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stllmnstr · 11 months ago

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sacred monsters: part one

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, vampire au, slow burn

part one word count: 19.3k

part one warnings: swearing, blood and all sorts of other vampire-y things, semi graphic descriptions/depictions of violence, I don't know anything about publishing and wrote about it anyway, not quite as much in this part, but I want to forewarn you that while there is still nothing explicit, we do get a little ~sexier~ than most stllmnstr fics

note/disclaimer: I have been itching to write an enha vampire fic for ages because hello? the material is RIGHT THERE!! this is a story I'm super excited about, and it's definitely gotten me out of my comfort zone. in order to help build this world, I did draw from some outside sources. primarily, a lot of the vampire lore and some plot elements are inspired by the dark moon webtoon series. I did also pull some things from twilight and other well-known vampire myths. lastly, there is a section with "poetry" in it. these "poems" are translated lyrics from still monster, chaconne, and lucifer by enhypen. some are in their original form and some I altered slightly. everything else is straight from yours truly! as always, happy reading ♡

soundtrack: still monster / moonstruck / lucifer - enhypen / everybody wants to rule the world - tears for fears / immortal - marina / supermassive black hole - muse / saturn - sleeping at last / everybody’s watching me (uh oh) - the neighbourhood

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A literature student in your third year of university, you’ve been dreaming of having your writing published for as long as you can remember. With a perfect opportunity dangling at your fingertips, the only obstacle that stands in your way comes in the form of a ridiculously tall, stupidly handsome, and unfortunately, very talented writer by the name of Lee Heeseung. Unwilling to let your dream slip out of reach, you commit to being better than the aforementioned pain in your ass at absolutely everything.

But when a string of vampire attacks strikes close to your city for the first time in nearly two hundred years, publishing is suddenly the last thing on your mind. And, as you soon begin to discover, Heeseung may not quite be the person you thought he was.

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The last sip of your coffee tastes bitter on your tongue. Acidic, like it was left to brew too long. Or maybe not long enough. Your limited knowledge of coffee extends to its effects on your alertness and little else.

Taste has always been an afterthought, something of little consequence. Besides, some bitterness is to be expected when you take your coffee black.

Suppressing the small wince that always follows your final sip, you set the reusable thermos down on your desk. Next to your open notebook and favorite ballpoint pen, it settles in nicely with your other class essentials.

Call it poetic or romantic or unbearably pretentious, but you actually do prefer to take your notes by hand. Partly because it feels more fitting for a literature major and mostly because your laptop is on its last leg and between tuition and rent, you don’t exactly have the funds to shell out for a new one.

Frowning at the bitter taste that still lingers on your tongue, you feel another pang of regret for forgetting to pack your water bottle this morning. But no matter. Today is a day for optimism. The bitterness now only means that your imminent victory will taste that much sweeter in comparison.

Because today is the last day of the fall semester of your third year. Which means that this is the last morning you’ll be sitting here in this lecture hall in the minutes preceding 9 am.

Which means that today is the day of your professor’s long awaited announcement. You still remember the day, nearly four months ago, when he first told the entire room of undermotivated, overcaffeinated students about it.

A publishing opportunity. A real, actual publishing opportunity. Something most literature students would sell their soul for.

Because Professor Kim, while a rather mediocre professor who prefers to dish out criticism and bite back praise, has an excellent eye for great writing. So much so that nearly twenty years ago, he founded his very own publishing house.

Known by the name New Haven Publishing, it’s a small operation that deals mostly in short pieces that are marketed more for niche literary circles than mass public appeal. Being published by New Haven may not be a straight shot to the New York Times’ Best Sellers List, but it’s still professional publishing.

And a week into classes, he announced that for the first time ever, he would be choosing one of you to not only intern at New Haven the following semester, but also to publish an original piece of short fiction with them.

You’ve been fantasizing about it for months now. You can already imagine it. A piece of your very own, marketed and edited by professionals. Published and complete with Professor Kim’s stamp of approval.

It’s what you’ve been craving ever since you decided to switch paths and pursue literature studies at the end of your first semester. It’s everything you’re sure you need. Validation that your writing is good, that your words are worth reading.

Hell, maybe it will even earn you the approval of your parents.

And, perhaps most satisfying of all, you will have officially beaten Lee Heeseng once and for all. You don’t want to speak poorly of the rest of your classmates and their writing abilities, but this has always been a competition between you and him.

Or, at least, it has been for you.

It’s the last day of the semester, and honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if Heeseung still had a hard time remembering that the internship was even happening. Then again, you wouldn’t exactly be shocked if he couldn't remember your name, either.

And if you were hard pressed to choose only one thing, that would probably be what annoys you the most about him. Not the way his hair is alway somehow perfectly mussed. Not the way his writing is painfully beautiful and poetic that you swell green with envy just thinking about it.

No, the root cause of your infinite ire when it comes to Lee Heeseung is how damn aloof he is. Like his classmates and professors and even his greatest rival aren’t worth the effort of remembering.

And it’s not like it’s because he’s got some kind of crazy social life outside of academics. Other than mandatory discussion groups, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so much as talk to anyone.

But that’s just the way he is, you suppose.

Perfect Heeseung with his perfect hair and his perfect writing and perfect attendance record doesn’t need anyone but himself—

Wait.

Perfect attendance record.

Glancing at the clock mounted high above the front door of the lecture hall, you can hardly believe what you’re seeing.

8:59.

There’s no way. There’s no fucking way that the universe is rooting for you this hard, that the stars are aligning this perfectly.

Despite your doubts, the second hand continues its onward march. You suppress the sudden urge to bounce your leg in a matching rhythm.

He has five seconds.

Four. Three. Two. One.

And it’s official. A ridiculous amount of pent up tension drains from your shoulders as your spine straightens. You can’t believe it was that easy.

A semester of agonizing over every word, every sentence, every assignment you handed in for this class. A semester of panicking over missed buses and waking up way too early just to make sure you always beat the clock.

But today is the day where everything comes to a head.

And Lee Heeseung is officially late.

Professor Kim, at the beginning of the semester, had only two pieces of advice to offer his students that were suddenly all gunning for a shot at being published:

One: “Don’t make me read awful writing.”

And two: “Don’t be late to class. I have zero tolerance for tardiness.”

Heeseung has just broken a cardinal rule. One row down, nine seats to the left from where you sit. It’s the place that would usually be filled with an annoyingly broad set of shoulders and distractingly sharp jawline. In fact, Heeseung usually beats you here most days. Not that you’re keeping track, of course. And not that it matters.

Because this morning, this fateful morning, that particular seat, his seat, is glaringly, gloriously empty.

Your eyes flicker over to it again without your permission. But you can’t help it. You’re so antsy now, teeming with self-satisfied excitement. It’s almost unbelievable actually. A golden stroke of luck that he chose today, of all days, to be late.

In fact, you think the more you stare at the empty seat, Lee Heeseung is such a reliable presence that the entire lecture hall suddenly seems a bit off kilter. Tilted too far in some precarious state of imbalance.

Your smugness is still there, yes, but now there’s also a heavy feeling beginning to settle at the bottom of your gut. Why on earth is Lee Heeseung late?

You’re so distracted by his absence, the endless loop of possibilities and explanations running through your mind, that you almost miss the second abnormality of the morning.

Because now the clock reads 9:04, and Heeseung isn’t the only one missing.

All at once, your attention is on the podium at the front of the lecture hall. It’s empty, too. And Professor Kim may be a hardass, but he’s no hypocrite. Never once throughout this entire semester has he ever begun a class even a millisecond late.

Frowning, you pull out your phone to confirm that the clock on the wall is not playing tricks on you. Maybe there was a power outage or something, and maintenance hasn’t had time to correct it yet.

But your phone screen lights up, and 9:05 is the time that stares back at you.

Glancing around, no one else seems too particularly bothered by this. There are a few titters, a few annoyed grumbles that sound like hypocrite and double standard where they reach your ears.

But still, the clock ticks forward.

The minute hand has fallen another two notches when the front door finally opens, Professor Kim striding in unhurried. Despite his lateness, his steps are steady, even. There’s nothing frantic or apologetic about the way he sets his briefcase down next to the podium, pulling out his laptop and a small stack of notes before clearing his throat.

As the students around you fall silent, class begins as it always does. Other than the time, nothing is out of the ordinary.

But your spirits are still high, and you figure you can cut your professor some slack. Maybe he ran into a bad bit of traffic or spilled coffee all over his shirt. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to draw more attention to his error and has decided that not acknowledging it at all is the best course of action.

Oh, well. It’s no use ruminating on it now. Settling back into your seat, you do your best to focus your attention on the front of the room and not that damn empty chair. But the distraction isn’t necessary for long.

The clock is just striking 9:12 when a second late arrival draws the eyes of the class to the front door of the lecture hall. Like your professor, Heeseung maintains a certain air of composedness as he makes his way towards his seat wordlessly.

There’s a moment, a fraction of a second, where Professor Kim pauses, letting a sentence drift into silence.

Twelve minutes late. It’s a rookie mistake. For a fleeting moment, you almost feel bad for him. Because surely Professor Kim is about to make an example of him. No one walks into his lectures late and leaves unscathed.

Wincing, you remember a handful of weeks ago when a poor girl that sits a few rows behind you arrived late. Not only had Professor Kim stopped the entire flow of his lecture to draw attention to her tardiness, he had also assigned her an extra short story for homework. One on the merits of punctuality.

But the ebb in the lecture begins to flow again, the moment passing as soon as it comes. Heeseung settles into his chair. Your professor resumes his sentence.

For the remainder of the class, you do your best to pay attention, but you’re having trouble finding a point. It’s not like he can assign homework or an exam or a discussion on the last day of the semester.

Like you, most of your peers are fully zoned out, just waiting for him to get to what everyone has been dying to know for months.

Who’s interning at New Haven? Who’s getting published?

But distractions in this class have never been hard to come by. More than once, you find your wandering gaze drifting to the back of Heeseung’s head. Usually, you’d be bitterly admiring how soft his hair looks. But today, there’s only one question that plays in your mind as you stare.

What on earth happened that made perfect Lee Heeseung late?

Your thoughts are only interrupted by the sudden shuffle of small movement around you as everyone sits up a bit straighter in their seats.

“Ah,” Professor Kim glances at the time. “That wraps up our semester, then. As promised, I would like to announce the student who will be interning with New Haven Publishing this upcoming semester. And, of course, the student that will have the opportunity to publish an original piece with us.”

He pauses for a moment, looking down at his notes. You wonder if the people sitting close to you can hear the way your heart pounds in your chest.

Please be me. Please be me. Please be me.

The rushing in your ears is so loud that you almost miss it. But not quite. Because the sound of your own name is something you’d recognize anywhere.

Because it was your name that he said. Not anyone else’s. Not Heeseung’s.

You. You did it.

You’re officially going to be interning with New Haven. You’re going to be published.

When he asks you to stay a minute after class to discuss the details, it’s all you can do to nod. Butterflies are still scattered in your stomach.

As the rest of the students begin to file out, you pack up your materials with hands that shake slightly. It doesn’t feel real. It feels too good to be true. You poured your everything into this all semester long, and now it’s actually happening.

Your mind is a mess, and an erratic movement almost sends your empty thermos flying. Luckily, you snap out of it long enough to catch it before it hits the ground. With everything packed back into your bag, you make your way down to the podium on slightly unsteady feet.

A handful of passing classmates congratulate you on their way out, and you smile in return.

You’ve almost made it to the front of the lecture hall when a body blocks your path. It takes a moment for your brain to register the identity of the offender. And once it does, it spits his name with venom. Heeseung.

Oblivious and self-centered as always, he nearly knocks you over. Rolling your eyes, you move to step around him. Apparently whatever gift he was given for writing doesn’t extend to his spatial awareness or consideration for others.

But as you lean to the left, he follows the movement, still in your path. Your gaze snaps up, eyebrows raised when you find him already looking at you.

Oh. So it’s not a spatial awareness problem, then. He’s in your way on purpose.

As always, his expression is infuriatingly blank. You can’t get any sort of read on him, and it unnerves you. Irritates you. Here he is, blocking your path, and the only thing he has to offer you is an empty, silent stare.

You could just say excuse me, force your way around him, and be done with it. You should. The semester is over, your professor’s decision is made, and you have no stake left in this game.

But you’ve been biting back snarky comments and masking irritated expressions with mild indifference for months. The nerve he has to block you. The utter gall of it all. To physically stand in your way when he’s been your metaphorical obstacle to success all semester.

When every time you look at him, you still remember that one sunny afternoon, early in the semester. The time you tried, actually tried to be his friend. When he waved you off like a buzzing fly that was nothing more than a nuisance.

You inhale, weighing your options. His head tilts slightly at the movement, and it’s your last straw.

There’s poison in your voice when you bite, “Oh, what? Now that I’ve proved myself, you can spare some time out of your day to talk to me?”

Heeseung’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly. It’s the most emotion you’ve ever seen from him, and he’s wasting it on shock. As if he can’t quite comprehend why the girl he’s been giving headaches for months might not want to stop and have a friendly chat with him. Not that you imagine he’d even be capable of that if you tried.

Already, you regret your comment. In a perfect world, you wouldn’t have said anything. You’d be just as detached and cold and aloof as he was on that day you hate to think about. You still remember it like it was yesterday. Without your permission, the memory floats front and center to your mind.

It was warmer, then. The last clutches of summer were still holding on tight. Sunlight was bright in the sky, and it felt like a good time to breach the barrier of your comfort zone.

Class had just ended. Usually, Heeseung was one of the first to leave. You had to pack up abnormally quickly just to catch him in the quad right outside the lecture hall.

But you did catch up to him.

And in a voice braver than you felt, you asked, “Hey, it’s Heeseung, right?”

You’d been brighter, then. Still full of an energy you haven’t been able to muster since midterms. Not yet burdened by the weight of assignments and rejection, your disposition was as sunny as the sky above.

Heeseung hadn’t bothered to dignify your question with an actual answer, but he had at least stopped walking, and that seemed like an invitation at the time. Now, with the power of hindsight, you wince. You should have spared yourself the regret.

You remember watching as he pulled out his earbuds, tucking them back into his pocket before turning his attention to you. Or at least half of it. Even then, you never felt like he was truly looking at you, hearing you. His mind always seemed off in the distance, preoccupied somewhere you could never quite reach.

You recall being nervous, heat in your cheeks as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes tracked the movement like a cat tracks a ray of sunlight. Lazily, intently. With an energy you weren’t quite sure what to do with.

Instead, you had stuttered, “I, uh, I wanted to tell you that I thought your analysis today was brilliant.” The worst part is that it really was a brilliant analysis. Although you’d never admit that today, and much less to his face.

Instead, you cringe just thinking about it. You should have taken his blank stare as a sign. You should have just let the one-sided conversation die there. With at least a little dignity and some of your pride left to spare.

But you hadn’t.

“I never thought about the use of sunlight as a metaphor for life. I mean, now that you’ve pointed it out, it seems kind of obvious.” The memory of your nervous giggles settle like rocks in your stomach. “Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling, but if you ever want to get together and look through assignments or review each other’s analyses, I’d love to—”

You’d heard his voice before, of course. In class discussions and presentations. But never this close. And never directed at you.

He kept it short, his interruption, his response to your shaky offer.

“I’m busy.”

And that was it. Two words. Two fucking words. And not even an explanation or an I’m sorry or a sheepish expression to go along with them.

With that, you’d watched, a bit helplessly, as he pulled his earbuds out of his pocket, put them back into his ears and turned away from you before you could realize just how thoroughly you’d been rejected.

With a sudden haze in the air and hope dying in your heart, your friendly smile slipped into confused dismay as you watched him track a steady path across the quad.

If your cheekbones felt warm before, you were sure they must have been aflame by then. After all, it was your body’s natural response to the crushing weight of the embarrassment and thoroughly bruised ego he’d left you there standing with.

Fine then, you’d resolved after walking as quickly as you could in the opposite direction, sending a prayer to the heavens that no one from your class had just witnessed the most mortifying interaction you’ve ever had. If Lee Heeseung wanted nothing to do with you, the feeling could be mutual.

In fact, it was probably for the best. You were vying for that internship and if the past class discussions were anything to go by, Heeseung would be your only real competition. If he was too busy for you, then you would just have to be too busy for him.

Too busy perfecting every assignment and acing every exam. Too busy drowning in dictionaries and thesauruses and reference materials to make sure everything you submitted was perfect — no, scratch that — better than perfect.

Too busy to attempt another conversation or interaction or do anything but nod along politely whenever he did make an unfortunately great point in class.

So, no. Heeseung doesn’t get to dictate your time or attention or conversation now that you’ve actually been awarded with a publishing opportunity, now that all of your efforts and dedication and late nights have paid off.

If Lee Heeseung wants a bit of your attention on today of all days, at this moment of all moments, then you’re just going to have to be too busy to entertain him.

Standing in front of you, still blocking your path to the podium, Heeseung has the nerve to look confused. As if you have no reason to give him the cold shoulder. As if you’re the one being unreasonable here.

His brow furrows further. “What?” It’s the third word he’s ever spoken directly to you. It makes your blood boil. “No, I…” he trails off. You can practically see the gears running in his mind, like this wasn’t the conversation he expected to be having. Like he has no idea how to navigate it now. “I was just going to say that you should maybe reconsider.”

Your voice is ice when you ask, “Reconsider what?”

“Well…” He’s treading in dangerous territory, and he seems to realize it too. “The internship,” he clarifies, and it’s the second most insulting thing he’s ever said to your face.

You screw your eyes shut. Cold and detached. Blank and aloof. All the things you should be. But you’ve always run a little hot. And end of the semester exhaustion finds you more willing to throw caution to the wind.

“You have got to be fucking with me.” Eyes reopening, you’re met with that same expression of mild shock. Brows raised, lips parted. And god, he even looks good like that. “Yeah, right. Let me guess, so you can do the internship and publish a piece of your own? If all you came over to do is insult me, then save your breath.”

“What?” He still looks so damn confused. “No, I—”

You don’t want to hear it. “I have nothing to say to you.” If he won’t get out of your way, you’ll just have to go through him. The shoulder check is maybe slightly more intense than it needs to be as you shove your way past him. He barely stumbles back an inch. It makes you want to rip your hair out. “Besides,” you add, not bothering to turn back to look at him. “I’m busy.”

It’s a dig at him, yes, but it’s also true. You are. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and Lee Heeseung is not about to ruin it for you.

To your unending gratitude, he doesn’t try to intercept you again. Your path to the front of the lecture hall is clear, and Professor Kim is just tucking his laptop back into his briefcase when you reach the podium.

Ultimately, it’s a watered down version of the million times you’ve imagined this moment in your head. Even coming on the tail end of the most annoying interaction you’ve had in months. Professor Kim congratulates you again, and hands you a printed schedule of when you’ll be expected at the publishing office for the first time.

There are also submission dates. Deadlines for you to submit drafts of the piece that you’ll be publishing. You take it all in with a beam and enthusiastic nods, mishap with Heeseung from minutes ago all but forgotten.

That is, until Professor Kim’s gaze lands somewhere over your shoulder after he tells you he’ll also send you a follow-up email with all the information you need.

You watch as his expression shifts, something uneasy, distrustful entering his gaze as he looks beyond you. “Something I can help you with, Mr. Lee?”

Following his gaze, you turn to look behind you. The lecture hall is empty, students cleared out from the class that dismissed nearly five minutes ago. All except for one, that is.

Gone is the shock from Heeseung’s delicately sharp features. Instead, he wears his mask of indifference again, betraying no emotion. You must be imagining the way it looks almost strained this time, as if he’s forcing his expression into neutrality instead of it there of its own accord.

Wordlessly, his gaze shifts to you.

And now it’s your turn to be confused, but you won’t let it last long. At least not outwardly. You’re quick to match his gaze with nothing but pure ire, venom dripping seeping from every inch of your glare.

Is he seriously still trying to ruin this for you? So much for being busy.

“No, sir.” Heeseung shakes his head. He’s addressing your professor, but he’s still looking at you. A muscle ticks in his jaw, betrays a hint of tension. “I was just on my way out.”

True to his word, he begins a steady descent towards the front door.

Your professor clears his throat, turns his attention back to you, resuming the wrap-up of your conversation.

You’re extra grateful for that follow-up email now, given the way movement in your periphery distracts you from Professor Kim’s last few statements. Instead, your focus hones in on the even footsteps that carry Heeseung to the door, allow him to slip through it silently.

It must be a trick of the light, must be a figment of your overworked, over irritated imagination. But you swear you see him linger there, just on the other side of the small glass window carved into the door.

Professor Kim says his parting words, and you thank him one final time. If there’s an unnatural quickness in your footsteps as you turn to leave, you tell yourself that it’s because you’re excited to get started on your draft, not because you have the sneaking suspicion Heeseung is still standing just on the other side of the door.

But you swear that’s his silhouette you see as you draw closer, shrouded in shadows but distinct all the same. You’re debating the merits of shouting at him or maybe accidentally shoulder checking him again as you pull open the door handle, a little more roughly than you intend.

But the only thing that greets you on the other side of the door is a nearly empty hallway, save for the pair of students bent over a laptop a few paces away. You ignore their twin expressions of shock as you let the door fall closed behind you, much more calmly than you opened it.

…..

The blank expanse of your notebook stares at you accusingly.

You’d stare back, if that would somehow make words appear on the page. Sighing, you reach for your long forgotten cup of tea sitting on your desk. Taking a slow sip, you realize it’s gone cold.

That just makes you double down on your frustration. How long have you been sitting here, waiting for inspiration to strike?

People always talk about the merits of a change in scenery, but ever since you started your first semester of university three years ago, your favorite place to write has always been here, at the small, simple desk that sits in the corner of your bedroom.

Back then, writing was a hobby. Something to do when the last of your biochemistry homework was finished. A way to release pent-up stress and tension from long days in the university lab and long hours feeling like you were drowning between all of the extra study sessions, TA workshops, and office hours.

At first, it had been worth it. You maintained high grades and high spirits. Mostly because of the small sprinkles of support your parents showered you with.

Every little You got this! that lit up your phone screen on dreary afternoons and We believe in you! that made your evening lectures a little more bearable felt like tokens of your parents’ affection. Something tangible to show for the care they held for you.

Most of all, you cherished the We’re proud of you messages. You can’t remember the last time you received one.

And it’s not like they were mad, exactly, when you told them you wanted to change majors. They did their best to be supportive in the ways that they knew how.

For your father, that was concern. “Are you sure? Literature? What do the job prospects after graduation look like?”

And for your mother, that was letting you know that she thought you were capable of more. Of better. “It’s not that literature is bad, sweetie. It’s just… Well, you’ve always been such a smart girl…”

You get it; you really do. All the questions and prodding comments that felt like criticism were wrapped in nothing but love. But that didn’t do much to soften the sting.

