

“You tolerate him enough to tell her not to break his heart,” Remus pointed out, his lips twitching.

James groaned again, collapsing back into his seat with the air of a man defeated. “Fine. I don’t hate him. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Sirius said with a wink. “Though I’d be happier if you didn’t look like you were about to throw a fit every time you saw them hold hands.”

Lily leaned in closer, her voice soft but teasing. “He loves her, James. And she loves him. That’s not something you need to fight.”

James sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, well… if he hurts her, it’s still open season.”

“Fair enough,” Sirius said with a laugh. “But you’ll have to get in line behind her. She’s got a mean right hook.”

The table erupted into laughter, and even James couldn’t help but crack a small smile. Somewhere beyond the Great Hall doors, you and Barty were likely making amends, and for the first time, James felt a reluctant sort of peace about it.

He still didn’t like Barty- he probably never would- but he could admit, quietly and only to himself, that the boy made you happy. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[sweetsbelcva]

Castle Crumbling | Jack Abbot x Reader

⟡ He seems to know you better than anyone. A bloody nose and a quiet moment get him talking more than he wants to and feels the wall crumbling.

— fem!reader. No body/appearance descriptions. Age gap (20s and 40s). Reader is a resident and Jack the attending. Mentions of blood. Moments before a mass casualty event. Grumpy x Sunshine kind of.

a/n: This will have more parts because i want to explore this dynamic and i have more ideas but feel free to request and join the conversation!

— masterlist

Jack has never met someone that keeps him on the edge. Never. Veteran, an attending physician, and famous for his stoic face. There's no way you're breaking him.

"Hey, give me a break alright?" you say, sarcastic tone on each of your words.

Jack lets out a scoff that seemed a little too amused, arms crossing over his chest at your request. He looked at you like he was about to tell you to suck it up and get back in the ring.

"A break?" he asked, but his tone was softer than usual. Not exactly concerned,because this was you, after all. But still. "You okay?," his eyes lingered on your face for a moment too long. "You look like hell."

"I know, thank you!" You chuckle, getting ready to go stand close to the pink zone with Mel. Looking around the ER everyone looked tired until a second ago, a mass casualty coming in.

"Where do you think you are going?" he asked dryly, stopping you in your tracks with a firm hand on your shoulder although it was obvious it was a command. He looks for your gaze, you do look like hell.

He didn't even need to tell you why. You already knew exactly why he was pulling you back. He knew you hated being treated like a kid, but there was a slight look of worry on his face. He knows you, maybe too much already.

"But- Dr. Robby said..."

"I don't care what Robby said." the grip on your wrist tightening a little bit as he pulled you closer by his side. He had an annoyingly good way of making you feel so small, basically wrapping you up in his palm.

"You go to the sidelines" Or with me, his mind finished, but he didn't dare say it out loud. "Until you feel better" his eyes scan your face.

"Mel needs help," you say, knowing any excuse that i give him isn't enough.

Goddammit. He heard your excuse, rolling his eyes again. He was so tired of the constant power struggle between the two of you. You were relentless when it came to trying to defy him. He had an urge to just throw you over his shoulder and put you in the break room just so you wouldn't get into any trouble.

"You are my resident." He argued. "That means you listen to what i say."

You look at him, his gaze is heavy on you. Looking for any sign on his face. Her reminds professional, but also controlling.

"Alright," you say, hiding the smile that was coming off your lips. It falls as a smirk. "I’ll do what you say, fine"

He caught your smirk for a flash, raising an eyebrow as he noticed you trying to hide it. But he said nothing about it, letting his hand slowly drop from your wrist.

"Good" he said simply, returning to rearrange his go-bag with a few practical kits. But before you could run free again, he caught the slight frown on your face "Come with me."

You nod, following him. At the center of the pitt Dana is yelling the first ambulances will arrive in exactly five minutes.

Jack gave one last look around the entire pitt before he started walking, keeping a close watch on you to make sure you were following.He lead you to a spot in the hallway with an empty gurney, resting his left hand on the bed as he gestured for you to sit.

"Sit there" he said dryly, disappearing into a small supply closet before he pulled out a pack of gauzes.

"What?" you ask, sitting down. Then you see him disappear but a strange ring in your ears comes, blood running down your nose. You see him come out of the supply closet. It’s like he knew.

You place your fingers on the bridge of your nose, pinching softly and lean your head back. "How did you know?"

Jack rolled his eyes again at your shocked and confused face, letting out a soft scoff as he walked towards you— stopping right in front of you.

"i know you more than you think, smartass." He confesses. He gently, but firmly, grasped your chin between his fingers. "Let me see."

You gasp at his touch, the blush in your face doesn’t go unnoticed.

"It's fine" you say, letting him take care of you. Your heart beats so fast you’re scared he will listen. Your blood soaked hand hanging in the air.

Jack lets out a soft grunt as he took your hand in his. He always seemed so stoic and expressionless to everyone else, but he he was actually a huge softie when it came to you. In his head, at least.

Jack started to clean up the blood with a gauze, soft touches, making sure to clean you up without hurting you unnecessarily.

"I told you not to overexert yourself"

"Seriously, how did you see this coming?"

"I have my eye on you all the time." he said bluntly, throwing away the soaked gauze in his hand. He gently held your chin again, tilting your head towards him to properly look up your nose. He had a serious yet focused look on his face he was more concerned than he let on.

"I'm fine, Dr. Abbot" you say, it comes out more unsettling, your feelings bubbling up inside you. You can't help but smile softly at the fact he has his eye on you.

Secretly, he’s enjoying looking after you, care touches and his controlling demeanor.

"The hell you aren't, smartass" Jack said, scoffing softly as he leaned in closer and he started to help plug up your nose, pausing to look at you again.

"Well, you are a smartass too"

"Sure" he shrugs, his touch leaving your skin. Already missing the contact. "It helps me to do my job, but somehow you always seem to disarm me"

There was an amused look on your face as he secured the gauze properly in your nose. The bleeding would stop soon and you'd be able to go back to work.

You froze once he spoke, raising an eyebrow at his confession. Disarm?

"Is it because we argue?" you ask, your tone shy now.

"Oh please," he said dryly, his attention now directed back to you. He couldn't ignore the way his breath caught up on his throat as he looked at you. "Everyone knows you have some sort of way to get under my skin"

"Oh... But it's fun" you say, shrugging your shoulders.

"Fun?" his face not changing from the usual dry look. He was used to everyone looking at him with respect, never daring to push his buttons. But you did.

"Thank you... by the way"

You fall into a silence, a comfortable one. While you admire his features and he turns away, grunting and looking around the ER.

Jack places his palms against the gurney, and each arm around you almost cages you in. The sound of the ambulances and people already running out to help gets him out off his trance. He grunts again, getting up to stand tall again and not looking at you. He had said some things to you... It was better not to speak again unless its work related.

"Let’s go save some lives, Dr. Abbot" you break the silence again. Ignoring the pang in your chest as he pulls away from your body.

He knew you were right, it definitely wasn't the time to be distracted by you. He'd be an idiot to say that you weren't distracting, but he had to focus on work right now—not whatever it was that was going on between the two of you.

⟡ If you like it please reblog and comment. If you want more you can request!

⟡ dividers by cafekitsune / gif by patrick-stewart