In the end, it was this desk that made you follow through with your change in major. Slumped in your hand-me-down chair late one Friday night, half finished lab report sitting untouched in your bag, the threat of tears burning at the corners of your eyes, all you wanted to do was write.

To put into words the feelings and emotions and fantasies and frustrations that you could never seem to express otherwise. To commit a piece of your soul to paper and wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was someone else out there who would read it and find a sense of solidarity, of common ground.

You submitted your official change request the next morning. You never regretted it once.

But your parents still make comments, still share their concerns. And for the last three years, you haven’t had anything to show for it except for empty promises. But now, you have something. A real something.

Publishing a story of your own is the exact validation that you need that your choice was the right one. And it’s the proof you need to assuage your parents’ fears, to show them that pursuing literature was the right call. That you can carve out a life for yourself with it.

You’ve fantasized about this for years. For the chance to have your voice heard, your words read. There are a million half-baked thoughts and partially written drafts scattered in your notebooks and digital documents and on the corners of takeout napkins that have been lying in wait for a moment just like this.

But no matter how hard you stare at the page in front of you, the words just won’t come. The more old drafts you scour, the more amateur your writing feels. The more you feel like maybe Heeseung should have won the internship over you.

It’s a miserable cycle your brain works itself into. The less you write, the more you criticize, the more you wonder.

What if he hadn’t been late that morning? What if Professor Kim was hoping to choose him instead? What if the reason he didn’t say anything when Heeseung finally arrived in class was because he was so disappointed that his first choice wasn’t an option anymore?

Groaning out loud to an empty room, your head falls on your desk with a muted thud.

It’s there, facedown on your desk, where an idea strikes you. If you can’t manifest a draft out of thin air, maybe you just need some parameters. A general guide to get the creative juices flowing.

Lifting your head back up, you push your notebook to the side and reach for your laptop. Opening a web browser, you navigate to New Haven Publishing House’s homepage.

It’s a simple website, reflective of its simple namesake. Chin in one hand, you click the link that reads Recently Published.

The list that pops up is modest. Unlike a larger, more corporate publishing house, your professor’s self-made enterprise is churning out new releases at a slower rate and smaller volume.

Perusing the titles and descriptions, you note that the vast majority of the works are short form fiction. There are very few full length novels. The majority is made up of essay and poetry collections, short stories, and memoirs.

Scanning the list again, a title close to the top catches your eye.

The Thirst for Revenge: An Analysis of Contemporary Vampire Activity. It was published less than a month ago.

Your cursor hovers over the link, brow furrowing. It strikes you as odd that something so… archaic would be published so recently.

Professor Kim has always come across as a discerning man. Someone that prides himself on his well curated taste.

But vampires… that’s hardly a headline worthy topic these days.

While most people still practice caution walking down dark alleyways at night and some even go so far as to carry charms infused with garlic cloves, monsters of the night are by and large a thing of the past.

The entire species of bloodthirsty, ravaging immortals were hunted to near extinction almost two hundred years ago. Those that survived relocated to remote areas. Some adapted to life in the countryside by learning to enjoy the taste of animal blood. Others found humans willing to donate small portions of their own blood intermittently. You won’t pretend to understand, but you suppose it’s preferable to the alternative.

Some still hunted in the traditional way, of course, but vampire attacks on humans are few are far between these days. After all, vampires, as a means of survival, have all but forsaken major urban areas. Population density spells demise for their species.

You’d have to confirm through research, but if you remember correctly, the last recorded vampire-related death in your city was nearly two hundred years ago.

Without bothering to click on the link, you continue scrolling down. Honestly, it was probably just a fluke. After all, who knows? Maybe there’s some niche circle out there that enjoys analyzing vampire literature, regardless of how outdated it is.

The next title seems a bit more promising. Shadowless Nights. The brief description marks it as a short story published half a year ago.

You click on it, take a sip of room temperature tea while the page loads.

Night was my favorite time of day, the first line reads.

I loved the stillness of it all, the all encompassing serenity. With the moon in the sky and stars in my eyes, every moment felt like a secret between me and the universe. Something we alone shared.

I whispered secrets to the earth and held hers in return. My days felt like dreams. Distant, blurry, faded. It was only then, in the distinct stillness of midnight, that I truly came alive.

Interesting, you think. It’s a bit more melodramatic than you expected, but maybe your professor prefers a poetic touch.

In the night, I earned peace. And in the night, I learned fear.

It came slowly at first, that sinking feeling of dread. The horrible suspicion that made the hair on the back of my neck feel sharp, the air in my throat feel shallow.

But if I have learned anything of monsters, it is that they revel in that fear. That sickeningly overt reminder of mortality, of humanity. The way I couldn’t help the racing of my pulse, the darting of my eyes.

He enjoyed it, toying with me from the shadows. Watching me become desperate, watching me become weak.

But it paled in comparison, I’m sure, with what came next. Every story has its climax, and every beginning has its end. For him, it was the sweet, clean taste of my blood.

Wait. Another vampire story? One was strange enough, but for the last two published works at New Haven to be vampire related doesn’t feel like a coincidence. Especially since the more you read, the more you realize it’s not as much of a story as it is thinly veiled anti-vampire rhetoric.

The dramatized descriptions of a weak, innocent female lead being victimized by a faceless, bloodthirsty monster. It just feels… strange. Outdated. Irrelevant, even.

Clicking back to the list, you scan over the next five entries. All of them are more or less the same. Some are more metaphorical than others, abstract in their rhetoric, but the topic is always the same. And the conclusion always affirms the immense, inevitable, irredeemable blight that vampirism is to the world.

It’s just bizarre. Especially considering that Professor Kim never once had you analyze any anti-vampire propaganda throughout the entire semester. In fact, you were never assigned to read anything vampire related at all.

If this type of literature is so central to his professional career, it doesn't make sense to you that he wouldn’t incorporate it into his class. Especially considering the fact that he was awarding an internship at New Haven to one of the students.

You take another long sip of cold tea. Well… you could try to come up with something that aligns with the current profile of New Haven’s recently published works. It’s not like you’ve ever written anything related to vampires. Maybe you just need to think of it as a writing exercise, a challenge of sorts. Producing a piece that feels relevant and fresh even if the central topic is a bit out of style.

According to the revision schedule Professor Kim gave you, your first draft issue in a week and a half. The same day that you’re set to go to New Haven for the first time and tour the office you’ll be interning at once winter break is over. It’s an ambitious timeline, but he did specify that he’s looking more for a solid concept than a well polished draft. But something in you wants to have more than just a concept. You want his approval, to impress him.

So you have a week and a half to come up with a draft that will catch his attention, that will convince him that you were the right choice for this opportunity. Not anyone else in your class. Not Heeseung. You.

A concept that will excite New Haven Publishing House’s usual reader base, that will maybe actually earn you some commercial success.

A story that will prove to your parents that literature was the right choice for you. That your words do matter, that you can make a name for yourself with your writing.

Well, you think, suppressing an internal groan, it looks like you have your work cut out for you.

…..

Despite your admitted lack of vampiric knowledge, once you have your topic, the words start to flow. You’re not sure if it’s your best work. You’re not even sure if it’s good. But it feels a hell of a lot better than staring at a blank page for hours.

This afternoon finds you in the corner of your favorite coffee shop. Mostly because they offer half priced lattes on Wednesdays. As you make a dent in yours, the pen in your other hand continues to fly over the pages of your notebook, occasionally stopping to scratch out a word or rewrite a sentence.

The bare bones are there. Just like in the handful of stories you perused on New Haven’s website, your plot features a young woman. It’s a historic setting, mostly because you still can’t quite bring yourself to write vampires into the modern day when the reality is so starkly different.

And it’s not a vampire story. At least not at first glance. Instead, you weave an enduring metaphor to symbolize a parasitic relationship between two lovers.

The woman in your draft is young, full of life and energy and optimism. And she dreams. Vivid, brilliant dreams that she clings to in order to escape the harshness of her reality as a lower class woman in the countryside.

Her husband, however, is a brute. Older than her and with a decidedly less sunny disposition. When he learns that his health is failing, he discovers that he can heal himself temporarily by stealing these dreams from her.

So, no. It’s not overtly about vampires. But it does fall into step with some of the more abstract anti-vampire tropes you came across in your preliminary research.

Crossing a dark line through the word you just penned, you sigh.

This is the fastest you’ve put a story together in ages. It’s cohesive, and the writing is solid. Your use of metaphor is strong and concise, and the prose feels true to your identity as a writer.

But something in you withers a bit with every new word you commit to paper. It’s not that you hate your topic. If anything, it’s just that you have no stake in it at all. It doesn't feel innovative or exciting or representative of your creativity.

No matter how easily the words flow out of you, something about it just feels… flat. One dimensional.

You need something new. A different angle or an alternative perspective or… Or a fresh set of eyes.

Struck with a sudden idea, you pull out your phone, plan taking form in your mind. The literature club at your university hosts bimonthly peer review sessions, and you haven’t taken advantage of them nearly as much as you should. They’re a chance for any writer, literature major or otherwise, to come together and workshop any piece of writing of their choice.

Tapping your finger impatiently on the table, you wait for the page to load. The fall semester did end almost a week ago, so it may be a long shot. You’re not sure if the club typically holds sessions over winter break. But as you pull up the club’s calendar of events, a small smile tugs at your lips.

Luck seems to be on your side this time. It’s written there in plain, bold font that there will be a session this upcoming Friday evening. That means that if you attend the session and get some solid ideas for revision, you’ll have exactly five days to refine your draft before you present it to Professor Kim.

The idea of having not only a topic, as the schedule outlined, but an actual complete, well-written draft to show him next Wednesday, turns your small smile into one that overtakes your features.

Energized with a new vigor, you reach for your pen again. It doesn’t have to be perfect, you remind yourself, even as a turn of phrase makes you cringe. Even as a piece of punctuation feels out of place. It just needs to be written. You just need to have as much content as you can to share on Friday.

Besides, you’re sure that a second opinion will help you fine tune this story into something you’re proud to share, something you’re excited to attach your name to.

The afternoon is quick to blur into early evening, and you’re still bent over your favorite corner table. Coffee long drained, you’re full of a new confidence. The thought of proving yourself suddenly doesn’t seem like such an unachievable, out of reach task.

And when you do finally gather up all of your belongings and make your way back to your apartment for the night, you’re sure that this is the exact boost you needed.

That same stroke of self-assuredness carries you all the way through a finished first draft. It’s rough and messy and littered with loose ends, but it’s tucked away in the bottom of your tote bag with a smile as you haul it to classroom number 105 in the university liberal arts building Friday evening.

You pause at the door to the classroom, only for a moment. The inhale you breathe in is deep, full. Nodding to yourself once, you push open the door.

You haven’t been to one of these workshop sessions since the second semester of your first year, back when you had just switched to a literature major. You remember being wide-eyed and incredibly protective over your work. It was hard to part with it, to let anyone else read over the sentences you were so unsure of. The writing you had little confidence in.

But your partner had been kind. Another girl in her first year, she had nothing but gentle feedback to give and reassurance that your writing was worth reading. Honestly, it was such an overwhelmingly positive experience that you would have come back for more sessions if you weren’t constantly struggling to find minutes to spare in the day.

You’re hoping that tonight will be just as rewarding as you enter the classroom, tote bag in tow. But as you survey the space around you, your face falls flat, easy going smile dropping from your lips.

You weren’t expecting a big crowd, considering that it is winter break and most students are deliberately avoiding campus right now, but you were hoping there’d be more than one other person in attendance.

Well, you think, deciding to look on the bright side of things. At least you’re not the only person.

The other attendee is sitting in the far corner of the room, occupying a desk near the front of the classroom. At the sound of your entrance, they turn to face you.

With that, your small disappointment is quick to snowball into an intense wave of exasperation. Because why is the universe so hellbent on playing games with you?

Your mouth drops open without your permission. “Heeseung?”

Your sudden outburst fills the room and lingers long into the awkward silence that follows. You hadn’t meant to say anything, but really, what are the god forsaken odds?

If he’s bothered by your reaction to seeing him, Heeseung doesn’t show it. Instead he looks strangely… relieved. It makes absolutely no sense for him to feel any sort of relief at the sight of you, but it’s hard to put a more apt descriptor to the way tension drains from his shoulders, crease between his brows softening as he looks at you, scans you from head to toe.

A moment of stilted silence passes between the two of you. Another. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your chest.

You exhale, a cross between a scoff and a laugh so humorless it could freeze a flame. Weighing your options, the most tempting by far is to just turn on your heel and exit the way you came.

Heeseung seems to read your intention before you can commit to it.

Breaking the heaviness in the atmosphere, he acts as if you’ve greeted him like an old friend, not as the source of all your recent headaches.

“Hi,” he nods, so tentatively you almost want to let your jaw drop open in shock. Almost.

Because what the fuck does he mean by ‘Hi?’ This has to be some kind of mind game, some way to get in your head and ruin this for you.

“Right.” Your lips pull into a tight line. You don’t bother to return his greeting. “I’m just gonna go, then.” Hiking up your bag on your shoulder, you turn to do just that. Your first draft will just have to be unpolished. Oh, well. You’re sure Professor Kim will have better feedback for you than Lee Heeseung ever would anyway.

Once again, Heeseung’s voice cuts across the classroom. “Wait.” There’s a command in his voice. Gentle, but firm. Insistent. So pervasive that you find yourself following without really meaning to.

Mind made up and dead set on leaving, now you’re just annoyed. What a waste of a Friday evening.

“What?” You turn back to him. You’re not sure if there’s more venom in your voice or your eyes.

And Heeseung, who commands a classroom with quiet grace, with his steady, unwavering presence, suddenly looks so damn unsure. As if tormenting you is uncharted territory. As if he’s never once left you in the cold with flaming cheeks and a thoroughly shattered ego.

“I…” he trails off, not quite meeting your furious gaze. “Didn’t you come here to get feedback?”

“Right.” You scoff again. “Because I’m sure you’d love nothing more than to tear my writing to shreds. Forgive me, but I’m not interested in being the butt end of your joke tonight.”

“What?” If you didn’t know any better, the ignorance he feigns would be rather convincing. “That’s not why I’m here.” He shakes his head. “I brought something I want reviewed too.”

Your brow arches. He can’t be serious. “Even if I did stay,” you counter, “you’re actually the last person I would want to read my work. Feel free to be offended by that, by the way.”

For a solid minute, Heeseung just looks at you. He wears that same damn deer-in-the-headlights expression he had after you brushed him off when he intercepted you in class the other day. He pauses, weighing words on his tongue. “Look, ____.” The sound of your name on his lips strikes a strange chord in you. Until now, you were certain he didn’t even know it. “Did I do something to offend—”

And no. Absolutely not. No way are you rehashing that day in the quad with him now.

“You know what,” you interrupt. You need to go. Now. You need an out. “I’m actually, like, super tired. I think I’m just gonna head back, and—”

But then it’s his turn to cut off your train of thought. “It’s your piece for Professor Kim, isn’t it?” Heeseung takes your silence as confirmation. “Publishing is a big deal. A second set of eyes will only make your work stronger. And if you hate my feedback, it’s not like you have to use any of it.”

You hate it. You despise the way his reasoning matches your internal monologue nearly word for word. The way your thoughts align exactly.

You pause, a decision weighing heavy on your mind. He is an excellent writer… There would probably be substance to his feedback. Real, actual, good substance that you could use to make your writing bloom into something truly amazing. He could be the exact spark you need to make your story come to life.

You purse your lips. “What’s in it for you?”

Heeseung smiles, a nearly imperceptible quirk of his lips. He knows he’s won. “Like I said, I brought something I’ve been working on.” There’s an intention you can’t quite read behind his gaze when he adds, “I want to know what you think of it.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

With a grumble, you take reluctant steps towards where he sits on the opposite side of the classroom. And if you slide down into the seat next to him with a little more force than necessary, well, it’s just because you’ve had a long week. No other reason. None at all.

“Fine,” you relent, reaching to pull your notebook out of your bag. “You get twenty minutes.”

“That’s not nearly long eno—”

“Thirty,” you concede. “And don’t push it.”

Sensing your disdain, Heeseung doesn’t respond. Instead, he accepts the notebook you reluctantly hand him with an outstretched hand and an open palm. The transfer between the two of you is gentle. You have the distinct sense that he’ll treat your work with care, in more than one way.

Still, something in your heart seizes at the thought of letting your work be read. Of letting him be the one to read it.

In return, he offers you a notebook of his own. Bound in brown, aged leather, it’s certainly much more refined than yours. Of course.

He hands it to you still closed. Staring down at the cover, you ask, “What page?” It feels intrusive to start flipping through his writing uninvited.

“There’s a bookmark.” Heeseung nods his chin towards the small piece of paper sticking out of the top edge that you missed at first glance.

And then the transfer is complete. A piece of your heart is spread open on his desk, and a piece of his soul is in your hands.

Ignoring the way your fingers tremble with a slight shake, you delicately open his notebook to the bookmarked page, letting it fall open on the desk in front of you.

At first glance, the writing strikes you as odd. The paragraphs are strange lengths, ending at random junctures instead of extending all the way to the margins. And then it hits you. They’re not paragraphs. They’re stanzas.

Poetry. Lee Heeseung writes poetry.

You sneak a sidelong glance at him out of your periphery. He’s already engrossed in the pages of your notebook, pausing occasionally to jot a note down on a scrap piece of paper. His brow is furrowed, and there’s a tension in his jawline that only makes it sharper.

Still, the image of his profile is shrouded in a distinct sort of softness. The kind of effortless beauty that feels like it should be reserved for intimate moments in the dead of night, secrets passed between lovers. It’s wasted under the fluorescent lights and patchy, beige walls of an underfunded classroom, but you waste another minute staring at him all the same.

For a fleeting moment, it’s not hard to imagine those hands, those long, delicate fingers maintaining an even grip on a ballpoint pen to write something as romantic as poetry.

Shaking your head, you clear the errant thoughts. Instead, you turn your focus back to the page in front of you and begin with the first poem. Forcing your eyes to focus, you read.

As if nothing happened,

She looks at me

With shadowless eyes.

But it is me who has been

Forgiven and reborn countless times.

You inhale. Exhale. Short and succinct with a distinct twinge of tragedy. That was… not what you were expecting. Pushing forward, you move onto the next entry.

Even the stars in the universe

Will close their eyes one day.

Underneath their watchful gaze,

All of these moments are precious.

For memory, for regret,

I will carve them

Into the repetition of the moment.

Again, you pause, taking a moment to breathe. It’s so… melancholy, so poignant in its evocation of pain, of regret. While you’ve been familiar with Heeseung’s ability to analyze the hell out of a novella, this was not something you thought you’d find in his repertoire. And the more you read on, the more you realize these aren’t flukes. This is his identity as a writer, or at least a significant part of it.

The world that abandoned us

Slowly turns to ash.

But I don’t feel the pain.

I only feel the cold.

My god. You nearly close the notebook on instinct. Without your permission, your eyes flick ove to the desk next to you. The broad set of shoulders that fill the seat. What has this boy been through? Why is he letting you read this?

Heeseung looks up. Not at you, but the movement is enough to startle you out of your staring. Returning your eyes to his notebook, you read the last entry on the page.

A shaded castle with no sun

The thick scent of dying roses never fades.

In a broken mirror, I see myself.

And my reflection whispers, “Monster.”

The breath you release is long. Audible. You’re overcome with the urge to run your fingers over his words, to feel the indents his pen made as he carved pain into the page. His writing is gorgeous. It’s beautifully, tragically haunting. Of that much, you’re certain. But you have no idea what to do with that information.

His words feel too raw, too terribly intimate. Like something that was never meant for your eyes. You can’t understand what on earth possibly possessed him to let — no — to encourage you to read these.

You can’t fathom any kind of feedback you could offer him. These feel like pieces of his soul, not something to be commodified or commented on in a writing workshop. Discussed in the cold, unfeeling walls of an old classroom.

Despite the discomfort that lingers with each passing stanza, his writing has an almost addictive quality. Over and over, you find yourself rereading each brief poem. You’re searching for meaning, for clarity, for something hidden between the lines that you missed on your first handful of reads.

Thirty minutes pass in a trance, and Heeseung, true to his word, is the one to break the silence when your half hour is up.

Mind still reeling, you realize with a sinking feeling that you have absolutely no feedback to give him at all.

Instead, you turn to face him. Throwing a meaningful glance at where your notebook still lies open on the desk in front of him. Doing your best to not look too hopeful, you ask, “Well?”

For a moment, Heeseung just looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. Tension pulls at his temple, his jaw. Frustration seeps from beneath his skin, and you can’t tell where it’s directed.

“Oh, come on,” you prod when his silence extends even longer. “I know you’re dying to spill the gory details of how grossly incompetent I am and how horrifically amateur my writing is, so don’t—”

Heeseung wastes no fanfare. “This is awful.”

Your lips flatten. “Or just cut right to the chase.”

He’s quick to clarify. “But not for any of the reasons you just listed. I mean, sure, there are some craft issues here, but even those seem like a result of your concept.”

“What’s wrong with my concept?” The edge of defensiveness in your voice escapes without your permission.

Heeseung just levels you with a look. Returning his gaze to your notebook, he reads from your draft verbatim, “...Stashing away the light from her life. Tucking it into his back pocket like extra change just for the satisfaction of temporary happiness. It was never love that bound him to her, but the promise of a never ending fountain of life. Of wishes and thoughts and hopes and dreams that he could use to sustain himself as long as he subjected himself to the numbing pleasure of existing at her side.”

He raises an eyebrow, turns back to you. “I mean, really, ____? I’ve read some nauseatingly vitriolic vampire pieces in my life, and this just about has all of them beat. Besides, the whole vampire thing just feels so… irrelevant. Do people still read this stuff anymore?”

Your first instinct is to defend yourself, your work, even if his thoughts mirror your own. Before you can, Heeseung is pressing on. You don’t have the space to get a word in sideways. “I mean, what happened to the writing from that piece you presented back in September? I don’t remember all the details, but there was something about watching birds land on water and connecting it to the feeling of belonging but never truly fitting in.” He looks at you again. There’s more emotion, more glittering life in his eyes than you’ve ever seen from him before. “That was a fresh take and a well done metaphor.”

Your mind is reeling. It’s far too much information to take in all at once. But something stands out amongst the rest. Because that almost sounded like—

“Was that a compliment?” It seems unlikely, but you can’t find another way to take his words. “You paid attention to my presentation?”

You liked it? You don’t ask that question out loud, but the needier parts of you crave his answer anyway.

“Yeah, of course I did. Peer review was a mandatory component of the course.” Heeseung’s cheekbones remain the same, even, honey-tinted tone, but you swear you see a flash of embarrassment in the way he averts his gaze.

“Well, yeah.” It’s not a justification that holds much weight in your mind. “But you don’t exactly seem like the type to really pay attention to other people’s stuff. Especially if you think it’s not worth your time.”

“I just told you your presentation was good, didn’t I?”

You arch a brow. “Yeah, right after you finished calling my draft horrific.”

Heeseung shakes his head. “I didn’t say it was horrific…”

“Oh, please. Spare us both the semantics. That’s what you meant.” You’re not sure why your mind always goes back to that day in the quad, but you find yourself still sore from his rejection, his new assertion of your work poking at old wounds. Picking at poorly healed scabs. “And it’s not like you were jumping for joy at the chance to review my work back then, either.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows. You can practically see the gears turning in his mind. You’re not sure if it makes you feel better or worse, the fact that he doesn’t seem to remember that day at all.

In the end, you decide to spare him the effort of empty recollection. With a sigh, you spill your shame. At least this time around, you’re the only two that will bear witness. “That one day in class. Back at the beginning of the semester. We had to present our analysis of that one short story. You remember, the one about planting seeds in bad soil.” Heeseung nods, but there’s no spark of realization. Not yet.

Continuing, it only pains you slightly to admit, “Your analysis was brilliant, and I gushed about it in front of the whole class. Laid it on thick with the compliments. And then after class, I stopped you in the quad.” Something flickers over Heeseung’s features. A memory tugging at the back of his mind. “When I asked if you wanted to review each other’s pieces for the next assignment, you completely brushed me off.”

Brow still pulled downwards, Heeseung is thinking back to that day, too. But it doesn't seem to hold the same awful, leaden weight in his mind. “I didn’t brush you off,” he argues. “I think I said I was busy.”

It takes a lot of willpower not to let your jaw drop open. “That’s brushing someone off!” Your voice is too loud for the near empty classroom, for your close proximity. “Like literally the textbook definition. Everyone knows that ‘I’m busy’ is code for ‘leave me the hell alone.’”

Almost imperceptibly, Heeseung’s features soften as he watches yours strain. The fluorescent light bulbs that fill the room suddenly don’t seem quite as harsh when he says, “Well, that's not what I meant. I was busy.”

It’s hardly a satisfying answer. But you suppose it makes little difference. If he wants to stick to his story, you’ll continue to feign indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters now anyway.”

And then your mind is back on his poems. His beautiful, tragic, gorgeously phrased stanzas scribbled in his handwriting. Fragments of vulnerability that he handed to you without hesitation.

It’s like comparing apples to oranges in a way, but there is no doubt in your mind that between the two of you, the writing he brought tonight is better. Better than your story, better than most things you’ve ever written, probably. The imagery is evocative, striking in a way you’ve never quite been able to achieve no matter how many seminars and workshops and lectures you attend.

Not for the first time, your brain dangles a dangerous thought in a place where you can’t avoid it. What if Professor Kim chose wrong? What if Heeseung hadn’t been late to class that day? Would you be sitting here with a mediocre draft and a raging inferiority complex?

You’ll never know, not really, but you find yourself asking anyway, “Why were you late to class that day?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back. It’s not like his answer will change anything. And it’s invasive. Far too personal to ask someone you barely know. That up until thirty minutes ago, you actively avoided.

But maybe the universe is on your side for once. Maybe you got ridiculously lucky and he didn’t hear you, despite the fact that it’s dead silent in this classroom. Maybe—

“What?”

Or not.

Well, you’re committed now. “The last day of class. When the winner for the publishing opportunity was announced,” you clarify. “You were late. Honestly,” you add with a wry smile, “you’d probably be the one writing overdramatic vampire slander right now if you hadn’t been.”

It’s a self-deprecating joke. It might land poorly, but you’re hoping it will lighten the atmosphere.

A dark shadow crosses Heeseung’s features. “Trust me, ___. You winning had nothing to do with me being late that day.”

If he thinks flattery will get him anywhere, he’s wrong. You can feel your frustrations bubbling in your throat, clawing at your mind. You won. You beat him. So why doesn’t it feel like it? Why doesn’t it feel like anything you do is ever good enough?

“C’mon, Heeseung.” He doesn’t deserve your anger. At least, not now. But he gets it anyway. Insecurities and inferiority and frustration all wrapped in rage. “You were practically a shoe-in, and everyone knows it.”

He’s just as insistent. Leaning towards you slightly, he looks anything but aloof now. “No I wasn’t. Professor Kim chose you to intern with him. He read both of our submissions all semester and chose you to publish with his firm. I told you, your writing is good. Really good.” Glancing down at your notebook, he adds, “Even if this one is a bit… uninspired.”

A compliment and a slight. His version of the truth, wrapped up in a bow and delivered right to your waiting ears. You don’t know whether to be furious or overjoyed. Maybe it would be best to feel absolutely nothing at all. It scares you, just how much weight his opinion holds.

But approval from him has its way of feeling like a long sought victory, and now the air feels fraught with something delicate, fragile. Precarious, even.

It’s early evening in a threadbare classroom. The most neutral territory imaginable. But it’s the two of you, alone, secluded. And suddenly, that frightens you.

“Right.” You won’t tell him ‘thank you’ for the compliment or ‘go fuck yourself’ for the criticism. Both options feel like you would be revealing too much.

Instead, you take a glance at the clock. It’s not late, but it’s an excuse. “I should probably get going.”

Heeseung exhales. Leans back in his seat. “Of course,” he concedes easily, reaching to hand you your notebook.

You do the same with his, almost sad to watch his poetry pass from your hands to his. It’s odd, the way his words already feel like something you’ll miss.

You realize then that he hasn’t asked you for your opinion on his work. For your advice on how to make it better. In all honesty, you’re relieved. You haven’t the slightest idea what you would say.

So instead, you busy yourself with repacking your tote bag. In your haste, you knock your pen off of your desk. The sound it makes as it strikes the thinning carpet can’t be loud, but it feels thunderous in your ears.

As you reach to pick it up, Heeseung does the same. There’s a moment, fleeting but unmistakable, when the skin of his hand brushes against yours.

Instantly, Heeseung recoils as if you’ve burned him. His hand is back in his own space at a speed so fast you nearly miss it.

It was an accident, a tiny blip with no real consequences, but the way he’s looking at you with those damn eyes makes you feel like you should be apologizing.

“Sorry.” The severity of his reaction stings like rejection. It’s not like he’s exactly your favorite person either, but at least you have the common decency to not look repulsed at the thought of touching him. At the accidental brushing of your hands.

Heeseung frowns. Shakes his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts. “No, I…” he trails off, letting his words hang in the air for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he concludes, but it feels disingenuous. And he doesn’t bother to elaborate. Looking over your shoulder, he reads the clock on the wall. “It’s getting kind of late. Where are you parked? I can walk you to your car.”

His hands are busy putting his notebook back in his back. It’s a considerate offer, but coming on the tail end of everything else, it doesn’t hold much weight with you. His words don’t match his actions, and you decide you’d be a fool to take them at face value.

“Don’t bother. I’m walking home, not driving.”

Heeseung freezes, hand still inside his bag. He’s not looking at you, but you feel the weight of his attention all the same. “Do you need someone to walk with you?”

The way he phrases the question makes you feel like a burden. He’s asking if you need someone to walk with you, not offering because he wants to. A subtle difference maybe, but the last thing you want is to feel like you owe him any favors.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He does look at you now, concern painted across his features. “It’s getting dark earlier these days, and—”

His words are wasted on you. You’re already halfway to the door. “I’m sure.” But before you leave, you decide one more hit to your pride can’t worsen the damage that’s already been done. At least this time, it will be by your doing. Standing under the doorframe, you turn back to him. “Thank you for your feedback. It was good to hear an honest opinion.”

Your words sink into the air. Linger for a moment.

Heeseung nods. Something in his jaw tightens. “You know, if you do decide to change topics, I’d be happy to read whatever you write.”

It almost sounds like another compliment. Or maybe another insult. Either way, you’re sure that even if you figure it out, you’ll still have no idea what to do with it. You nod, only once, and then your back is turned again before you can linger too long on any of it.

But his words, the sweet ones this time, replay in your mind the entire walk home.

Maybe if you weren’t so distracted by the ghosts of compliments, you’d have noticed the pair of quiet, even footsteps that trailed after you in the distance. That only retreated once the front door to your apartment was pulled shut and locked tight behind you.

Then again, maybe not. Heeseung has always had a knack for going undetected.

…..

You wake up the next morning with Heeseung’s words replaying in your mind.

Awful. Irrelevant. And of course your favorite, ‘nauseatingly vitriolic vampire piece.’

In the faded glow of morning light, you groan out loud to your empty bedroom. The worst part of it all is that he’s not even wrong. But it’s Saturday morning, and your first draft is due on Wednesday. The thought of starting a new story from scratch and writing it to completion within that time frame is enough to make you want to curl into a ball and screw your eyes shut until you can pretend the world outside your bedroom is nothing but a figment of your imagination.

So no, you don’t think you can start over entirely. But maybe, just maybe, you can rework things. Tweak the narrative to feel less cliche, less outdated. More true to you.

Part of you wants to abandon the vampire concept entirely, convinced it’s what’s holding you down. The other part is hesitant to do so based on New Haven’s list of recently published works.

And while Heeseung’s criticism was the confirmation you needed that your story needs reworking, it’s not like he gave you any ideas as to what you should change. What direction you should take.

Nauseatingly vitriolic vampire piece. That seemed to be Heeseung’s biggest problem with your draft. Not that it alluded to vampirism. No, you think he disliked that it was a tired and rehashed propaganda piece on the inherent evilness of vampires.

Everyone knows that vampires were monsters. Writing about it, no matter how many metaphors and symbolic phrases you wrap it up in, just isn’t interesting.

That’s the route you’ll take, then, you decide. You don’t have to invent a new concept out of thin air. You just need to find a way to bring something new to the table. Something worth reading. Climbing out of bed, you switch your pajamas for clothes more acceptable in public.

And then you make your way to the university library.

Just as you suspected, it’s essentially empty. Between long rows of meticulously shelved books, vacant study rooms, and community computers, the only other person you see is the librarian that greets you as you arrive. Even her eyebrows raise in mild shock to see someone else during the break, and on a weekend at that.

Heading to the second floor, the first section you peruse through is historical records. But between old newspapers, reports, and journals, the content itself is quite cut and dry. Detached descriptions of vampire attacks that only contain details of the date, time, and death toll aren’t exactly riveting. And you don’t think they’ll do much for your feeble draft.

Before long, you move away from the nonfiction section. Navigating to supernatural fiction on the third floor, you start browsing titles. Vampire stories make up a rather small portion of the texts, and from what you can tell, the vast majority align with what you found on New Haven’s website.

From Demons of the Dark to Left in Cold Blood, you doubt that most of what you find will offer any kind of new perspective. But on your third, slightly desperate scouring of the shelf, you make a discovery.

It’s a small, nondescript book. The muted tones and faded lettering on the spine go easily undetected amongst the much flashier copies of anti-vampire propaganda it’s nestled between.

Pulling the book out from the shelf with a delicate touch, you flip the cover face-up in your hand.

Sacred Monsters: A Collection of Essays on the Origins of Immortality

It piques your interest. At the very least, it seems different from all the other novels.

Book in hand, you make your way to a nearby desk. Once you’re settled in, you pull out your notebook, opening to a new page with the intention of taking notes.

The book you lay on the desk next to your notebook seems like it’s lived a long life, the old scent of dust and aged paper and time all contained within its pages. Flipping open the front cover, you look for an author or publication date. But there’s nothing there, not even a title page or a table of contents.

Glossing over the slight oddity, you decide the beginning is as good a place as any to start.

The Taste of Blood, is the title at the top of the page.

And the first sentence begins:

It is neither sweet nor particularly savory. There is no distinct aroma, no compelling flavor profile, nothing that appeals to the eye or excites the taste buds. The only merit is the fact that it is necessary. For even those blessed with immortality know what it means to survive. And even those cursed to live forever know what it means to die.

Frowning, you flip back to the cover, as if that will provide any clarity for the strange passage you just read. But nothing is different. Nothing new stands out. Just the same, faded title. No author or indication of any kind of publication date.

Intrigued, you turn back and resume where you left off.

Some are said to enjoy the act. The purity of release, of giving in to the instincts that can be convinced into domesticity but never fully silenced. I have never found such relief. The ghost of my humanity has always been stronger than the voice of the monster, even as he screams with unbounded ferocity.

Without it, I feel incomplete. With it, I feel irredeemable. Even now, I dodge the truth, omit the profane. I have seen many moons, enjoyed their silver glow. I have stolen the very same pleasure from countless others. And yet, I struggle to call it by name. I cannot reconcile the battles waged in my bones, the war fought in my mind.

There is no winner in either. All that remains in the taste of it. Lingering on my breath. Haunting my waking dreams. That which I cannot name.

The taste of blood.

In my fervor, it soothes like honey. In my regret, it turns to ash.

And still, nothing changes. And still, nothing remains the same.

-- Anonymous

Well, if you were looking for something different, you found it. Because what the absolute fuck are you reading? If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it were written from the perspective of a vampire.

Then again, shelved in the fiction section, you suppose it’s plausible. Actual vampires may have housed little room in their consciousness for anything outside of bloodlust, but it is an interesting idea to think of vampires as conflicted. Haunted by the brutality of their innate instincts.

You’re not exactly sure how or if this will be able to influence your own story for the better, but something about it makes you want to keep reading.

Alone, tucked amongst the dusty shelves of a neglected section of the library, you lose yourself between the pages of the mysterious book.

As the title indicated, it’s a collection of essays. Most are quite short, around the same length as the first one you read. And none are claimed by an author. All are signed off with the same boldface type that spells Anonymous. There are subtle differences in the writing though, stylistic choices that make you think that more than one person wrote these essays.

Despite that, they’re all woven together by a common thread. The first essay, as you discover, was not a fluke. Every single one is written in first person from the perspective of a vampire.

The writing is compelling, humorous in places and deeply upsetting in others. It seems odd to you, just how much humanity is captured within the pages, within each turn of phrase.

You feel inclined to root for the narrator in some stories and abjectly horrified by them in others. But never once does the writing make you think that vampires are incapable of self-actualization, of reflection, of morality.

In all honesty, aside from Heeseung’s poems, it’s the most interesting thing you’ve read in ages. So much so that by the time you realize you’ve finished the last essay, the winter sun is teeming dangerously close to the horizon, and the library is nearing its closing hours.

The notebook page you intended to use for notes, to jot down points of inspiration, is still woefully blank. But as you make your way back to the front of the library, the small, strange book comes along with you.

Stopping at the front desk to formally check it out, the librarian frowns when she enters the number from the spine into the system. She clicks around on her computer for a moment longer before handing the book back to you.

“I’m sorry, but the book isn’t coming up in our system for some reason. Would you mind writing down your student ID number for me? I’ll have to enter the information manually.”

You oblige her request, tucking the book into your bag before you leave.

It’s chilly outside, the cold clutches of winter gaining a full grasp on the crisp, frigid air. After a long day in a stuffy library, the freezing air is almost soothing. Tucking your hands into your pockets, you turn towards the direction that will take you home.

You’ve barely taken five steps when a voice calls your name from behind. Pausing, you turn to find the source of the sound.

“Heeseung?” But there’s no mistaking it. That is most definitely Lee Heeseung, currently jogging towards you on the otherwise empty sidewalk in front of the university library.

He catches up to you easily, no sign of perspiration or even a hint of breathlessness when he asks, “What are you doing walking alone at night?” As if you’re the strange one in this situation.

You give him a once over. The loose jeans and dark winter coat he wears are nothing special, but he wears them well regardless. You suppress the urge to sigh. “I could ask you the same.”

“Fair enough.” His tone is too light, too casual. Like he’s forcing it. Like he’s hiding something. “Are you headed home? I’ll walk you there.”

And if you weren’t suspicious before, you sure as hell are now. Why on earth would he want to walk you home? “I’m fine, thanks.” You turn away from him, heading in the direction of your apartment and hoping he’ll take the hint.

Your wish goes ungranted. He matches your pace easily, even as you try to quicken it. “It’s after dark, ___. And there are a lot of…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “strange people out at night these days. I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

Lips tight, you don’t bother looking at him. The idea of Heeseung letting you do anything makes you want to throw things. “I’ll be fine.”

But he’s persistent. He’s all smiles and a strange amount of desperate when he says, “Either you let me walk you back or I’ll just follow you at a weird distance, which will be far more uncomfortable for both of us.”

That makes you stop in your tracks. And now you do turn to look at him. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Heeseung nods, “Exactly. So—”

You arch an unimpressed brow, crossing your arms over your chest. “It sounds like you’re the strange person at night I need to stay away from.”

Heeseung sighs, matches your eye. A strand of hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it away with long fingers. “Are you gonna start walking or are we gonna stand here and argue a little longer?”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“What a great night to find out.”

You stare at him a moment longer, lips tight. You don’t want to be the one to give in, to hand him any kind of victory, no matter how small.

But it is getting late. The walk from campus to your apartment is never one that’s made you uneasy, but it never hurts to have someone at your side. Besides, you think he was serious about following you. He’s made it clear that he’ll be tagging along one way or another.

“Fine,” you huff, arms still crossed over your chest. “But only because the streetlight a few blocks away is out.”

Heeseung inclines his head, a minute acknowledgement. There’s a hint of movement at the corner of his lips. “Naturally.”

You resume walking, and he falls into your pace with a practiced ease, hands in his pocket, eyes on the stars. It’s a cloudless evening. The sky above you feels vast, immense as the last rays of daylight lie to rest on the distant horizon.

With a slight shiver, you pull your jacket tighter around your body. Heeseung notices the movement. Parts his lips as if he wants to say something. Changes his mind. Closes them.

You’ve just reached the far edge of campus when he breaks the steady silence.

“How’s your draft coming?”

“It’s…” You trail off, not sure how well honesty will serve you here. It feels vulnerable, like a blatant weakness to admit that you’ve got nothing. But something about cold air and the vast expanse of night has you wanting to tell the truth. “Not great.”

Heeseung lets your response settle. Turns it over in his mind a few times. You’ve noticed that about him. He’s careful with his responses. Weighs his words before breathing them to life. “Still looking for inspiration?”

“I don’t know if it’s inspiration I need.” It’s easier to talk to him like this, when your eyes have something to focus on, when your body has the constant repetition of steps to occupy part of your mind. Without little distractions like these, Heeseung has a way of becoming all consuming. “I feel like I backed myself into a corner with the vampire concept. I’m not sure if there's really anything there to explore that won’t feel outdated and irrelevant.”

“Mm,” Heeseung muses. It’s noncommittal, neither an agreement nor an argument. “Maybe. You said it yourself; vampires are nothing but bloodlust. Riled completely by instinct. Nothing left of their humanity.”

Frowning, your footsteps almost falter. “I didn’t say that.”

“Forgive me.” If there’s a tinge of bitterness in his tone, you suppose it must be because of the cold. The fact that he’s wasting his Saturday night walking you home. “Heavily implied it.”

“Honestly, the only reason I even wrote that story was because there were a lot of similar ones on New Haven’s list of recently published works.” Your reasoning feels almost stupid when you admit it aloud like this. You’ve always prided yourself on your originality, your commitment to staying true to yourself as a writer. But when push comes to shove, you let your desire to impress your professor get in the way of that. “I wanted something that would align with their usual publications.”

You’ve admitted a weakness, a poorly made choice. You’re expecting ire, more of that haughty contempt. But Heeseung’s mind is going in an entirely different direction.

He’s not questioning your abilities, not even alluding to them at all when he asks, “What do you think of vampires, then?”

His question catches you off guard. Why on earth would he care about that? “What’s it to you?”

“My bad. We can just walk in awkward silence if you prefer.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of your energy to swallow the laugh that bubbles in your throat. Since when did Heeseung crack jokes? Since when did you have to fight the urge to giggle at them like a schoolgirl with a crush? You suddenly find yourself grateful for the cover of night, the way shadows make the heat on your cheeks undetectable.

But his question still lingers. Ruminating on it, your mind flickers to the small, odd book currently sitting at the bottom of your bag.

Sacred Monsters.

It feels like a strange combination of words, two concepts that shouldn’t fit together.

“I think it’s more complicated than that,” you breathe. You don’t know if it could possibly be true, the idea that creatures of the night have a high level of consciousness, the ability to moralize, to feel conflicted. But it certainly makes for a more interesting story.

“I mean, vampires had to have some level of base cognition, right?” You’ll never know for sure, but the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. “They were hunted to near extinction, but they put up a good fight. They hid. They fled. They tried blending in as humans. Some resorted to drinking animal blood. I guess there’s no way of knowing, but that doesn’t feel like pure biology or an evolutionary response alone. It feels like… something a human would do.”

“Wouldn’t that be worse?” Heeseung’s voice is low. If the faint hum of faraway traffic were any louder, you might not hear him at all. “For them to know what it means to be alive and still make the choice to take that away from someone else? To exist as a parasite.”

“It would certainly be tragic.” The words of the first essay come back to you.

For even those blessed with immortality know what it means to survive. And even those cursed to live forever know what it means to die.

“It’s a fatal flaw, a cruel design. They need blood to survive. The very thing that their bodies used to create on their own. It’s parasitic, yes, but that doesn’t make it animal instinct. I can’t imagine the horror of having to experience that with the burden of human consciousness.”

You feel the weight of Heeseung’s gaze on the side of your face. “It’s still evil, is it not?”

His words feel heavy, weighted under moonlight. Though you can’t imagine why, you have the distinct sense that your answer is important to him.

“Like I said, I think it’s more complicated than that. Taking someone’s life is evil, yes, but that was never unique to vampires. Is a vampire that chooses animal blood still evil just because they’re a vampire? Is a human that chooses to kill another absolved of their crime just by virtue of being human?”

Your words settle into the space between you.

“That,” Heeseung finally breathes, “would make a much better story than the one I read last night.”

This time, you do laugh, a light airy thing. It feels easy, lighthearted as some of the tension drains from the atmosphere.

“Unfortunately, I’m not so sure Professor Kim would agree. Based on everything New Haven publishes, he seems to have some weird anti-vampire vendetta.”

As you round the corner, your apartment comes into view. Nodding toward the staircase that leads to your front door, you tell him, “This is me, by the way.”

Heeseung glances at the stairs, then back at you. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “When is your draft due?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” you groan. “Wednesday.”

“Mm,” he winces, an offer of understanding. “What time?”

“I’m supposed to be at New Haven by three, so—”

“What?” Heeseung cuts you off, expression suddenly tense, voice suddenly sharp. “You’re going to the publishing office?”

“Yeah.” You nod slowly, unsure why that would possibly warrant such a strong reaction. “I’m dropping off my first draft and getting a tour. The internship starts right when spring semester does, so he told me I could come in person to familiarize myself with the space first.”

“Right.” Heeseung nods. The tension in his jaw doesn’t relax.

It’s all so strange. He always seems to be speaking in riddles, dealing with invisible problems you can’t detect.

You’re tired and confused, and the moon that hangs above you doesn’t feel like a remedy for either of those things. In fact, it might be making things worse.

Because despite the way you feel like you’ll never quite understand him, bathed in the shimmering glow of moonlight, Heeseung looks…

He looks like all the things you’ve been trying to avoid calling him for the duration of the semester. Ethereal. Beautiful. Maybe even kind, at least when he wants to be.

After all, you’re standing at the base of your staircase with company, and it wasn’t due to any insistence on your end.

The silence lingers. A string somewhere is pulled taught.

You’re standing still, and you’re still a little breathless when you tell him, “I should go.” You don’t want to. You’re not sure why.

Again, Heeseung only nods.

The movement sends shadows dancing over his features. The bridge of his nose. The plane of his cheek. The line of his jaw. Things you’ve never let yourself linger on. Things you’re having a hard time looking away from now.

But he’s seen you home safe and sound, and even nights under the stars have their inevitable end.

It occurs to you then that you have no idea how he plans to get home, or even how far away he lives.

After he walked you home,it’s the least you could do to offer, “Do you live far? I could help you pay for a cab or something if—”

Heeseung shakes his head. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It won’t take me long. Besides, I like to walk at night.”

“Okay.” It feels strange, trading these bits of kindness. You’re craving some normalcy, something unwavering. So with a final wave and a small goodnight, you climb the stairs to your door.

You couldn’t say for sure if his eyes follow you on the way up. You feel the heat of them, the weight of a steady gaze on your spine. But it’s a fickle sensation and you’ve been wrong before. And you can’t quite bring yourself to turn around and look.

The door closes behind you. Surrounded by the stillness of an empty apartment, you release a long held exhale. It drains out of you audibly. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

…..

Dawn breaks Wednesday morning and carries with it a certain kind of dread.

Despite your efforts, and there have been many, your draft remains far too close to its original state for your satisfaction. No matter how many times you pour over Sacred Monsters, you can never quite seem to find a way to make your submission more interesting while also staying true to New Haven’s general themes.

If anything, the book has been a distraction. Long hours that you could have spent editing or revising or rewriting were instead dedicated to detailed web searches with a variety of keywords and spellings that never seemed to bear any fruit.

It doesn’t matter which search engine you use. It doesn’t matter which database you browse. Other than the copy sitting on your desk, Sacred Monsters doesn’t seem to exist.

But the annoying, wonderful, awful thing about time is that it passes. Time doesn’t care that you haven’t found it in yourself to produce a draft you’re proud of. Time doesn’t relent just because you always feel like it’s slipping through your fingers.

And Wednesday morning turns to Wednesday afternoon with the same steady predictability as always.

You’d like to think that you know the area around your university quite well, but New Haven’s main office is in an entirely different part of the city. You’ll have to leave now if you want to catch the bus with a little cushion of time to spare. The last thing you want to do is be late to your first day. Especially since the draft tucked neatly into your bag isn’t one you can hand over with confidence.

To your relief, the bus is relatively empty. You tuck yourself into a seat and thank your lucky stars that you missed the afternoon rush.

Popping your headphones in, you’re searching for something to fill the time. There’s the draft sitting in your bag, of course, but the last thing you want to do is spend the next thirty minutes agonizing over it. For now, it will just have to be the mess of mediocrity that it is.

Instead, you reach for your phone. Maybe some mindless scrolling will be what you need to put your nerves at ease.

But when the app loads, the first post you see doesn’t have you giggling or rolling your eyes or scrolling on without a thought at all. Instead, your spine straightens, shoulders suddenly tense.

Because the words you’re reading are not something you ever expected to see in your lifetime.

Three dead in suspected vampire attack, the latest headline from your local news reporting channel reads.

Clicking on the article, the details are hazy, but that does little to lessen the grip of fear that makes a sudden grab at your throat. Fragments of sentences capture your attention as you scan the page.

Three bodies found near the river…

Bite marks on their necks…

No trace of recent animal activity in the area…

Eyes widening with every new piece of information, fear claws at your throat.

Bodies completely drained of blood.

Two hundred years. Two hundred years of the belief that vampires have all but been eradicated. Shattered in one fell swoop.

And in your city, of all places. At the river. Somewhere you’ve been. Somewhere you wouldn’t think twice about going. It’s not particularly close to your apartment or university, but it’s not exactly far enough away for comfort.

You shudder, suddenly grateful that Heeseung was there to walk you home last night. Not that he would be able to do much if you did stumble across the path of a vampire, but—”

Oh god. Oh god.

Heeseung.

You have no idea if he made it home safe after parting ways with you and you have no way of checking. He hadn’t made any indication as to where he lived before saying goodnight. For all you know, he could have been heading in the direction of the river. He could have been at the river. Right when the attacks occurred.

Doubling down on your phone, you scour the article for any information you can find on the victims. Objectively, it’s probably a good thing that they’re described only vaguely. Probably an intentional choice to protect the privacy of grieving friends and families.

But ‘three victims, two men and one woman, all in their early twenties’ does very, very little to assuage your terror. In fact, it only heightens it.

Blood pounding in your ears and dread pooling in your stomach, thirty minutes passes in the blink of an eye, you nearly miss your stop. But as you get off of the bus, you’re spiraling. Should you even be here? It feels wrong, leaving such a terrifying loose end untied.

But then you think it through a little further. Even if you got back on the bus, rode it all the way to the stop by your apartment, you have no idea where you’d go from there. You may have shared insults and confidence and a moment under the moonlight with Heeseung, but you don’t know anything about him. Where he lives, where to reach him, where he could possibly be right now.

But Professor Kim might. You’re sure that student information is strictly confidential, but if you explain the situation to him, he might be understanding, might just be willing to bend the rules a bit for you.

So with a heaviness in your heart and fire in your footsteps, you double check the address of New Haven’s office and start walking away from the bus stop. Your surroundings are not a primary area of your focus, but it does strike you as odd how deserted the whole area seems.

Other than a few residential looking buildings, the street you walk is mostly empty lots. Abandoned houses. Not the kind of place you would consider ideal for any business.

Despite the cold morning sunshine, the afternoon has brought a cover of clouds. Squinting towards the distance, you wonder if you should have brought your umbrella, just in case. It almost looks as if it’s going to rain.

When you do finally find the building, you have to stop to double check the address. Not only is there no signage, but New Haven’s supposed headquarters looks just as run down as all of the other buildings in the area.

Frowning, you reread your email. The address does match the faded numbers next to the front door, and Professor Kim seems too meticulous to make a mistake like an incorrect address. Then again, he also seems too well off to run his publishing company out of a decrepit building far away from any of the city’s major business centers.

But you won’t bother worrying about it now. Even your dreary first draft feels like an afterthought at this point. Who cares if the building’s not what you expected, if the location isn’t ideal? Right now, you need to focus on finding Heeseung, on making sure he’s okay.

Because the alternative…

No, you refuse to let yourself spiral there either. But the pressure of grief borrowed from the future is already pressing firmly against the backs of your eyelids, blurring your surroundings.

As you approach the front door, you notice a small, faded placard.

New Haven. Well, at least that confirms that you’re in the right spot. Even if it is a bit odd that they left off Publishing.

Standing at the door, you hesitate. Should you knock? Just walk in? You take a sidelong glance at the window, scanning for any sign of movement. But there’s nothing there. In fact, it looks as if the lights are off.

Dark, quiet, desolate. Strange, yes, but not something you’ll waste time ruminating on now.

You knock once. Twice. The sound echoes; the only response is the whistling of the wind.

Deep in the pit of your stomach, a sense of unease begins to build. It feels off, like something is wrong. Senses on high alert, you force the feeling aside. You need a way to find Heeseung, to make sure he’s okay. Besides, the lingering unease is probably just the anxiety of not knowing if he’s safe.

Steeling your resolve, you reach for the door handle, twisting it tentatively. It opens slowly, the hinges groaning in protest. As if the building itself doesn’t want you there. Stepping inside does little to shake the feeling. Dark and devoid of any decoration, the interior is nearly as gloomy as the sunless sky outside.

And even the layout of the building is strange. The front door opens to a long, dark hallway with no lights on. It’s eerily quiet. Too quiet. Too empty. You weren’t expecting a welcoming party by any means, but it’s hard to imagine anyone, much less Professor Kim, even being here.

“Hello?” You call, clutching your bag a little closer to your body, suppressing the shudder that licks at the base of your spine. “Professor Kim?” You wait a moment, but sustained silence is the only response.

Forcing your footsteps forward, you tread tentatively down the hallway. After all, you didn’t come this far just to turn around. Especially now that Professor Kim might be your only way of finding Heeseung.

Taking slow steps down the dark hallway, you pass two doors, both of them pulled shut. The end of the hall opens into a larger room, still empty of any furnishings. It certainly doesn’t look like a publishing house. It doesn't look like much at all. At the very least, there’s a bit more visibility here, faint traces of faded daylight streaming in through the half drawn blinds on the other side of the room.

Turning to your left, you see another door. This one is also pulled shut, but there’s a name placard on the front. Drawing closer, you read your professor’s name. It still doesn't feel right. Ducking down slightly, you check the gap between the bottom of the door and the hardwood floor for any sign of light, of movement. But it’s just as dark, just as quiet as the rest of the strange building.

As you stand back up to your full height, you raise a hand to knock. Just before your knuckles make contact with the door, you see it. An odd array of crimson stains near the handle. Peering closer, your brow furrows in a combination of disgust and confusion.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think it looked like blood.

But that doesn’t make any sense. None of this does. You won’t pretend to know Professor Kim, but he’s never shown up to a lecture with so much as a hair out of place. Why on earth would he run his publishing company out of a building that’s nearly falling apart? Why would there be strange, suspicious looking stains on the door to his office? Why would it be empty at the time he asked you to come present your draft and tour your future internship location?

You have no idea what to do. Opening the door to his office and letting yourself in would feel like an inappropriate invasion of privacy, but you’re at a loss. This entire thing is so strange.

Before you can decide how to proceed, you hear something. A faint noise, barely there, but distinct from the wind that still whistles outside. It’s disjointed, arrhythmic like the sound of hushed voices. Overlapping. Arguing, maybe.

Inclining your head, your brow creases further. It sounds like it’s coming from your professor’s office, but how could it be? The noises are too muffled, too distant to be coming from right in front of you.

You lean closer. Deciding you’re past the point of maintaining decorum, you press your ear to the door, careful to avoid any of the suspicious looking stains.

For a moment, you hear nothing. Half convinced the voices were nothing but a figment of your overactive imagination, you almost pull away.

But then you hear them again. Still muffled, still indecipherable, but undoubtedly louder than before. Which means they must be coming from behind the door. The voices pause, suspend you in silence once again.

And then you hear another noise, different this time. Less like a voice and more like movement. Scuffling, maybe. Feet dragging against the floor. It’s punctuated by a strange gurgling noise. Something wet and thick and throaty. The kind of sound that makes you wince in a subconscious reaction.

And then a sudden thump has your bones jolting beneath your skin, everything muscle in your body tensing as you suppress an uninvited gasp. Because that didn’t sound far away. It was loud, too loud to be anywhere but right on the other side of the door.

Mild unease is quick to transform into sheer panic as you stagger backwards on shaky footsteps. You need to leave. You need to leave now.

You’ll find another way to get ahold of Heeseung, to make sure he’s okay. And maybe there’s a rational explanation for all of this. Maybe this is an old New Haven office and Professor Kim forgot to send you the new address. Maybe there’s an email in your inbox now, and he’s apologizing for the oversight and rescheduling your draft meeting. Maybe he’s—

The sound of the front door you walked in through minutes ago slamming shut kills the train of thought. This time, you can’t bite down the noise that crawls up your throat.

It’s stupid, from a logical perspective. A fatal flaw of human nature that your first instinct is to scream. To alert whatever danger surely lurks nearby of your exact location, the precise depth of your fear.

But the terror that leaves your lips is muffled. It comes from behind, the palm that covers your mouth. The outline of a body that presses into your back, forces you into submission with a hand around your wrist.

You thrash against the ironclad grip to no avail. Dig your heels into the ground but find little purchase in the hardwood floor as you’re dragged backwards, every nerve in your body singing with terror as you’re forced into a dark room. Even with your elbows flailing and head jerking, the grip on you remains steady, firm.

In the end, it’s a bite that frees you. The hand that covers your mouth drops away as soon as you sink your teeth into the flesh of your captor’s fingers. There’s a muffled grunt of pain in your ear as you spin on your heel.

Again, it’s stupid. You should be running, sprinting in the opposite direction, but everything in you is begging to know. To gain some sense of control over the situation. Eyes still adjusting to the dark and blinded by fear, you turn to find—

“Heeseung?” Your mind is spinning a million miles a minute. There are too many thoughts, too many emotions to keep up with. Relief. Fear. Confusion.

Relief, because he’s okay and he’s here, but—

“What are you doing?” You have a million questions that demand answers. “Why are you here? Why did you grab me like th—”

“Are you okay?” Heeseung takes a step closer to you, reaches his hands out as if to grab you again. Thinking better of it, he lets them fall back to his side with a slight shake of his head. There’s terror in his eyes too when he clarifies, “You’re not hurt?”

“No, I…” What the hell is going on? “I’m fine, but—”

A flash of relief makes itself apparent on Heeseung’s features before they’re morphing again, regaining all the urgency, the fear that was there before. He’s serious, gravely so when he tells you, “We have to get out of here.”

“Okay,” you stumble forward as he reaches for your wrist again, intent on tugging you behind him. “But I don’t understand. What’s—”

“I’ll explain everything later.” He’s frantic, you realize. Desperate. And so terribly afraid. Emotions you’ve never seen him wear. Not in the cool, calm mask of indifference he had in class. Not in the faint flickers of vulnerability from stolen moments under moonlight. This is different. This is so much worse. “But we have to go. Now.”

With that much command in his voice, that much fear in his eyes, you’re putty in his hands. But in the end, it makes little difference. The door to the room he’s dragged you into opens with a resounding bang before the two of you can make your escape. The sound is so loud, so frightening that you feel reverberations in your marrow as the door collides with the room’s interior wall, no doubt leaving a sizable dent.

And standing there, shrouded by the gray tones of sunless winter daylight, your professor blocks the room’s only exit.

Instinctively, you take a step closer to Heeseung. He does the same, pulling you towards him, behind him, until half of your body is covered by his. Peering over his shoulder, the sight that greets you is one that will haunt waking nightmares for a long time to come.

Professor Kim, who always prided himself on maintaining a neat, clean appearance couldn’t be further from that now. His clothes are ripped, hanging from his body at odd angles, adding an element of disfigured monstrosity to his silhouette.

And his eyes. His eyes. Bloodshot and so wide they must hurt, they dart around the room, narrow in on you and Heeseung like he doesn’t see humans. Only targets. Enemies. Prey. Mouth open and snarling, you swear you see a glint in his mouth, the shape of a tooth far too long and pointed to belong to any normal person.

But even those things you could force yourself to forget.

What horrifies you the most is the blood. Even in the shadows, the unnaturally potent shade of crimson is unmistakable. It stains him, covers him, drips from him. Seeps from his clothes and his skin and his mouth.

Panic clawing at your throat, you suppress the urge to vomit.

“Get behind me,” Heeseung whispers, low. “Now.”

But a split second of averted attention is all your professor needs. Professor Kim, lover of literature, beacon of taste, a role model you’ve looked up to since the first time you stepped foot in his class a handful of months ago, pinches a tiny object between his long, bony, blood-covered fingers. And then he throws it.

With startling precision, it whistles through the air, races through a hazy cloud of confusion and panic before it strikes its target true.

It doesn’t hurt, not really. The hand that flies to the side of your neck is instinct, more than anything. But the fingers that linger on your pulse point don’t find the smooth expanse of your unblemished throat that they usually would.

Because there’s something there now. An object lodged just beneath your jaw. Delicately, you draw your hand back in front of your face. There’s no blood on your fingers, but that doesn’t stop them from shaking.

As you look over Heeseung’s shoulder, the world starts to blur around the edges. Darken, as if your eyes are closing of their own volition, against your will. You see him retreat, the terrible ghost of your professor. In the dark, he looks almost forlorn. Regretful.

“Fuck,” Heeseung whispers. He doesn’t see the way your professor spins on his heel, runs in the opposite direction. His attention is trained fully on the space beneath your jaw. “Fuck.”

“Heeseung?” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears. Distant, muffled as if you’re submerged beneath water. You have so many questions.

But it’s suddenly so cold. And you’re so tired. Wouldn’t it be nice to just lay down? Rest for a moment? Surely that couldn’t hurt anything.

Your legs are wobbly beneath you, and you would collapse to the floor in an ungraceful heap if it weren’t for the two hands on your waist, supporting your weight.

“I’m here,” he tells you. Cold. When did it get so cold? Your eyes try to focus on Heeseung, but your vision is swimming. You wonder if he would be warm. “I’m right here. Just… fuck.”

Gently, he eases you both to the ground. The floor is hard beneath you, but it feels like a reprieve. You’re tired of holding the weight of your body upright. Your blinking is becoming slow, lethargic. Your head is suddenly far too heavy for your neck.

Slowly, Heeseung removes his hands from your waist, relocates them to either side of your jaw. With the care of someone well versed in patience, he delicately maneuvers your head to the side, exposing the length of your neck.

Whatever he finds there must be displeasing. You can’t imagine why. You can’t think much of anything. The world has taken on a sort of dreamlike quality in which everything feels loose, fluid and unburdened by the laws of any physics.

“Fuck,” he whispers for the fourth time. The curse scatters over your cheekbone like a kiss.

Pulling back slightly, he meets your half-closed eyes. “I’m sorry.” It sounds like a prayer. “This might…” he swallows, something in his resolve wavering. “This might hurt.”

Pain. You can barely conceptualize the sensation. It feels like a distant memory.

And then he’s tilting your head to the side again. His face draws closer, overcomes the last of your remaining senses, demands the full attention of what’s left of your consciousness.

You think he might kiss you. Whatever desire remains in you almost wishes he would.

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting slightly as your eyelashes fan against the tops of your cheeks.

But his mouth never finds yours. Instead, you feel the soft caress of his lips against the side of your neck, a fleeting touch against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. Inhibitions whittled to nothing, you shudder against the sensation, release the airy ghost of a sigh.

He was wrong, you think. With his mouth on your neck, pain is the last thing you feel.

You feel his lips part against your skin, chasing away some of the cold that has only seeped deeper into bones, into the very essence of your being.

And then you feel it. Whatever capacity for sensation that remains all focuses on the sudden flash of agony as his teeth pierce the skin of your throat.

The tiny moan that escapes your lips is pitiful. Your ability to think, to rationalize, feels like something that’s dangling in front of you, just out of reach. Your body is too heavy, too weak to respond to the flash of searing pain as your skin is pierced deeper.

He can’t speak, but you feel the shallow vibration of a hum against your neck. Soothing, calming. His hand that doesn’t bear the weight of your head moves to push a stray strand of hair from your forehead. It’s gentle, reverent. In complete opposition to the war he wages against your neck.

Mouth still full of you, a groan escapes him. It’s heady, throaty, and you feel it travel the length of your spine, settle in the pit of your stomach. Sensation is the only thing tethering you to this world, and you can’t quite tell if this is pleasure or pain.

He pulls back, the absence of his steady heat leaving your jaw vulnerable to the chill in the air.

“Hold on,” you hear. You can’t pinpoint where the noise comes from. Sound surrounds you, washes over you in a strange uniformity. You feel the ground fall away, something warm and solid behind your shoulders and under your knees.“We’ll be there soon.”

Floating, you think. You must be floating. It’s hard to tell. Moments are bleeding into one another too quickly for you to keep up.

Eyes closed, body molten, you relax into the steady grip that carries you.

And the last thing you hear before reality loses its hold is the fervent, whispered sound of your name.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

CONTINUED IN PART 2 (which can be found on my masterlist!)

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: THANK YOUUUUU for reading!!! this is pretty different from what I usually write plot wise, so I hope it made for a good read. vampire heeseung and this oc are near and dear to me, and I'm excited to continue their story. the rest of this fic is fully plotted and partially written. I'm actively continuing to work on it, and hearing your thoughts/theories/screaming/feedback/etc. is great motivation! as always, I love know what you're thinking. ♡

#heeseung fanfiction #heeseung x reader #heeseung fanfic #enhypen fanfic #enhypen x reader #heeseung x you #enhypen x you #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #heeseung scenarios #heeseung imagines

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hiddenlife-manager · 2 months ago

Text

Hasan Piker x Reader

cw… creampie, plan b, some plot, nipple play, breast play, jerking off, hook up, alcohol induced sex, under the influence, not edited, etc…

notebook… I FELL IN LOVE WITH THIS HUNK OF A MAN! So yeah I’ve been gone, frankly my health has gotten worse plus school so I haven’t been in the best spot. Got this done while studying for an exam thanks for staying yall.

“I would have to disagree with you, see, as an economist…” There you were, sitting in front of the most influential political commentator, Hasan Piker. You had watched plenty of his streams, agreed with many, and disagreed with a few. He reached out to you; perhaps it was because your name was being mentioned in abundance. You were the young rising star, being asked for your own stance on the current administration, specifically economics.

“Frankly, your problem is that you think far too optimistically of the average American's comprehension of the market.” Handsome he was, and the way he spoke could impress even the highest of individuals. He was called many names, socialist and liberal, when he really is a leftist, communist, misogynistic, and other names. He was dressed in a brown suit, stylish as ever. His glasses on his face and the perfectly groomed beard.

“It can be done; I do think highly of the average American people. Where we can agree is that to make a difference is to change both parties, which has been proven nearly impossible.” You were a natural in front of the camera; you were not the type to speak in a complicated manner. Your whole existence and career were to make economics accessible to all classes of people in this diverse nation.

The two of you debated back and forth for almost an hour, his chat exploding. It was all split; some enjoyed your presence, others did not, and people hated Hasan or loved him. You reached the point where you answered one last time, and he began to close up. He got up and walked over to you, offering a hand.

“It has been a pleasure; greatly appreciated that you took up my offer.” He was kind; he was known for being brash and unapologetic. It was the type of individual he was. You found your cheeks warming up the moment he offered his hand to shake. You were slow and deliberate, not wanting your hand to be sweaty. You shook his and flashed a smile.

“Of course, I enjoyed this experience. Do reach out if you desire another opportunity to debate me.” He chuckled at your statement; the way you two still held one another’s hands was strange. No one wanted to let go in a strange way. It was quiet staring into his eyes while he stared at yours. He cleared his voice and pulled his hand away.

“Would you like to get a beer? It’s late; might as well offer.” He tried to let go of his professionalism. He knew you were a small Hasanabi head; he did not need to hide his true nature. He waited for your response; he enjoyed talking to someone intellectually similar to him.

“I am in need of a drink; I am not used to the West California area. Do you have a place in mind?” Nearly all economists lived on the East Coast, you included. You only flew in for a few events in the California area and this debate.

“I know a great place; I’ll pay.” He spoke, “Give me a second to inform my team I’ll be leaving.” You hummed, and he walked away. In seconds he returned with his car keys; you knew this would be a fun night; you needed a drink.

You shouldn’t have drunk as much as you did, and neither should he. The tension you two had from the debate, after it, and the bar was let out. You two stumbled into your large hotel room, your arms fumbling with his belt buckle. You walking backwards, his lips against yours, his arms around your waist. He was extremely muscular.

“Living room?” He asked between deep, long kisses; it was clear you two couldn’t make it to the bedroom. He knew you could afford a hotel that was nearly an apartment. It was clean and lived in. He lowered his hands from your waist to your ass; with ease, he lifted you up.

“Is that what your muscles are for?” You joked, whispering against his ear. He couldn’t help shaking his head.

“What can you say? I like women.” He humored you back; he reached the couch of the living room area of the hotel room. He sat down, and you were on his lap. The two of you are making out with passion, the taste of liquor lingering with each kiss. His lips were soft; his beard gently scratched your face.

“Clearly…” Your hands lowered back to his expensive belt, while he slowly removed your top. The two of you wanted this despite being extremely drunk. His hand went to the back of your bra with ease, and with one hand he undid it. “An expert, I see.”

“Of course, bras are a nuisance.” He responded; there he began to fondle your breast. He massaged them and carefully would pinch the nipples. You attempted to hold back moans, not desiring to be too loud, especially in a hotel. On his lap, you had to work trying to get his pants undone. They looked amazing on him, beige, which matched the entire outfit.

“Extremely experienced—mhm…fuck…” You gasped out and threw your head back, stopping right then and there from attempting to get his cock out of his pants. You could see the outline, his erection clear as day. You bit your lip and continued to try and get him free. He did not stop his attacks on your breast; he knew how to play with them. Leaving you out of breath, the world was already spinning from you being drunk; now you held this want…for him to let you ride him.

There, as your hands moved the leather out of the way, you quickly undid the first two buttons and then a zipper. White pristine boxers with the most tasteful outline of his large cock. You knew he was large, just from his mirror pics from his Instagram. Right when your hands reached the boxers, he pulled your nipple, causing your body to lean onto him. You grabbed his shoulder with a moan louder than before.

“Oh, is this the sweet spot?” He teased you; he enjoyed the way your body used his for support.

“You are making this—oh god! More difficult than it…mhm…needs to be.”

“Clearly you want to ride me, making this fun for you.”

“Hardly, this is fun—f-f-f-fuck, just let me get fucked by you.” It was a clear plea; he enjoyed it. This was fun; he was drunk, just as drunk as you, maybe a little less. Either way, he and you were extremely intoxicated; there was no filter.

“As you wish, Princess.” He let go of your nipples, allowing you to sit up once more. He continued to play with your breast, small whimpers forcing themselves out. You finally reached the hole between the boxers and his cock. The moment you moved the hole, it sprung out with such force it caused your lips to part ways and let out a gasp of surprise. “Bigger than you thought?”

“Yes…” He let out the smoothest of laughs, his hand raised up to your head and almost patting it.

“Come on…touch it, spit on it if you want.” Your cheeks felt warm; you moved your hands to his large cock. The moment you placed it around the base of his cock, it splurted precum from the tip. He groaned at the way your hands felt quite cold against his warm and throbbing cock. You moved a little on his lap, slouching a little, and spat on it.

There you began to move your hand; you twisted and pumped, attempting to get it covered in your spit. The way your hands moved had Hasan's head thrown against the back of the couch. His glasses were no longer straight; they were crooked, and hardly he looked presentable; neither did you.

“We don’t have condoms.” You let out; he raised his head up to see you actively pumping his throbbing cock. The erection reaches a point of pain and pleasure.

“I’ll pull out.” You hummed there was no protest, the way his eyes were glazed watching you, and your eyes were filled with lust. The alcohol was there; it was one of many factors as to the reason you landed here, about to ride his cock.

“I’ll get a Plan B.” There was a laugh shared between you, after all you two shared the same views. If you were to get pregnant, here in California it would be allowed and in your home state. You did not stop moving your hand while the two of you discussed the issue at hand.

There you felt him work on getting your pencil skirt raised. You looked professional before all of this; now you were a mess just like him. Your skirt lifted above your thighs, your panties shifted out of the way. The moment he moved the panties to the side, your lips parted to gasp; the cold air felt like a sharp touch.

“Come on…don’t be shy.”

“I am not…” You muttered as you began to hover over his cock. You held it in your hand while using your knees to stay up.

“You’re hesitating.” He teased.

“So what—AH!” You felt him thrust up and the first half of his cock being shoved inside you. The way your body had to use his to stay up. He chuckled; you slowly sunk in the rest while holding his shoulders with your hands. He groaned at the meticulous manner in which you moved down; you two were silently sitting there for a minute. “You’re an asshole.”

“Perhaps.” He could feel the way your hands held each side of his body. His shoulders were tense, the digging of your nails painful despite the hidden pleasure he felt. He found himself biting his bottom lip; you haven’t moved an inch yet, and here you are causing him to malfunction.

“Okay… I am going to move.” He nodded his head, his hands rested on your sides. There you began to move slowly and deep. Whimpers were the only sound you made while he attempted to stop himself from moaning. Simply by you being slow and deliberate, you had him as weak as could be; his bottom lip hurt as he continued to bite heavily on it.

Your spit and your wetness allowed the riding to be easier than if you did not. It was slow, and you continued to dig your nails in each of his shoulders. His hands were tight on you; he kept you up and balanced. You were incapable of moving quickly; he was so large, and you were not properly prepped; it hurt just a bit. Your adjustment happened while you moved your hips up and down.

“So…fucking big.” You cursed near his ear; it was a soft curse overpowered by your sounds of pleasure. The way your voice caused him to lose it, he bit his lip, and blood began to seep down it. He stared at you, raising a hand; he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into a rough kiss. The metal of his blood mixing with one another kiss. You slowed the pace down of your hips to focus on the kiss, unknowingly frustrating him. During the deep and messy kiss, he thrust up between movements. “FUCK!”

You fell into his chest once more; he wrapped his arms around your waist, his large biceps keeping you in place. With his strength, he lifted you only a little, enough for him to thrust. He began to thrust into you, keeping you close. Your head fell between the crook of his neck, the blood and drool you two shared slipping down your mouth.

“Just take it, princess.” He whispered to you between grunts; you nodded in pure bliss. He was taking control, and you loved it. You were being fucked as if you were only a hole, even if he held you like the most delicate item in the world. The slapping of his balls against you echoed through the hotel room. You no longer attempted to hide your moans through whimpers; you were moaning fully.

“Y-yes!” The desperation from your voice is evident. He continued to buckle his hips; his legs were strong to be able to do this. He practically was lifting you while thrusting into you and keeping you in place. For him it was a full workout while all you had to do was be held and be fucked. Your eyes were glossy; you closed your eyes from the glossiness, and there your tears slipped down the crook of his neck.

“Such a perfect pussy.” Those words ignited a flame within you, your throbbing pussy clenching tightly on his cock that thrusts itself in the deep he so desired. You moaned louder than ever and wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him close. A groan of pleasure followed his movement when he slowed his pace. He wasn’t sloppy like the few men you fucked right before they came. He was precise; he actively thrust deep inside you. Not a single inch of his cock was outside of you when he thrust up.

The slowness kept your head lightheaded; clearly, he has been fucking you longer than your mind could comprehend, each thrust removing your ability to think. He was close; you were reaching the peak with him. Your thighs started to become uncomfortably tight; the arms around his neck moved to his thick dark hair and pulled, forcing his head to go back.

“Keep…going…ah-like.” Those words you muttered against him gave him an ego boost no man such as himself should have. Like most men who listen to that, they would speed up; he was not new to this; he kept the pace you told him you liked. If this was making you weak, he was doing something right. The tighter your thighs got, the closer you placed your bare chest against him. The arching of your back caused him to keep his grip tight.

A small twitch you felt within yourself; you gasped at the twitch. He tried to lift you after that twitch, except his body began to spasm, his cum seeping into your pussy at a quickened pace. You fell into his body, your hand letting go of his hair and your arms tightening to the point you were slightly choking him. He moaned while you were breathing heavily against his neck.

“You…” you gasped out only that singular word; your body was exhausted, and you were still buzzed. The room spun, and the way you were falling apart on top of him became overwhelming. “Are you going to pay for my Plan B?”

“Deal.” He breathed out with a chuckle, leaving you to laugh alongside him. “How about after we sober up?”

“Double deal.”

#fanfic #x reader #oneshot #smut #hasan piker x you #hasanabi smut #hasan piker smut #hasan piker x reader #hasan x reader #hasanthehun #hasanabi #hasan piker #twitch #twitch streamer

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demie90s · 9 days ago

Text

Winter Smoke

Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Paige is home for winter break. No practices, no pressure—just family dinners, small town snow, and that one girl who’s always been around.

Genre: SMUT. WLW, slow burn, emotional tension, questioning sexuality, winter break setting, pothead x athlete, domestic vibes, closeted yearning

Warnings: Weed use, internalized confusion, soft flirtation, light physical intimacy (touching, closeness, implied attraction), emotional vulnerability, questioning identity

Word Count: ~ 4.1k

Winter break had the same rhythm every year: Paige came home, parents hosted dinner, folks laughed too loud in the living room, and I minded my business from the basement.

I didn’t mind her being around. We weren’t close—just the kind of familiar that comes from small towns and mutual obligations. Her dad and mine coached together in high school, so technically we’d “known each other forever,” but we’d never really talked. Not like that.

She played ball. I played the system.

They wanted us to be friends, though. My dad always hinting about it, asking me to tutor her in something she didn’t need help with just to get us in the same room. Her mom dropping comments like, “You should bring Paige on one of those study trips you go on, maybe it’ll rub off.”

As if intelligence was contagious.

Didn’t matter. I was too far gone into my own world now. I had my weed, my theories, my books, my silence. I wasn’t even mad about my dad pushing me into academia instead of ball anymore—he got over it. He saw what I did with it. I finished high school early, left with an associate’s before I could legally drink, and now I’m 21 working on a master’s degree while barely blinking. A little weed wasn’t going to be the scandal that ruined me.

So when they pulled up again this winter—her whole family—I didn’t blink.

I was in the basement, like usual. Hoodie on. Socks mismatched. Blunt lit. Some quiet instrumental R&B bleeding out the Bluetooth speaker. I was reading an abstract on cognitive reinforcement while simultaneously plotting which chips I was going to eat next.

And then the door opened. I didn’t look up right away. I already knew. Paige.

“Your mom said you were down here,” she said casually, a soft thud as she dropped down onto the other end of the couch.

“Clearly,” I murmured, barely lifting my eyes from the page. “She send you to babysit me or something?”

“Nah. I just wanted to get out of there. It’s a lot.”

I hummed. “Yeah. That house too full of opinions.”

She laughed lightly, then went quiet. I could feel her eyes scanning the room—my scattered notebooks, the rolling tray, the cloud of sweet smoke hanging heavy in the air.

She leaned back, legs stretched long across the carpet, and asked, “Is that your study routine or your spiritual practice?”

“Both.”

That got a laugh out of her. I liked the way she laughed. It was light, not forced, and just dry enough to tell me she wasn’t as straight as she tried to act.

“You ever try it?” I asked.

She glanced over. “What?”

I tapped the blunt between my fingers. “This. You off-season now, right?”

She tilted her head like she was thinking. “I mean… I’ve been around it. Never really did it.”

“Now’s the perfect time. No games, no drug tests, no interviews. Just you and the void.”

She looked at me, a little too long, and I knew then she was considering it.

“You don’t gotta impress me,” I said. “But you curious. I see it.”

Her eyes narrowed, amused. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re narrating a Netflix show no one’s ready for.”

I smirked, slow. “That’s ‘cause they’re not.”

Eventually, she took it. Sloppy first inhale, a cough, another laugh. She settled into the feeling quicker than I thought. And then came the real problem—we started talking. Like really talking.

I don’t even remember what cracked it. Might’ve been a joke about her old baby photos upstairs or some memory we shared at a fourth-grade birthday party neither of us remembered happening until now. But the laughter settled into something thicker. Slower.

“People don’t really know how smart you are,” she said out of nowhere.

I blinked, caught off guard. “You stalking my résumé or something?”

“Nah, just… people talk. My mom brags about you to everyone. Said you had college credits before you had a prom.”

“That’s true. I skipped prom.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Cause I was gay and bored. And the DJ was trash.”

Her lips twitched like she didn’t know whether to laugh or process the information. “So you’re out?”

“Out? Baby, I was see-through.”

I stretched out further, dragging the blunt to my lips again. She was watching me now. Too closely. Her eyes darkened a little, the haze from the smoke mixing with the curiosity already crawling under her skin.

“And what about you?” I asked, soft. “You ever… explore?”

She didn’t answer immediately. But she didn’t break eye contact either.

“Not really,” she murmured. “Not in a real way.” I nodded. Said nothing. I didn’t need to press it.

She leaned closer. Just a little. Her hand brushed mine on the couch, slow like a test. I didn’t move. Just let the tension sit there.

“You ever think about what it’s like?” she asked quietly.

My eyes locked on hers, and for once, I didn’t say something witty. Didn’t joke. Just let my voice drop into something honest.

“All the time.” There was a pause.

“Can I… try something?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She leaned in. Lips brushed. Slow. Careful. She tasted like nerves and chapstick and a little leftover smoke. And when I deepened it—just slightly—she let out the softest sound I’ve ever heard from her.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Cause I knew who I was. On the surface? Calm. Chill. Smarter than I look and twice as calculated. On the inside? Horny. Starving. Ready to fall to my knees and make her forget her last name.

But I held it in. Barely.

Our kiss broke and she smiled, dazed. “That was…”

“Yeah.”

She laid her head on my shoulder. I felt her fingers graze the hem of my shirt. Not sexual. Just curious. But I was holding on by threads.

We’d been like that for a while now—somewhere between silence and casual conversation, like neither of us knew how to say, “Hey, are we gonna talk about the way we kissed and didn’t stop thinking about it for the last hour?”

We hadn’t moved from the couch. Weirdly enough, it held both of us just fine. Just enough room. Just enough quiet. Except now Paige was laying on top of me.

Her legs tangled between mine, her body pressed down in a way that didn’t feel innocent anymore. Head on my chest, one arm hooked lazily around my waist, like she’d done this a thousand times. Her eyes were closed, but she was still talking—something about childhood basketball trophies and how her little cousin found her old highlights on YouTube.

I could barely register a word. Because all I could think about was how her thigh was right there—pressed between mine. Not moving. But not still either.

And I was high. Which made it worse. I don’t get stupid when I’m high—I get hungry. And every slow exhale from her nose onto my collarbone was pushing me closer to losing it.

I bit my lip. She didn’t notice.

Her voice was soft. “He said I looked mean. Like, ‘Auntie, why you look so mad when you play?’ I was like, bro, that’s my face.”

I huffed out a breath. Tried to shift. Tried to be normal. But she moved with me—adjusted her leg without even opening her eyes, and suddenly her thigh dragged right over where I’d been trying not to feel too much.

I clenched my jaw. She still didn’t notice.

“I used to hate watching myself,” she murmured, voice low and gentle against my throat. “Now it’s kinda cool, seeing where I started. You ever feel like that? Like—”

“I have to move you,” I cut in, voice tighter than I meant.

She lifted her head a little, brows furrowed. “What? Why?”

I sat up slightly, forcing her off me and into her own seat like it didn’t hurt. Like it wasn’t killing me to put space between us.

“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned, leaning closer. I licked my lips slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I’m trying not to fuck you,” I said calmly. Deadass. Unapologetic.

She blinked once. Then again. And smiled. That slow, knowing smile.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up straighter. “That’s why.”

“Mhm.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean earlier.”

“You were literally laying on me. I could barely breathe. You were talking about youth basketball and I was this close to snapping your waistband and licking your spine.”

She grinned wider, leaned in like she was about to say something smart, and kissed me instead. Not light. Not curious. Firm. Intentional. Her hand cupped my jaw while her mouth moved slow and deep over mine, and I was holding on by a damn thread.

Then she started licking my neck. Not just kissing—licking. Small, warm, deliberate strokes right beneath my ear, and then soft open-mouthed kisses trailing down to my collarbone. And I was still. Frozen.

Not because I didn’t want to touch her. But because I did. Because if I moved, I was going to flip her. Make her cry out. Make her feel every second of what I’d been holding in since she laid on me like that couch was neutral ground.

She sat in my lap now, straddling me fully, rocking just barely. Smirking.

“You good?” she asked in that fake innocent tone, head tilted, lips still swollen from kissing.

I looked at her. Stared. She thought she was winning. Thought she was in charge. But when she leaned in close again and whispered, “Yes…”—that was it.

Everything inside me snapped.

My hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her down flush. The soft gasp she let out told me all I needed to know. She didn’t expect me to take it that seriously.

I kissed her hard—like I was making up for every second I held back. My tongue slid into her mouth like I owned the space. My hands gripped her thighs, pulled her down tighter into me, and I felt the shift in her body—the sudden surrender. The way she melted under it.

“You thought you’d in charge?” I muttered between kisses. She tried to say something cocky. I swallowed it with another kiss.

“You laid on me like I wouldn’t do something about it.”

Her hips shifted. My fingers dug in. She moaned—soft, breathy, and fuck, I wanted more.

I kissed her jaw, her neck, the space just under her ear where she shivered like I found a secret. My voice dropped.

“Girl you got one chance to tell me to stop.”

She didn’t. Her hands gripped my shoulders. She leaned in again, kissed me like she was already gone.

I didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to. Paige had already told me everything I needed to hear—between her eyes, her breathing, her “yes,” the way her thighs clenched the second I kissed under her ear.

And I wasn’t about to waste that permission.

I flipped her slow. Nothing rough—just smooth and deliberate. Her back hit the cushions while I stayed above her, steady, calm, calculated. Her hands gripped my hoodie like she was holding herself together. That wouldn’t last long.

Then I was on her. Hands sliding up under her hoodie, fingertips dragging over bare skin, tugging fabric higher as I kissed down her neck. She lifted her arms, let me take it off, hair falling across her flushed face like some forbidden secret I wasn’t supposed to see.

But I was gonna see all of her. Every fucking inch.

No bra. Just her. Skin flushed pink, breathing shallow, chest rising. I stared. Just for a second. Just to memorize the shape of her. Then I dropped my mouth to her chest—tongue licking a slow circle around her nipple before pulling it into my mouth, gently, then harder, until she gasped and arched up.

My hands weren’t still either. One slid down, thumb dragging under the band of her sweatpants. I felt her tremble when I grazed the front of her, the heat, the way her body reacted instantly. My eyes were on hers the whole time.

I didn’t say anything. I just pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help me, quiet, legs parting slightly, thighs tense. No panties. She knew what she was doing. IM not mad at it.

She always looked so clean-cut. So composed. But here she was, laying back in my basement with nothing on from the waist down, wet and ready, thighs trembling, eyes locked on me like she didn’t know whether to speak or beg.

I dropped to my knees on the floor between the couch cushions. Didn’t rush. Just kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and firm. Then the other. Licked the softness just above where she needed it, blowing cool air across her pussy until she squirmed.

I didn’t tease her long. Not tonight.

I leaned in and kissed her there—deep, full tongue pressure, slow licks that flattened against her clit, then slid lower, tasting her. Her hips jumped immediately.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. I hummed against her. The vibrations made her moan. Then I really got to work.

My hands gripped her thighs and pulled her forward. I spread her wider, licking long and slow—up and down, circling, pausing only to suck her clit gently, then hard enough to make her back arch off the couch. She was losing it already, one hand tangled in my curls, the other gripping the pillow like it could ground her.

But I wasn’t done.

While I ate her, one hand slid back into my sweats—already soaked from how long I’d been holding it in. My fingers rubbed slow circles over my own clit, matching the rhythm of my mouth on hers. It made the pleasure sharper, more focused. Like I was feeding off her sounds.

She moaned louder. Her thighs started to tremble.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice cracking.

I didn’t. I licked her like it was my purpose—slow but relentless. I flattened my tongue, sucked her clit again, then moved lower and slid my tongue inside her, moaning softly when she gasped and rolled her hips into my face. Her whole body tightened. She was close. Right there.

I pulled back just enough to say, “I want you to come on my mouth.”

She whimpered. “Fuck. I’m gonna—”

Her whole body jerked. Her legs shook around my shoulders. I didn’t stop—kept licking through it, softer now, coaxing it out of her, letting her ride it. She cried out, breathless, shaky, and her fingers pulled hard at my hair.

I stayed there until she twitched. Until she couldn’t take anymore. Until she pushed at me with a whimper and begged, “Wait—baby, stop—too much.”

I finally pulled back. Licked my lips. Looked at her. Wrecked. Flushed. Breathless. Still trembling.

I climbed back onto the couch beside her, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and leaned in to kiss her neck—tasting her skin, dragging my tongue up her throat slow and dirty.

“You taste so fucking good,” I whispered.

She blinked at me, dazed. “You’re high.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t eat you through the fucking floor.”

She laughed weakly, still breathless. And then her fingers slid between my legs.

“Ohhh…” I smiled, slow and wicked. “You trying to be grown?” She looked at me.

“Say yes again.”

She hadn’t even caught her breath yet, still folded into the couch cushions, legs slightly open, chest rising in soft uneven waves. Her skin glowed in the low light—pink from heat, kissed red around her chest and throat. And yet she still looked hungry.

Paige shifted, climbing into my lap like the tremble in her thighs didn’t exist. She pushed me back into the cushions and settled over me, straddling me fully, hands on either side of my neck, gaze low and steady. There was something new in her eyes. Bolder. Like now that she knew what my mouth could do, she wanted to see what her hands could make happen.

“You good?” I asked, low.

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” I raised a brow.

But she was already kissing me—hot, slow, and wet, tongue teasing mine like she wanted to reclaim her breath through me. Her hand slid under my hoodie, trailing along my ribs, my stomach. She tugged it up, impatient. I let her pull it off.

She looked down at me now, eyes scanning everything, like she was seeing me for the first time. Then her hands cupped my chest, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I sighed into the kiss, my back arching just a little.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered, voice husky.

I opened my mouth to respond, but she kissed down my neck before I could answer—slow and messy, lips dragging across my collarbone, then lower. Her tongue flicked over my nipple and my breath caught. She smiled against my skin.

“Oh, you like that.”

“Mhm,” I managed. “But don’t get cocky. You still shaky.”

She ignored that, kissing lower. Her hand slid between my legs, over my sweats, slow pressure that made me sigh and grind into her palm.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, surprised.

“Yeah. You. Did that.”

Paige hummed, dragging her fingers up and down through the fabric. Teasing. She didn’t rush. Didn’t try to prove anything. Just moved with confidence—like she’d been thinking about this longer than she admitted.

She tugged my sweats down, enough to get her hand in, and the moment her fingers slid through how wet I was, she moaned.

“Fuck.”

I grinned. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, dazed, like she forgot where she was. Her fingers rubbed slow circles over my clit while she kissed me again—deep and dirty, moaning into my mouth every time I twitched.

Then she slid one finger in. Then another. I grabbed her wrist on instinct, not to stop her, but to feel it. She started thrusting slow, her other hand gripping my thigh, and her breath got uneven again.

“You’re so fucking warm,” she whispered, looking down at where her fingers disappeared inside me. “I—I can’t—”

And then she froze. Her eyes fluttered. Her legs trembled.

“Oh my god.”

She gasped, sharp and loud, grinding down against me like she didn’t even mean to. Cumming. Again.

Right there. On top of me. Legs shaking, forehead pressed to mine, fingers still inside me but frozen. She whimpered, soft and stunned.

I bit my lip, smiling. “You were saying?”

“Shut up,” she panted.

“No, no, please,” I laughed breathlessly. “You were being in charge. Continue.”

She blinked down at me, red-faced. “I—I forgot what I was doing.”

I gripped her hips and started to move them. She moaned.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Let me help you remember.”

I guided her—slow grind, right over my thigh now, slick and sensitive, her hands on my chest for balance. I kept moving her, small circles, steady pressure, and watched her fall apart all over again.

“You think I needed more than this?” I muttered, voice low. “Just you on top of me, making all those sounds…”

“Stop talking,” she gasped, but her hips didn’t stop.

“I came already, Paige. You know that, right?” Her eyes widened.

“I came while I was eating you.” (Literally a dream of mine.. don’t mind me)

She whimpered, grinding harder. “Fuck…”

“And now you’re gonna come again. Because you turn me on that bad.”

She didn’t argue. She just shook. Collapsed into my neck and came again, softer this time. Just a long, trembling sigh, her breath hot against my throat, body loose and weak and completely undone.

And I held her. Smiling to myself. Because yeah—she tried to be in charge. But I had her. Every. Single. Time.

It was sometime past midnight when we finally pulled ourselves together—sweatpants back on, hoodies thrown over bodies still warm, limbs still a little shaky. We laughed too much in the bathroom while brushing our teeth, hands knocking into each other, grinning like two kids who knew they weren’t supposed to be doing what they just did.

She stayed.

Of course she stayed.

Now we were in my room, the lights dim, comforter kicked halfway off the bed. She laid on top of me, hoodie half-zipped, cheek pressed against my chest like it belonged there. Her thigh was tucked between mine again, but this time I wasn’t grinding—I was too tired. Too satisfied. My hand rested on her back, fingers tracing lazy lines along her spine while she talked soft and slow, her voice fading in and out like she was about to fall asleep mid-sentence.

“You sure I’m not crushing you?” she mumbled.

I rolled my eyes. “You weigh, like, five pounds more than me.”

“But I’m taller. Got broader shoulders.”

I slid my hand down to squeeze her ass. “You’re not heavy, Paige. I lift.”

She chuckled, sleep in her throat. “Okay, hot girl.”

We laid there like that for a while. Comfortable. Quiet. Her breath evened out, her body melted against mine. I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

Morning came like a slap to the ego. The sun peeked through my curtains just bright enough to hit Paige’s face. She scrunched up like a cat and rolled off me with a groan, taking the covers with her.

“Damn,” I muttered, dragging my hoodie down.

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “Your bed’s too comfortable. I didn’t wanna wake up.”

“You drooled on me.”

She blinked. “What?”

I smirked. “Right here.” I tapped my chest. “Dead center. Like a badge of honor.”

She covered her face, laughing into her sleeve.

We got dressed in a mess of mismatched clothes. My sweats, her hoodie. My bonnet that she definitely did not need but still tried on for jokes. I tossed her one of my oversized tees to wear under her jacket and she looked at herself in the mirror like she didn’t hate it.

“You good?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just don’t know how to walk out of here like I wasn’t literally—”

“Say it and I’ll drag you back in this bed.”

She bit her lip. “That’s not a threat.”

We made our way to the kitchen like two teenagers sneaking in past curfew—except it was 9 a.m., and both of my parents were already awake.

I should’ve known something was up the moment my mom turned from the stove with that look. That mom look. The one that says, “You think I don’t know, but I know.”

“Mornin’ girls,” she said sweetly, sliding pancakes onto a plate. “Y’all sleep good?”

Paige damn near tripped over the chair. I cleared my throat. “Yup. Great. Comfy.”

“Yeah,” Paige added too fast. “Really good. Slept really… peacefully.”

“Mhmm,” my mom replied, smirking. “Sure did look peaceful when I checked on you two. Cozy.”

I froze. “You what?”

“Oh relax. I didn’t open the door all the way. Just enough to see her head on your chest like a baby possum.”

Paige looked like she wanted the floor to eat her whole. And then came my father. He walked in holding his coffee like a championship trophy, grinning like he hit the lottery three times in one night.

“I knew it,” he said, loud as hell. “I told you, baby! Didn’t I say?”

He turned to my mom, eyes wide. “Didn’t I say, ‘Those two gone end up together. It’s only a matter of time’? Didn’t I say that?!”

“You said it,” my mom replied flatly, rolling her eyes.

My dad clapped his hands together once, loud and proud. “Welcome to the family, Bueckers!”

Paige’s eyes got so wide I thought she might pass out. I dropped my forehead to the table. “You’re embarrassing. Please stop.”

He ignored me completely, walking over to Paige and slapping her on the shoulder like he just drafted her to the Lakers. “I mean this girl right here—man! Best in the league. Smart. Focused. Got a crossover and a sense of humor.”

“She’s sitting right here,” I muttered.

He leaned in closer, whispering too loud to be subtle. “If you break her heart, I’m takin’ your jump shot. You hear me?”

Paige choked on her juice. My mom finally rescued us. “That’s enough, Mr. Hall of Fame. Go fix the screen door like you said you would.”

He walked off still talking. “Three for three! That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Three for three!”

I turned to Paige, deadpan. “You wanna run? Now’s your chance.”

She leaned over, bumped my shoulder, and whispered, “Actually… I’m kinda into it.”

I blinked. “Into what?”

She smirked. “Being yours.”

My heart did something stupid. Like real stupid.

But all I said was, “Better be. You drooled on me.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

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luvst4rc0r3 · 4 months ago

Text

Loser!Jinx x Reader Headcanons

Jinx wasn’t just a loser—she was the loser. The kind who sat in the back of the class doodling in her notebook instead of taking notes, who always had a random bruise from doing something stupid, and who somehow had a negative GPA but could explain the entire plot of an obscure 90s anime no one had ever heard of.

She wasn’t exactly hated at school, but she was weird, loud, and unpredictable, which made people avoid her. Except for Vi, who was always yelling at her to “Get your shit together, Powder,” and Sevika, who only tolerated her because Vi forced her to.

Then there was you.

The first time Jinx saw you, she short-circuited. She was just trying to make it through another miserable day of Algebra when you walked into the classroom, and suddenly, math didn’t exist anymore. All she could think was:

“Oh no.”

You were effortlessly cool—new to school, good at everything Jinx wasn’t, and way out of her league. But you were nice. Too nice. The kind of nice that made Jinx go home and kick her feet while screaming into her pillow because why would you ever talk to her unless you were planning to ruin her life?

- The first time you talk to her, it’s because you sit next to her in Algebra.

You: “Hey, do you have a pencil?”

Jinx, panicking: “Wh—uh—I—yeah—no—I mean—” (frantically digs through her backpack, pulls out a crayon).

You: “…Thanks?”

Jinx: “Yeah! Totally! I only use crayons, actually. Pencils are a government conspiracy.”

You: “Oh? Tell me more.”

She thinks you’re messing with her. But you don’t laugh. You actually listen. And when she rants about whatever nonsense is currently living rent-free in her head, you just nod along like she’s making sense.

She falls in love immediately.

- Jinx is the type of loser who spends all her time online, plays obscure indie games, and has a concerning amount of conspiracy theories about random things (like why the school vending machine is always out of strawberry soda).

- She is hopelessly, painfully, pathetically in love with you. Like, full-blown kicking her feet and giggling into her pillow kind of crush. She doesn’t even try to be normal about it.

- If you so much as glance in her direction, her brain short-circuits. Immediate blue screen of death. Malfunctioning Jinx noises.

- She swears she’s being subtle, but the entire school knows she’s down horrendously bad for you. Like, it’s embarrassing. Vi has tried to stage an intervention. Sevika has bet money on how long it’ll take before she faints in front of you.

- If you actually talk to her? Oh, she’s done for. Stammering, tripping over her words, probably dropping whatever she’s holding. You could ask her the simplest question, and she’d be like:

You: “Hey, do you have a pencil?”

Jinx, sweating bullets: “Uh—uh—uh—uh—I—pen—yes—no—I mean—I do? Maybe? What’s a pencil?”

- She definitely stalks your social media. She has your entire posting schedule memorized, knows all your interests, and tries to bring them up in conversation to impress you—but it just makes her sound insane.

Jinx: “Soooo… I heard you like frogs.”

You: “What?”

Jinx: “Uh. Frogs. Y’know. Ribbit.”

- If you compliment her, even as a joke, she will take it to her grave. Like, you could say, “Hey, cool jacket,” and she’ll wear that same jacket every day for a month straight.

- One time you called her cute. She has not recovered.

- She tries to act cool around you, but she’s the type of loser who fumbles everything. Drops her phone. Walks into doors. Trips over air. It’s a miracle she hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet.

- If you so much as smile at her, she’s writing about it in her diary like it’s the most life-changing event to ever happen.

“FEBRUARY 8TH, 2025. 3:47 PM. Y/N SMILED AT ME. I CAN DIE HAPPY NOW.”

“February 8th, 2025. 3:47 PM. Y/N TOUCHED MY ARM. I CAN NEVER WASH IT AGAIN.”

- Jinx, in her head, planning out all the ways she could confess to you: Writing you a love letter? Making a mixtape? A grand, romantic gesture?

- Jinx, in reality: “I like your face.”

- If you start liking her back? Oh, she’s doomed. Malfunctioning. Exploding. Game over.

People still don’t understand how you two work, but at this point, it doesn’t even matter. You and Jinx are in your own little world, and honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

- You keep hanging out with her. At first, just in class, but then at lunch, after school, texting late at night. She stops feeling like a loser when she’s with you. She starts hoping.

- The first time you realize you like her back, it’s because of something dumb.

You’re at lunch, sitting with her, Vi, and Sevika. Jinx, being a disaster, spills her drink all over herself. Instead of being embarrassed, she just goes, “Guess I’m drinking it the hard way.”

And something about the way she owns her weirdness makes your heart do a stupid little flip.

- The first time you flirt with her, she malfunctions.

- The first time she realizes you like her back, it breaks her brain.

It happens after school. You’re both walking home together when you grab her hand, lacing your fingers through hers like it’s nothing.

She nearly trips over her own feet. You just laugh and squeeze her hand tighter.

Oh no, she thinks. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

She’s never going to recover from this.

(She doesn’t want to.)

Random Cute Couple Things:

- Jinx is the kind of girlfriend who will 100% steal your clothes.

Not just hoodies—everything. She once showed up wearing your jacket, your socks, and your backpack, and when you pointed it out, she just went, “Yeah, and?”

The worst part? She looks stupidly cute in your clothes, so you can’t even be mad.

(You started “accidentally” leaving extra hoodies at her place just so she’d always have one of yours to wear.)

- She gets insanely clingy when she’s sleepy.

Jinx isn’t really a cuddler during the day—she’s always bouncing off the walls, getting into trouble, dragging you into her weird ideas. But the second she gets tired?

Good luck getting up.

She’ll wrap herself around you like a human koala, mumbling something about how “you’re warm and smell good” and refusing to let go.

(You’ve accepted your fate. You live here now.)

- She makes the dumbest bets just to get kisses.

• “Bet you can’t solve this riddle. If you lose, I get a kiss.

• “If I make this paper ball into the trash can, you have to kiss me.”

• “Okay, rock-paper-scissors, best out of three—winner gets a kiss.”

You caught on pretty quickly and just started kissing her before she could suggest a bet. It completely breaks her brain every time.

(She still tries, though.)

- She doodles all over your stuff.

If you lend Jinx a pen, it’s over—your notebooks, your arms, even your homework will be covered in little scribbles.

Sometimes they’re just random sketches. Other times, you’ll find little hearts with your name inside them.

(She denies drawing them. But the blush on her face says otherwise.)

- She absolutely loves when you play with her hair.

She pretends she doesn’t care at first—shrugs it off, acts like it’s whatever. But the second you start running your fingers through her hair, she literally melts.

(If you braid it, she’ll leave it in all day, even if it looks ridiculous.)

- She’s always touching you.

• Holding your hand? Obviously.

• Leaning against you when you’re sitting together? Yup.

• Linking pinkies just because she can? Of course.

It’s like she needs to be physically connected to you at all times.

(If you ever pull away too soon, she’ll dramatically gasp and go, “What, you don’t love me anymore?!”)

- She makes up the dumbest excuses just to hang out with you.

“Babe, I need your help with something.”

“What is it?”

“I dunno, I just wanted to see you.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

I love Jinx

I want sleep

#arcane x reader #arcane x y/n #x reader #arcane x you #jinx lol #jinx league of legends #jinx arcane #x you #x y/n #jinx #jinx x reader #jinx fluff #jinx angst #jinx smut #jinx season 2 #jinx supremacy

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taintandviolent · 7 months ago

Text

Regular ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: You live in Gotham City and are a waitress at a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Oz is a regular and you've developed quite the crush on him.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 6.4K | older man/younger woman, semi-established history, making out, cockwarming, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, fingering (female receiving, dirty talk, smut with a teensy bit of plot (but not really).

a/n: to the 99.9999% of my followers... I'm so sorry but I am begging you guys to hear me out about him!!!! I thoroughly expect this to flop, but I needed to write it for my own sanity. absolutely massive thank you to @redravenblogs for beta-reading! banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Ah, Tuesday night.

In Gotham City, every night is a good night for an Italian restaurant. Especially one that’s been in business since 1964 and acquired a hefty lot of aging locals that know the food is good, and a possibly even longer list of trendy, younger foodies that have heard that food is good because of the aging locals.

There’s also the… criminal side of the patrons. Have a place with delicious food and wine, and Gotham’s elite underground is sure to follow. You’ve seen your fair share of men who look like they’re here to discuss a deal over a good meal, and a number of elected officials with them. You know better than to meddle, though. You just do your job, and hope for a good tip. Usually, you get one.

Tonight, it’s raining. Heavily. Surprise, surprise. People flock in from the street as an escape from the deluge outside and the restaurant is filling up quickly. Your section is about three quarters of the way full, and you’re busy. You hear the door open again, followed by the momentary rush of the sound of tires on wet pavement outside. You straighten up, throwing your glance in the way of the entrance.

There he is. A warm smile spreads across your face as you watch him amble in, shaking the rain from his leather coat. Though his appearances aren’t regular, his habits are. He always sits at the same table in your section, towards the back and next to the corner window. Once he figured out it was in an area you attended to, he never sat anywhere else.

You only know him as Oz, the big sweetheart of a man who comes in and always orders the chicken parmigiana. Says it’s the best in town. After seeing him a few times, and sneakily taking note of his last name, you took it upon yourself to do a little digging and found out that he’s known for running with Falcone’s gang and that he’s also the owner of the elite Iceberg Lounge. You never bring those things up to him in fear of starting a conversation he doesn’t want to finish. It’s really none of your business, anyway. You give him a moment to settle into the booth, but once he does – you’re immediately headed that way.

“There she is,” he starts with a smile, watching you as you make your way over to the table, pulling your order notebook from your apron pocket. “There’s my girl.”

A blush hits your cheek – it does every time. From day one, he flirted with you, harmlessly and has continued it ever since. You’re used to patrons being a little flirtatious, but something about the way Oz does it makes your stomach tighten.

“Buonasera, Oz…” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. In the year you’ve worked here, you’ve picked up a little Italian, but the appropriate greetings are mandated by management. “How you doin’?”

“Better now.”

You smile again and dip your chin to your chest shyly. He’s always so affectionate, so warm. For being a guy who meddles in Gotham’s seedy underbelly, he’s one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met.

“The usual?”

He nods. “The usual, sweetheart. But gimme’ a side of fettuccine tonight, huh?”

You scribble the order down, and snap your book shut. “You got it.”

“What time you off tonight, doll?”

“Same as every night, Oz. In about an hour.”

“They keepin’ you late every night, huh?”

“Yeah, but a girl’s gotta’ eat.”

He scoffs, shaking his head and shifts in the booth before looking up at you. “I keep tellin’ ya, I could take care uh ya, baby.”

The running joke, but sometimes you wonder if he’s serious. He always tips you generously, alarmingly so, and it’s always put directly in your hand, as though he doesn’t want anyone else knowing that he takes care of your groceries for the week.

“And I keep sayin’ I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Ahh–!” He jerks his head to the side, dismissing those words.

You reach forward to touch his broad shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Let me put your order in, honey. I’ll be right back with your wine.”

With that, you walk proudly off towards the back, swaying your hips. You can feel Oz’s eyes on you as you go and maybe the way you move is intentional, because you know he’s watching. So, what if it was? Can you really blame a girl for liking the attention?

As you round the corner to the kitchen, you clear your throat and call out to the cooks. Angelo is working tonight, and he’s one of the few guys who knows about your little affinity for Oz. As soon as you pin the ticket, Angelo spins the wheel around, looking at the order. He recognizes it, and gives you a knowing smile.

“Oh, look who’s back, eh?”

“Quiet,” you hush, looking back towards the table. You can’t see it from this angle, but you know he’s there, sitting, probably on his phone, or tapping his big knuckles on the wood of the table.

He looks at the sheet again, noticing the addition, and raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend’s hungry tonight.”

“Angelo, will you quit it? He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sugar daddy then, eh?”

You scoff, giving him the finger before reaching for one of the bottles of wine – Oz’s favorite.

You return to his table with a skip in your step. It’s been about a week since you’ve seen him, and you can’t help the giddiness in your gait. As you bump your plush hip into the corner of the table, Oz grins crookedly at you, his gold teeth glinting in the low lighting of the restaurant. You reach into your apron, pulling out a corkscrew.

“So, whatcha’ been up to, Oz?” You say, as you twist the prong into the cork. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Ah, y’know… business as usual.”

He usually gives you an answer like that – something that doesn’t reveal too much about what he does. You wonder if he knows that you’ve looked into him. You suddenly furrow your brow at the cork – it’s being stubborn – and quickly situate the bottle between your legs, squeezing it tight between your thighs. This action isn’t lost on Oz, who watches you with a deeply interested grin, watching how your skirt rides up just slightly at the front, not enough to reveal anything aside from some of your creamy soft thigh flesh. Everything you do is done with such innocence, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him, he thinks. After a moment of yanking, the cork finally gives way with a hollow POP and you grip the bottle, bringing it up to the table. You mutter a quiet apology and fill the glass, pulling the bottle back to wipe the edge on your apron.

“Well, it’s good to see you. Always is.”

Someone calls your name from behind you, and it’s one of the other tables, looking for refills. You offer Oz an apologetic smile, and head in that direction. Sadly, you don’t return until his food is ready. He’s extra present tonight; your eyes meet every time you look in his direction, giving him a timid smile and going about your tasks, but your heart flutters with an adoration for the older man. You’re attentive too, and go over to his table a million and a half times to ask how the food is, if he needs anything else.

“Only you, doll.”

You swat playfully at his shoulder, though the little quip has heat pooling in your core. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about him taking you over the table a handful of times; lustfully imagining what his hips would feel like rutting against your ass as he sunk himself inside of you. You constantly wondered what his cock looked like. He was a big man, and you assumed that rang true for all parts of him – but the hunger to find out was terrible.

He’s one of the last ones to leave, lingering as long as he can before it’s considered rude. Tonight, something’s different about him, like something is on his mind, something he wants to say. Each time you’re at his table, he looks like he’s about to ask, but never does. Finally, as you return to clear his table, reaching for the empty plates on his table, he downs the rest of his wine and clears his throat.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says, pivoting slightly in the booth with some effort. “You uh, you busy after work?”

“N-no.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. You straighten up, holding the stacked plates with one flattened palm.

“Why don’t you come down to the Iceberg Lounge? Unwind a little.”

“Oh, Oz, I’m not much of a clubbing girl.”

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in those dark eyes of his, but he sets his jaw, and gets to his feet. This puts him in your proximity, and you can feel the heat rolling off his large body. Your stomach aches to lean into him, press yourself into his gut, and lace your arms around his neck.

“Just think ‘bout it.” He reaches in his pocket.

The tip he gives you tonight almost makes your knees give way. It feels thicker than usual in your left hand and when your fingers close around the bills, you swallow down the protests. You don’t dare count it, not in front of him or anyone else. You’ve stopped telling him no, or that he doesn’t have to, because it’s almost like it offends him. He always hushes you, and acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You tuck it in the pocket of your apron, and swallow hard again.

He smiles and steps around you. Your eyes are glued to the visual of him leaving, watching him through the windows as he limps down the sidewalk. God, you want him. It’s a lethal hunger, something that claws and rips at your insides.

Once the restaurant is empty, you and the rest of the crew make quick work of cleaning up and closing up shop. It’s about forty-five minutes later when you’re slipping your arms into the sleeves of your black, wool overcoat and heading through the door. The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You heave a sigh. You’ve got a walk ahead of you, but it’s something you’re used to.

“Doll!”

You stop walking, poised just at the end of the sidewalk. You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and pull your jacket right around your neck, squinting into the rain.

“Oz? That you?” You take a step in that direction, knowing full well it is. Your casual act is embarrassing to you, but you persist, pretending you’re surprised to see him getting out of his car. It’s a nice one, too… a Maserati. Was he… waiting for you?

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “You ain’t walkin’ home in this, are ya?”

“Just to the station,” You defend.

“Nah. C’mon.” He limps around the front of his car, rain splattering against his leather coat. “Lemme’ give ya’ a ride.”

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Really. The rain is brutal and you’re cold, a chill settling into your bones. You hurry towards the plum-coloured car, your high heels clacking against the wet pavement as you do. Oz opens and holds the door for you, waiting patiently for you to make your way over. You get in the car gracefully, making sure not to flash him, though, you doubt he’d mind if you did. It’s warm inside, the heat is on, and the leather interior has absorbed some of that heat. You snuggle into the seat, watching in the rearview as Oz makes his way back around the car, and for a moment you’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the shlick of the wiper blades as they whisk the droplets off the windshield. The driver’s side door opens, and he tucks himself in. Droplets of rain decorate his shoulders, and he smears his hand over his hair.

“Where to, sweetheart?” He asks, a familiarity in his voice. He’s used to driving people around, but he’d drive you around the whole city if you asked.

“The complex on the corner of 7th and Onyx…” you say, almost sheepishly. Sure, it’s not the best part of town, but your little apartment is cozy, overlooking the city. You imagine he’s used to much nicer, and is probably silently judging the location.

“Oz,” you start, looking at the girth of his fingers as they wrap around the steering wheel. Your mind starts to wander, but you quickly reign it in with a hard blink and an inhalation of breath. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, doll. Anything you want.”

“Were you waiting for me to get off work?”

“Gotta’ look out for my favorite girl, y’know?”

It’s an indirect answer, but an answer all the same. You smile to yourself as he eases his foot into the gas pedal, the car moving forward. His right hand departs from the steering wheel to turn on the radio. Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice fills the inside, and for the rest of the drive, you’re silent, occasionally stealing looks at Oz as he drives. He handles the car beautifully, and you wonder if he handles a woman as well.

Oz is sweet. You know this. Despite his constant heavy flirting at the restaurant, he’s sweet, charming and at times, awkward. Endearingly so. But you aren’t taking pity on him. Your interest in him is purely selfish, driven by your lust for older, dangerous men. You inhale a deep breath and turn your attention to the road. You’re close to home. A few minutes later, he pulls up next to your building and puts the car in park.

You reposition yourself to face him, shifting your feet underneath you. He’s watching you, those smoldering, dark eyes following your every move. Carefully, you lean over the center console, enough to close in the distance between you two and press your lips against his warm, scarred cheek. His aftershave wafts into your nose, and you take a deep breath of it, remembering it. You think you hear his breath hitching.

“That’s for the ride, Oz.”

“Shit, I oughta’ drive you ‘round more often if that’s what it gets me, huh?”

You hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. There’s that look again – like he wants to ask something. You fill the void with another question.

“Is our chicken parm really the best, or do you just come for me?”

Oz’s thick brows flick up on his forehead and he lets out a throaty chuckle. “Sweetheart...”

“Do you come for me?”

Now he’s really looking at you, squinting at you. Hearing that question repeated has him twitching in his goddamn slacks. He looks out to the rain, then back to you and you’re still staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“If you only fuckin’ knew,” he chokes out.

“Well.. what if I wanna’ know?”

“Doll,” he grins and laughs, almost nervously. It’s loveable and you can’t help but smile, your gaze fixated on his scarred mouth as he speaks. You aren’t staring negatively, quite the contrary. Like everything else unusual about him, you find his scars sexy.

“You don’t gotta’... y’know, do that.”

You smile again, letting your lids close slightly. He thinks you’re doing this because you’re what? Paying him back for all the tips? Treating him like a charity case? Hysterical. If he only knew.

“Answer my question, Oz. What if I wanna’ know?”

He shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable? You can’t tell.

“Then uh… I ain’t gonna’ deny you that. Find out.”

You lean back over, and instead of kissing his cheek, you tilt your head and go for his mouth, your soft, plush lips pressing against his. He doesn’t respond… not right away, at least. He’s stunned, but also trying not to devour you like some goddamned hungry animal. Finally, his lips twitch to life, pressing back against yours.

He ain’t used to this. But, fuck, it feels good.

As his mouth opens, his large hand comes up to the side of your face, holding you where you’re at. The cool chill of the band of his ring is a stark contrast against the warmth of his digits. His fingertips graze the edge of your hairline, massaging gently. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating, the wine lingering on his breath mingles with his own personal notes. You let an open-mouthed moan fall from your throat, into his, and he reciprocates, moving his body slightly towards you. Your tongue slips along his bottom lip, pausing to nibble at it softly. He groans deep, his eyes rolling back in his head. You’re getting him stiff, worked up and all you’re fuckin’ doin’ is kissin’ him.

This is getting heavy. You feel your own arousal burning between your legs, a fiery, throbbing heartbeat that gets more incessant the longer his tongue is in your mouth, tasting you. Oz is practically taking you in mouthfuls, and your hand crawls over the center console, just far enough that your fingernails scrape against the fabric of his slacks, over his thigh. A desperate attempt to get closer to him without just straddling him in his front seat.

A deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning pulls you two from each other. You lurch away, panting, and look out through the front windshield. The rain comes down harder, and you can hardly make out the outlines of the buildings in front of you.

“I should… probably go inside before this gets any worse.”

You aren’t sure if you’re talking about the rain or the mutual arousal. Maybe both. He clears his throat in response; he wants to tell you that you’re a cruel woman, leaving him like this, but with the taste of you still on his tongue, he ain’t about to push his luck and get greedy. He unlocks the doors from the panel on his left. You open the door and get out, dragging your bag with you. You lean back inside, looking at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes.

“I’ll see you, Oz. Thanks for the ride.”

But not the kiss? You cringe at your words. There’s that look again – but this time, you know he wants to ask you if you’re coming down to the Lounge later. You know it, and you’ve already made up your mind.

Instead, he shrugs with both of his shoulders. “Sure, sweetheart. Any time. I mean that.”

With butterflies in your stomach, you exit the car, and shut the door, careful not to slam it. You hold your purse above your head as you run to the front door and you hear the roar of Oz’s engine as he speeds off. The second you’re inside, you kick off your heels at the door and hurry to the back of the apartment. You flip the lightswitch, illuminating the modest bedroom. You pull the dress from the back of your closet, half expecting a cloud of dust to come with it.

Thank god it still fits.

You catch a cab downtown, which is much less luxurious than your previous ride. It drops you off in front, and the line to get in stretches down the length of the building. You knew it was a popular place, but you hadn’t expected this. The rain, nor the fact that it’s a Tuesday evening, deters these patrons – whatever’s inside must really be something. You pull your dress down your thighs, and walk carefully up onto the sidewalk. Deciding to try your luck with the bouncers, you bypass the line, trying not to look at anyone to your right. If you stand in line, you won’t be inside for hours.

Two men – identical twins – stand in front of the door.

“Can we help you?” One of them asks, sternly. You don’t take offense, they’re only doing their job.

“Um…” You blurt out your name, adding, “Oz asked me to come.”

One of the men speaks into a small mic attached to the lapel of his jacket, covering it with his hand. It’s only a moment before one of them opens the door and the music goes from muffled to booming, vibrating your bones. You mutter a quick thanks, and step inside, feeling like you’ve just cheated the system. The visual that meets you truly overwhelms you at first, and you hesitate.

It’s a staggeringly massive venue, filled with undulating bodies. The building itself is industrial in nature, all steel and flashing red lights. The dance floor stretches as far as your eyes can see, a literal sea of human beings, all grinding against each other, feeling the music in their veins. You stand, stunned at the start of the crowd, unsure of where to go.

After a moment, you lift your gaze and your eyes meet for the hundredth time that night. Oz stands on the second floor, on almost a catwalk above the crowds. He looks like he did at the restaurant, save for the leather jacket which was replaced by a white suit jacket; he’s wearing the same purple shirt and black slacks. Your shoulders relax, knowing that whatever happens next will be something you remember for the rest of your life.

He doesn’t make it a secret of how he’s checking you out, a devilish sneer on his face. He’s only ever seen you in your waitress outfit, which let it be known, is sexy enough on its own, but this plunging number that gives him a peek at your cleavage, and hugs your hips in ways he could only dream of… He deepens his grin and jerks his head to the side, urging you up. You follow his gaze and clock the staircase to your left. You make a beeline for it, holding the chain of your purse in a fist and climb the steel staircase carefully, until you get to the platform that Oz is standing on.

“Hi!” You shout over the pulsing music. You’re giddy, like a schoolgirl. It’s embarrassing, really.

“I gotta’ be honest, doll, I didn’t think I’d see you.” he confesses, leaning into your ear. His voice is rough, but enticing. He pulls back, gauging your reaction. You stare at him for a moment, saying nothing, prolonging the moment and torturing him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes flick down to watch. Something he does a lot, you notice.

“What?” you ask, leaning into him. “After what happened in the car?”

When you pull back to look at him, there’s a bemused smile on your face. Confident. Cocky. Like there was an unspoken contest of who would mention it first and you won. He shrugs lightly, huffing out a laugh. You reach for his cheek, palming it softly. Oz keeps his composure, even though inside, he wants to lean into it and whimper like a dog. He’s glad he doesn’t though.

“I’m the one who kissed you, remember? It’s not like you did anything to offend me, Oz.” you coo.

“I ‘spose not, huh?”

You nod, slowly, coyly.

“The chicken parm,” he says suddenly, shrugging with his hands. “It ain’t bad. But I guess you’ve figured out the real reason why I come there, huh?”

You laugh brightly, looking over the railing at the throngs of people below you, neon red lights washing over them in time with the music. You smile softly, feeling special. It’s not every day that you get private access to an elite club in Gotham City and get to schmooze with the owner.

“Come upstairs with me.” Feeling like your attention is drifting from him, Oz takes your hand, guiding you in the direction of yet another flight of stairs. Your eyes trail up the steps; they lead to a loft, glass windows on every side.

You’re stone cold sober, so you can’t blame the alcohol, but the second you’re in his office, above the crowds, above it all, you’re on him like a bear on honey. Your hands smear over his chest, fingers grazing through the hair that peeks out from his open shirt. He smells like cigars and an expensive cologne that you take lungfuls of.

“You're an eager girl, aren’t ya?”

“Yeah, Oz… I am.” You reply breathlessly, kissing a path along his bottom lip and chin.

“How long have you felt this way, huh?”

You finally pull back, and lick your lips, watching him intently. You knew he was a talker from the restaurant, always chatting. But right now, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “Uhm…” Your chest heaves visibly, and Oz has to fight to keep his eyes on yours. “The first or second time you came into Bellini…”

“Ah, c’moooon!” he says, incredulously.

“No, I’m serious!” You laugh a little, moving your head to try and keep Oz’s gaze. He looks off behind you for a moment, and when he returns his attention to you, his expression is serious.

“Chicks like you don’t go after guys like me –”

You bristle and take his face in your hands. “Chicks like me? What do you know about chicks like me, Oz? You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh?”

He sidesteps that with another question. “What, you like older guys or somethin’?”

“They’re better…” You say in between tiny kisses. “They know better. They’re more experienced. Guys my age…” You pause to run a finger along his lip. “They don’t know how to take care of women.”

Oz smiles. It’s a dirty, devious smile, and it sends a pulse to your core. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and he brings his hand up to the curve of your shoulder. “You want me to take care of ya, baby? Is that what you’re sayin’?”

You nod. A little too enthusiastically, maybe.

“It’s a busy club, sweetheart.” He says, almost nonchalantly, as though his slacks aren’t tenting in between both of you.

But… he has a point. You hum quietly.

“Later, then? Give me a tour of the club and – “ Your voice trails off because Oz looks like he’s just gotten an idea. He smirks, and his hand grips your hip, pulling you close to his gut. “What?”

“How’s about you sit on it, huh?”

Your head turns, gaze heavily resting on the room across the way. You assume it’s for the dancers of the club. Whatever it is – it’s right there. You glance at it nervously, and your expression reads strong, apparently, because Oz chuckles next to you, and brings his hand to your jaw, forcing it back in his direction.

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. It’s okay. They ain’t gonna’ know a thing.”

His hand drops from your jaw to your waist, where his thumb swipes circles over your dress. His hand sweeps around to the back, where your skin is exposed, and begins stroking patterns over the skin, igniting tiny fires wherever he touches. You lean forward, pressing your mouth against his again, hungry for his taste again. After a few minutes, Oz pulls away, ending the foreplay. He turns and ambles to the leather sofa angled in front of the window and you follow, taking slow, careful steps. One foot in front of the other.

Once he’s seated, you lift your dress just enough to grip the delicately stretchy lace of your panties on either side, and carefully pull them down the curve of your ass. Oz is watching, his brown eyes locked on the tantalizing visual in front of him. You discard them on the sofa cushion, not thinking about where they land. Oz watches though, and his large hand snakes out, fisting them and discreetly tucking them into the pocket of his slacks. If you asked, he would’ve told you that he didn’t want anyone fuckin’ seein’ ‘em. The reality was that his perversions were too loud, and he was going to take a token of this dream he was experiencing.

Oz reaches down, unlatching his slacks, and pulling the zip down just enough to reach in and pull his aching cock free. As you lower yourself, he lines it up, watching intently. You whimper his name, feeling the cockhead nudge your entrance.

“Easy, sweetheart, easy. That’s it, nice n’ slow.” He licks his lips.

At first, you nestle yourself down onto his thick cock gradually. The fat, leaking head pops in first, sending a shockwave through your core. Your breath hitches in your throat, and instead of sliding yourself down his shaft slowly, with a huff, you slam your ass down hard. You’re sitting all the way down on Oz’s wide lap, stuffing the rest of him in. He’s thicker than he is long, but god, it’s everything you thought it would be. He vocalizes, surprised at your determination. You still, letting your walls accommodate the girth of the man beneath you.

“Hoo, baby...”

The tiniest little movements have him clenching his jaw, hissing through his teeth. And then… with his hand casually holding onto your hip, Oz starts to rut his hips up into you. It’s just enough to rock your body up and down and move his cock inside you.

He grunts underneath you, his grasp tightening on the satin of your dress. He craves skin, and his hand slides into the space between your dress and your back. You can’t help but let out the tiniest of whimpers at the feeling of being so full – you don’t remember the last time you were stretched like that. Your dress pools, hanging heavy between your legs and concealing your leaking core.

Abruptly, the collective sound of high heels approaches, and your eyes snap up to the glass windows. A group of girls crowds the room parallel, and the second one of them spots you two, they’re heading your way. Oz stops moving.

“Alright… quiet, doll.” He slaps your hip a few times. It’s a warning, and one you immediately heed, straightening up, tucking your hips into a more natural sitting position. His cock twitches inside you, and you swallow back the noise that bubbles up your throat.

“Ozzy,” the girls coo in unison. One of them has a martini in her hand and asks who you are. God, they’re all so beautiful, you think. Insecurity threatens, but the stretching between your legs calms it.

Leaning to the side to meet their gaze, he tells them your name, proudly – the bastard – and you wave, sheepishly, trying not to allude to the fact that Oz’s girthy cock is buried inside you. Maybe they know. Maybe he’s done this before. You swallow hard, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“We was just havin’ a meeting. She’s thinkin’ of workin’ here.” A bold faced lie, but it distracts the women from looking too hard at the scene in front of them. They all titter excitedly, delighted by the prospect of having another friend to play with.

“Oz takes real good care of us,” one of them chimes in, earnestly. “You’d love it here.”

You clench around his cock as hard as you can, your internal muscles squeezing him in a vice. You smile as naturally as you can at the girls as Oz continues speaking casually. The man’s poker face must be insane because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give away a single thing.

“Alright, alright. Girls, what am I payin’ ya for, huh? Get down there.”

In a flurry of nods and apologies, the women disperse, heading back down to the throbbing club below them. The sound of their high heels clicking down the stairs fades away, replaced by the dull, muffled thrumming of the music below. As soon as you two are alone again, Oz bucks his hips up into you hard, almost painfully, pulling a low groan from your throat.

“Tell me how good that feels, sweetheart. Tell me.” The roughness of his voice, the harshness of his accent makes everything sound intense, but the desperation in which he asks that isn’t lost on you. He’s practically begging you to tell him, revealing a deep-rooted hunger for praise. You wet your throat, and lean your head back onto his shoulder, bringing your hand up around to the back of his wide neck; the flesh is warm and damp with sweat.

“It feels so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Y-yeah…” You close your eyes, wincing slightly at the way his cock bullies you and stretches you open. “So good, Oz. I’ve thought about this… so many times.”

His hips rut up into you, finding a hungry, incessant rhythm and your slick walls clench around him. The action brings a choking grunt from his mouth, and your ego swells with the control. An idea blossoms. You straighten up; setting your hips and grinding them back and forth on his lap. Beneath you, Oz moans, his grip on you tightening. You feel his large body shudder, and a cocky smile curls its way around your lips.

“You like that, Oz? You like me fucking you like that?”

He nods, breathlessly, reaching up to palm the sweat that drips into his brow.

“Tell me,” you whisper, arching your body against his.

“I l-like the way you’re fuckin’ me. It feels real fuckin’ good… ” He grumbles, pleased. “Feelin’ that tight pussy uh yours… like heaven, doll.”

You whine at that, loving the way it sounds coming from his mouth. Your hips gyrate, continuing their ruthless pattern on his cock. His hand strays from your hip and juts between your legs, finding your cunt. His thick fingers slip between your folds, stroking you just enough to drive your orgasm closer to the edge. You whimper, tossing your head back.

Oz’s gaze drops from your back to your ass, watching as the flesh swells when you push back against him. God damn. It’s a perfect fuckin’ view, and he sucks in a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tightens, even if he ain’t ready for that.

“Aw, fuck–” he grunts, low. Deep in his stomach, his muscles clench, trying hard to stave off the oncoming orgasm. His eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, the sound of the music, anything except for the way you’re ridin’ him. It ain’t workin’, because he feels his whole body tense up. Fuck.

His hand goes slack between your legs and you grit your teeth, bringing your brows together in a pained expression. The dual stimulation was nice, but the way his cock massages your walls, stretching them out and filling you in a way that has you gasping is enough to drive you mad. You’re thankful that the music is so loud beneath you, because your desperate mewls and whines are getting higher and higher in pitch. Oz mutters something, something filthy about filling you and you drive your hips back against him. And with that, he loses it. He thrusts his hips up into you a few times, with a frenzied sort of desperation. You feel the heat painting your insides, coating your walls in his ecstasy. Underneath you, Oz’s thrusts have turned languid and lazy. He’s silently justifying the too-quick orgasm with the fact that he had to; anyone could’ve walked in at any time. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s been like a slobbering dog for you for months.

Chest heaving, your hips continue rutting back and forth, and Oz shifts underneath you, still panting heavily. It’s tender, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts continue to slow and you desperately reach between your legs, tapping his hand back to life. “D-don’t stop Oz, please… don’t stop…”

Behind you, Oz chuckles under his breath and straightens up, having sunk back into the sofa a little too far when he lost it. His thick index finger strokes your clit upwards, and a shiver rips through your body. The coil in your stomach winds tighter as you settle into the oncoming feeling. Still full of him, your slick walls shudder around his cock as the first wave hits. The coil snaps, your thighs clamp shut around his hand, and you look down, sighing loud as he continues flicking between your folds. One of your hands is situated on his thigh, and the other comes to grip his wrist, feeling the cuban link chain beneath your palm.

“That’s it, sweetheart… that’s it…” As you ride it out, bucking your hips against his groin, he coaxes you through your orgasm, both vocally and with the way he massages your clit, the pad of his index finger pressing into it. You can hear the pride in his voice, it’s absolutely dripping with it. “Atta’ girl. Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. You furiously nod your head as your legs begin to tremble. He doesn’t stop, and your immediate reaction is to dig your nails into the flesh of his hand, silently begging.

“You good, doll?”

“Y-yeah. I’m… wow.”

Oz removes his hand from between your legs, and strokes the side of your thigh, gently. Tenderly. For a moment, you stay like that, just enjoying all of the post-coital sensations. Eventually, you get to your feet, curious about how the patrons downstairs are faring. Speaking of dripping… You swallow hard, and press your thighs together.

While still in front of Oz, you straighten yourself out, pulling your dress back down over your hips. Now, you’re suddenly aware of the throbbing beat beneath your feet and make your way over to the window.

“How about that tour?” You ask, running a nail along the glass that overlooks the dancefloor below you. After a few moments, you feel Oz’s presence behind you, his stomach pressing into the curve of your back.

“I thought you weren’t a clubbin’ girl…” he murmurs throatily, in between kisses to your neck. You tilt your head, allowing more space for him to smother.

“Well,” you confess, honesty tinging your voice. “I’m not. But it’s not every day you get invited to the most elite nightclub in Gotham City.” You shrug. “Might as well.”

#i am so hysterically down bad for this man.... he is terrible and i hate him for what he's done but i also wanna [redacted]#nobody fucking look at me #Oz Cobb x reader #Oswald Cobb x reader #The Penguin x reader #Oz Cobb #oswald cobblepot x reader #Oswald Cobb #Farrell Penguin #myfics #x reader #reader insert #female reader #fem reader #The Penguin HBO #The Penguin

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i-cant-sing · 1 year ago

Text

TIME TRAVELER AU PT 2

Original post/idea here. Part 1 is here. Part 3 is here.

Check out my MASTERLIST for more!

I fucked up.

You thought as you sat on the bed, holding your head in your hands.

I fucked up so baaaaaad.

Not only have you healed Baldwin of his leprosy, forever changing history of the LEPER KING, but also managed to somehow be his bride. To make matters EVEN worse, you cant just up and leave right now because you dont know the disastrous effects it'll have on the future now that Baldwin wont die of leprosy, which means that the kingdom of Jerusalem wont fall to Salauddin and his muslim army and after that its just a domino effect.

You tried to view your options here.

I stay here, marry Baldwin and fuck up the fabric of time and space because how can someone from the future marry someone from the past? Wouldnt I cease to exist?

I leave, return to my time where authorities arrest me for fucking around with time- that is, if I even exist in the future now that I've altered history. Who knows if my ancestors survived/were born after this?

No. Neither option is good. I need to stay here and fix this. But in a way that i dont draw too much attention to myself so that im so insignificant that nobody remembers, let alone writes about me in the history books.

You were drawn out of your thoughts with someone knocking on your door. "Come in." You said, straightening yourself.

A couple of servants walked in, all women. "Princess Y/n." They all courtesied. "We've been sent here by his majesty to prepare you for dinner with him."

Princess? Ah yes. Only a couple of hours ago, Baldwin had proposed to you, I guess the concept of asking wasnt a thing here as he just slipped on the big beautiful ring on your finger.

You narrowed your eyes at them. "First of all, Im not a princess. You will address me as Y/n only. And secondly, Im not going to join him for dinner, so there's no need to prepare me" The maids all shared a look of confusion before the head servant spoke.

"But we cant address you as anything else until you wed the king, after which you will be our queen, princess."

"Didnt I just tell you not to call me princess? Just call me Y/n!" The head maid shook her head. "Princess, we can not do that. If we do, then we would be punished. And we must prepare you for dinner with his majesty!" The maids moved ahead to start helping you but you raised a hand, halting them.

"I said, no." You said sternly.

"What... what will we tell the king, princess? He's expecting you-"

"Tell him i cant come because Im sic- no, Im not feeling well and Id like to be alone." You cant say "sick" in this era, because that means "death sentence" here and you dont want to be fretted over and bring attention to yourself as "the king's fiancee got SICK!". Besides, you do need to be away from Baldwin as much as possible and have some time to plot your moves.

You had pulled out your notebook and began writing out dates and historic events of this era to plan your escape. You're trying to find some sort of shortcut where Baldwin gets sick again and dies, leaving his kingdom in the hands of his sister and brother in law, who will bring its downfall-

Someone knocked on your door gently. "Princess?" You quickly hid your notebook. "Come in."

Baldwin walked inside and towards you, eyes worried as they scanned you up and down.

"I heard you're not feeling well?" He asked and before you had a chance to back away, he had cupped your cheeks in his hands tenderly. "What's wrong? Shall I fetch the royal physician?"

"No." You replied with your face smushed in his hands. "I'm fine." You pulled your face away his large hands.

Confusion spread through his blue orbs. "Then why did you not join me for dinner?" He asked, using a hand to push your hair over your ear, not taking the hint that you didn't want him touching you.

"I just-" what possible excuse could you come up with that would be both effective and not insulting enough to have your head chopped off. "you- you dont care about me."

Baldwin looked at you in bewilderment. "I dont... care about you? Princess, how can you say that?" He tried to cup your cheek again but you backed away before he could, putting on a face of hurt.

"How can I not? You dont care about what I want, or even ask me what I need?" You feingned pain in your voice, turning away from him for dramatic effect.

He grabbed your shoulders and turned you towards him, his pupils grew wide as if trying to search for what it is that you need. "My love, what do you want? Just say the word, and I'll give it to you."

You looked down, again for the theatrics, and Baldwin lifted your chin. "Go on."

"You never- never asked me to marry you."

"Huh? But I did today-"

"No, you stated it- demanded I marry you." You furrowed your brows and looked down again.

Baldwin smiled. Of course, how could he have not asked you? You were a girl after all, you want to be courted the traditional way. Its not your fault that you dont know that kings do not ask permission for things. They just get it, because who would refuse to marry a king?

He kissed your forehead, lifting your chin again to meet his eyes. "Im sorry, princess. I shouldve asked." He took your hands in his and had that charming smile again. "Will you marry me, Y/n?"

"No." You shook your head. "I... I cant marry you, your majesty." You said, adding tears into your eyes. His brows furrowed in concern.

"What? Why?" You tried pulling your hands away but he didnt let go, tightening his grip ever so slightly.

"I-" well, you could say that youre not catholic and the church would never let you two get married, but you also dont wanna be tortured for being a "heretic". Maybe religious differences could be the last plan. Taking your silence as hesitance, Baldwin spoke. "I can offer you everything and more. Jerusalem would be yours. What is it that I lack that anyone else could offer?"

"I am not a good match for you!" Ah yes, lets do the typical "its not you, its me." You bit your lip as you yanked your hands out of his and walked towards the window, your back to him (theatrics). "You and I are not equals- no we are nowhere close! Youre a king, your father was a king, your family is royalty. I come from nothing, as did my ancestors. There will never be stability in our marriage when we come from such different backgrounds!" You never thought that you would be putting yourself down and call yourself "inferior" to break up with a man.

Silence hung in the air, as you held your breath.

"Youre right." You heard him say behind you. "We are not equals, we never will be." For some reason, instead of being relieved, a chill ran down your spine. Baldwin wrapped his arms around you, resting his head on your shoulder. "I may be a king, but youre far superior to me. You're an angel, sent to me by God, and you saved me. I wouldnt be king anymore if you werent here, princess."

Warmth spread from your cheeks to the tip of your ears, both due to the close proximity and his words. Sensing your bashfulness, he chuckled, kissing your cheek as he turned you around to face him. You could hear your own heart beat at how close he was.

Baldwin tilted his head, half lidded eyes staring at you. "Youre everything and more that I could ask for, princess. Never put yourself down and compare yourself to me, hm?" He said, giving your arms a gentle squeeze before moving away, but not detaching himself completely as he took ahold of your hand and looked back at you.

"Now that this is settled, let us go eat. I've had the servants prepare a feast for us and then we can discuss wedding arrangements-" shit shit shit shit shit fuck it!

"I'm not catholic!" Baldwin halted at that. You've already said it, might as well dig yourself a deeper hole. You let the tears form in your eyes. "Im... Muslim. I didnt tell you because I didnt want you to think I was working for Salauddin and spying on you for him, you know I wasnt! I really did only want to know about you. Please believe me, I wasnt-"

"I believe you."

What? Just like that.

"You- you believe me?" You breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Once again, Im sorry i didnt tell you I was a Muslim, but dont worry, I'll pack my things and leave tonight-"

"Why? We still have to get married."

You blinked slowly. "But... Im Muslim?"

Baldwin shrugged. "So? It doesnt change anything."

You looked at him in bafflement. "It does! It changes everything! We cant get married! Im a Muslim! The church wont allow interfaith marriages, and I dont intend on converting to catholicism either if thats what youre suggesting!"

"I am not suggesting that. You can be a muslim if you want to, but we're still getting married." Baldwin stated matter of factly.

"The church wont allow it-"

"The church will do as I say. I am the head of the church. Besides-" He smiled.

"I dont remember angels having to prove themselves to be a catholic. You saved my life, you cured my incurable disease. As far as the church is concerned, youre a miracle sent to me by God. Youre the Chosen One!"

Is he... is he hearing himself? Can you try to convince him?

"But... but Jerusalem deserves a Catholic Queen-" you tried weakly, but he cupped your cheek and smiled gently at you.

"I am Jerusalem, Y/n. And I deserve you." Was all he said before pecking your forehead.

He tugged you along with him. "Now, we have to eat."

You dont want to eat. You want to stay behind and think of another strategy because clearly you cant talk yourself out of this wedding.

"I'm- I'm not hungry." You said, making him frown.

"How is that possible? You havent had anything since morning. I dont want you getting sick before the wedding." Baldwin continued to pull you along.

Does he not listen?

"I dont want to eat- I- dont feel like it." You said a bit harshly this time, hoping he'd take the hint.

And he did, finally stopping. He sighed and let go of your hand. "Okay. I suppose if you really dont want to, we can skip dinner tonight." Fucking finally. "Its just... I seem to have developed a habit of enjoying meals with you. And now that my leprosy is cured and I have no more diet restrictions, I just- I had the kitchen prepare some of my favourite dishes that I was able to enjoy before my disease disabled me."

You stared at him. Is he- is he trying to guilt trip you? Baldwin once told you that due to leprosy he had ulcers in his mouth, and he couldnt eat different types of food, and was only able to have bland, soft goo.

You looked away from his big sad eyes. He's not getting to you. You need to go back to your room, make yourself scarce, be far away from him as often as possible.

"You can still go and eat dinner alone."

With one hand, he cupped your cheek. "Princess, you know I cant eat until you eat too. But its okay, if you dont want to eat, then I wont too. I guess I'll just have the servants finish the chicken roast and oh-! They even made strawberry cream cake for dessert. But- maybe another day."

You looked into his eyes, those blue orbs that were filled with sadness, resembling a kid who was just told "no candy!"

Sighing, you held his hand. "Maybe I can have a few bites."

His face lit up. Ah, he knew you'd come around. "Lets go!"

The next day, youre helped by the maids to get ready for the day. Apparently, Sibylla wanted to meet you and discuss some things, and you suspect she wants to talk about the wedding preprations.

The maids had prepared your bath and were very insistent on washing you themselves but you made them all leave the bath chambers. Finally, they compromised when you told them that they could dress you up if they wait outside.

Setting your old clothes on the bed, you entered the bathroom and settled into the warm water. The essential oils and flower petals soothed your mind and body, and you finally had some desperately needed silence to hear your own thoughts.

Last night at dinner, Baldwin was very- well, "happy" would be an understatement to how he felt near you. And all those forehead kisses and skin contact doesnt go unnoticed by you either. You suppose that since he had leprosy, he never really had or was allowed to touch anyone else. But now that hes cured, all thanks to your dumb ass, he craves the physical intimacy.

You closed your eyes as you sank deeper into the warm water. Gosh, did I really have to give him the water? Had I not done that, he would still be ridden with lepro-

Your eyes snapped open. Thats it. You just have to make sure he never drank your water in the first place! Yes! You can go back in time and sure, its always dangerous to go back in the same time period more than once, but you really dont have any other option now, do you?

After half an hour, you finally exited the bathroom and the maids practically ushered you to sit in the chair as they finally, FINALLY got to dress up the future queen of Jerusalem and after a whole hour, they're finally done. And... well you look good. Your hair has been done nicely, and a delicate golden headpiece, almost like a elegant hair band sits on top of your head. They added some color to your cheeks and lips with crushed berries. As for your clothes, they dressed you in a dark blue tunic with loose, flowing sleeves. The tunic itself was made of silk, probably brought in from the Byzantine empire and was only available to the upperclass of this time.

"I am not wearing those!" You said when they opened the jewellery boxes. There were diamonds and other precious stones adorning the earrings and necklaces.

"But princess, you must wear these. It is royal protocol for the king's bride to be, and the future queen to wear the royal jewels." The head maid said. She doesnt know that you dont plan on sticking around and if you leave wearing these jewels, who knows what havoc would that cause?

"No. I dont want to wear them."

The maids shared a look of concern. "What?" You asked them.

"Its just... his majesty picked these out for you himself. He would be mad at us if you were not wearing these." One of the younger servants spoke as she fumbled with her fingers. Through the mirror, you looked at everyone's worried expression. You doubt that someone as calm and collected as Baldwin would lose his marbles over his fiancee not wearing jewellery.

"I dont think the king would be mad at you if I dont wear some jewellery. He isnt one to get angry that easily, you know?" You said chuckling, but it died when you saw them share the same concerned looks again. This time, you turned away from the mirror to look at them directly. "What? Go on, no secrets."

Another maid mustered up the courage to mumble. "Well- it's just- the king- I mean- his majesty is calm but um-" she paused to look at the other maids for help but they all avoided eye contact. "Out with it." You said a bit sternly.

"His majesty... gets... emotional- yes, emotional! When it comes to matters concerning you."

"Emotional? What do you mean? Speak clearly, no word will get out of this room, I promise." You spoke all while glaring at the other maids to make them silently comply to not tattle on their friend.

The maid bit her lip. "His majesty... gets mad when he thinks that you're not being treated well." You gave her a look to continue. "A few weeks back, while you were strolling out in the garden, his majesty reprimanded some of his knights for not escorting you. He asked them why they weren't guarding you?"

A few weeks back? It may have made some sense for Baldwin to be protective of his bride to be, but you two weren't engaged until yesterday. And before that, his relationship with you was barely platonic, more like a king-servant thing.

"Tell her about the kitchen incident too." Another maid whispered.

"What kitchen incident?"

"Um, 2 months ago, when the kitchen had prepared a feast for his majesty, he almost fired the entire kitchen staff for serving olives with the entree." You gave them a quizzical look. "Well, his majesty had told them that you can't eat olives and had told them not to include it in the palace's food. But it was a feast to celebrate his victory and the staff thought it'd be best to add olives because the king likes them."

Your eyes widened at that. He almost fired the kitchen staff because you said you can't eat olives? I mean, it's not like you're deathly allergic, you just didn't like how tart they were and when Baldwin saw you picking them out on your plate, all you could manage to blurt out was that you can't eat them. Perhaps, he thought you had diet restrictions like him.

You huffed. That still didnt warrant such a reaction from him. "That isn't nice. Don't worry, I'll talk to him."

The maid looked at you in horror. "No! I mean, his majesty would not like that we- um..." she tried to come up with appropriate words that wouldn't be insulting. Her scrunched up face as she thought hard made you giggle.

"Fine, fine. I won't say anything to him. You have my word." You said, smiling at them assuringly.

The head maid then held out the pearl necklace to you. You sighed and nodded, and they all cheered as they started picking out the jewels for you.

Its okay. You told yourself. I can always drop them somewhere before time travelling.

As soon as you were dressed, one of Sibylla's lady-in-waiting came to fetch you. She hurried you, saying something along the lines of "you must see princess Sibylla right away!" And you couldn't stop her from pulling you along, so time travelling will have to wait.

"Princess Sibylla needs to see you right away, princess!" The maid said as she pulled you towards a room. Knocking on it, the door swung open and you were met with the sight of different gowns hanging on dummies with maids tending to them, and right in the center of the room was Sibylla, practically jumping on her heels.

"Y/n!" She yelled out as she ran towards you and engulfed you in a hug before her lady in waiting, the same one standing beside you, cleared her throat. It caught Sibylla's attention who gasped softly before backing away and immeadiately giving you a courtesy. "I mean, princess Y/n." You gave a nasty look to the lady in waiting before shaking your head at an embarrassed Sibylla. "You don't need to courtesy to me, princess Sibylla."

She immeadiately beamed. "Of course I do! You're not going to be just my sister in law, you're also going to be Queen of Jerusalem! Of course i bow to you."

Me, a queen? Yeah, we'll see about that.

"Still, I consider us friends before anything else." You offerer her a small smile. "You called for me?"

"Oh? Oh, yes!" She immeadiately grabbed your hand and pulled you further into the room. "I didn't know what colours and material you preferred, so I ordered them to bring everything with the best seamstresses in kingdom!" She pointed at the seamstresses, who bowed to you.

"But... I don't need clothes. I already have a wardrobe." Your statement made Sibylla laugh as did a few of her hand maidens.

"Ahh, you're so naive!" Sibylla giggled. "That wardrobe doesn't exist anymore. You're a princess, soon to be queen, you need a royal wardrobe!" She said as she dragged her hand over one of the gowns, feeling the material. "And! You still have to select your bridal gown!"

For the next 3 hours, Sibylla had the maids show you different gowns and materials, even helping by giving her input as to what would suit you.

"I still like my old clothes, they're quite comfortable." You sighed. Designing your new wardrobe was not something that needed your urgent attention at the moment. You need to return to your room and get the time machine from your old dress and leave this era.

Sibylla nods. "I understand what you're going through. I still remember how they burned away my entire wardrobe when I married Guy. But I suppose its poetic in a way. Since you're starting a new life, so why not start one by getting new clothes!"

Wait.

"They burnt all your old clothes?" Sibylla nods. "Mmhmm! In a way, you're burning away your past! And starting a new-" You didn't stick around as you immeadiately rushed out of the room and made your way towards your own.

You can't- your old clothes has your time machine. If they burn it, you can't ever leave!

You burst into your room, looking at the empty spot on your bed where you'd left your clothes before going in the bath.

"No." The maids, they must've put it in your closet. You searched it, searched your entire room but to no avail.

A maid walked into your room, watching you tear apart the bedroom. "P-princess? May I help-"

"Where are my clothes?!" You walked upto her, the poor maid's fright apparently on her face. "WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES!?"

"They- they're burning it-"

"WHERE?!"

"The gardens!"

You ran out of your room, and made your way towards the royal gardens as fast as you could, but with how huge this palace was, getting there took a while. Not to mention when you did get to the gardens, you didn't spot anyone there, but you did notice the smell of something burning, which lead you to the back of the gardens, that was away from everyone's sight.

There you found them, two maids burning your clothes in a small bonfire.

"PUT IT OUT!" You yelled as you rushed towards them, startling them.

"Princess-" they began bowing.

"Didn't you hear me? PUT THE FIRE OUT!" They scrambled about trying to find some water, but of course, they didn't have it.

"I'll get it from the fountain!" The two maids ran to get a bucket of water for you, but it would be too late by the time they came. So when you spotted your old dress burning, you pulled it out with bare hands, not caring about burning yourself.

The dress was mostly burnt to ashes, while only few bits remained that were still on fire. You managed to wrangle out your time machine out of it, the small metal box that was burning hot and left marks on your skin as you tried to hold it.

But even from here, you could see the damage was done. The area that displayed the year had now completely melted off, as did some of the buttons.

No. No. No. No. No. NO!

You couldn't help but cry as reality began to set in. You're stuck here.... you're stuck here forever.

Heart wrenching sobs wracked your body as you tried to hold the hot metal machine in your hands, your skin burning as you tried. Even when the servants came and poured the water on the fire, you still kept on crying, clutching your machine to your chest, partly to conceal it, partly from helplessness.

The maids looked at each in worry as they tried to console you, tried to pacify you, lest you had them executed. But it didn't matter, you were inconsolable. While one of the maids sat by your side, trying to soothe you, the other one ran in to get help.

Moments later, when you were able to hide the machine in your clothes again, someone came up and touched your shoulder from behind.

"Y/n?" You looked up through your tears. It was Baldwin. For some reason, seeing him only made you cry harder as you finally realised that you were stuck here with him. That you fucked up permanently.

"Oh princess. What's wrong? Don't cry- shhh, I'm here." He pulled your body towards him, letting you sob into his chest heartbreakingly. Exhaustion, frustration and shock must have overtook your body, as you fainted in his arms.

"Princess? Y/n?" He tried waking you up before collecting you in his arms and rushing back into the castle.

Hours later, you woke up to find yourself back in your room, lying in your bed. Your eyes looked down at your hands which were now wrapped in bandages. They only served as a reminder of what youd lost- your time machine.

Tears welled up in your eyes again. Am I- am I really stuck here? You sniffled.

A hand came up to caress your cheek, startling you.

It was Baldwin. "Princess? Do you want to tell me what happened?" His soft tone made you even more sad, and you raised your bandaged hands to wipe your tears, but he caught your wrists and lowered them back gently, using his own hands to wipe away the tears.

"No, you cant use your hands for sometime. The burns need to heal." His hand remained on your cheek, thumb caressing the area under your eye. "What happened, Y/n? Why were you so upset?"

You cant avoid the topic for long, and now that your way of escape is gone, you need to be careful of what you say and how you act around the king.

You let out a shaky breath. "They... they burned my clothes."

"Mmhm. Dont worry, I will have them bring in the fanciest clothes for you. Sibylla will make sure of it. Only the best for my princess." You shook your head. "Its not- its not that... They were my clothes... they burned away-"

"I know... but its a tradition. The maids burn away the bride-to-be's old clothes to signify that youre detaching yourself from the past and starting a new life." He explained, watching as you sniffled. Clearly, you were still upset over this.

"But the maids, they still should've informed you of this tradition before doing anything. I know how emotional of a transition this could be for girls." You nodded sadly, heart still sinking at the loss of your machine. "Dont worry though, they will be punished harshly for it. I have them in the dungeons tonight, and tomorrow-"

"What? Punished? No!" You cut him off. You dont want anyone to die because of you, especially when you dont know if anyone these people could potentially be an ancestor of yours.

"But they caused you harm. You burned yourself due to their-"

"No, no. Please, don't punish anyone- I- it was my fault for not knowing about royal traditions! Please, your Majesty, I beg you- don't do this- i- i-" You pleaded.

"Shhh, okay. Okay. I won't punish them for it." He patted your hair. "On one condition."

You looked at him in confusion.

"You call me Baldwin from now on." He grinned. "We are to be husband and wife soon, I don't want us to use royal titles with each other."

Your eyes widened. Is he- is he really giving up titles? You're not that blind to see his attempts at intimacy, but what you don't understand is why or even how you came to be on the receiving end of it.

What exactly is it about you that has made him want to marry you? Surely, Baldwin would've preferred to marry someone of this era, someone who is more compatible with him. Despite you trying to blend in the past months, you allowed Baldwin to see how you're not... as Conservative as most people of this time period are. One could say that he may be impressed by how intelligent you are than others, but it also brings up the factor of being "threatened" or "insulted" by the same intelligence.

Even though you consider beauty to be a "subjective" thing, the whole "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", you're not blind to how attractive others are. So why not them?

Did he only like you because you're intriguing? Does he still think you're a spy? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?

Probably. Or maybe he really does believe all that mumbo jumbo about you being "an angel sent to save him."

"As you wish... Baldwin."

Last night, after Baldwin had left you to rest, you stayed up and tried to figure out if you can fix your time machine, and if not, then can you built another one?

Fucking hell. You closed your eyes. I made it once, I can build it again. But it's easier said than done.

Back in the present, you had the technology to build it. Now? You have to first make the technology and the tools from scratch before you could even get on making your time machine, all while keeping your science project discrete, which was easier before because you weren't going to be married to a fucking King!

Right now, you're sitting in Baldwin's private dining room (yes, there are more than one dining room. He's royalty, what did you expect) having breakfast- well, being fed breakfast.

"You really don't need to do this." You said as Baldwin fed you another spoonful. He smiled as he wiped your lips with a napkin. "I don't need to, I want to. Besides, I don't want my princess starving."

Involuntary, your face flushed. "I- the maids could've fed me. And im not a princess." He frowned slightly. "Why would you- open wide, princess- why would you want the maids to feed you when you have me?" He pushed the spoon to your face as you parted your lips, but then he pulled it away and brought his face close to yours. "Do I make you nervous?"

You backed away immediately. "I- no- I mean-"

He burst out laughing. "I'm- I'm sorry princess, but you are just too endearing!" Baldwin chuckled as he grabbed the spoon again and fed you.

Your cheeks reddened, this time more out anger than embarrassment. "I don't want to eat anymore." You muttered, turning your face away.

He smiled as he brought the spoon to your lips again. "Ah ah, but you still haven't had enough." However, you rejected again, looking away instead of replying.

He sighed, placing the spoon back on the plate. "I'm sorry, princess. I shouldn't have laughed at you."

"You shouldn't have." You mumbled, face still turned away from him.

His lips quirked up a bit. "You know, for someone who insists that she's not a princess-" He turned your face to him gently. "- you sure have all the blandishment of one."

"Blandishment?"

"Flattering actions of a princess." He nodded.

You frowned. "Are you calling me a spoiled princess? A brat?"

"I would never!" Baldwin gasped. "I enjoy you acting like royalty, demanding respect and attention. You deserve it and more. Besides-" He picked up some food on the spoon again and brought it to your lips. "Even if if you were a spoiled, bratty princess, I wouldn't mind. I would enjoy spoiling you, hm?" He nudged the spoon to your lips softly.

You parted your lips, making him smile. It really is hard to stay mad at him when he looks at you with his baby blue eyes. They just- they draw you in.

"Also, before I forget, I will be leaving the castle today to meet Salauddin. So you can either hand out with Sibylla, who still wants to help you design your wedding gown, or your can-"

Salauddin? "Why are you meeting Salauddin? Isn't he your enemy?"

He chuckled. "Only on the battlefield. He and I have developed a friendship, or a mutual respect over the years. As to why I'm going to meet him, is... well, you."

"Me?" He nodded. "Since you told me that you're a Muslim, I thought that we could perhaps have a discreet Islamic wedding- what is it called? Nikkah? So, I could go and learn more about it from Salauddin."

You opened your mouth to protest. You don't need to be part of history as the "king of Jerusalem's Muslim wife" or "the Muslim-Christian wedding that took place during the Crusades", even if it might make the world more progressive.

But then, you didn't protest. "Can I come?"

Baldwin raised a brow at you. "You want to meet Salauddin?" You shook you're head. "Well, no, not really. I mean, I don't mind meeting him, but I just want to get out of the castle for a bit. It's been months since i left this place, I just want to get some fresh air." This could be the perfect opportunity for you, because if memory serves you right, Muslims of this era had made significant advances in science. Maybe you can use their help to get some tools to make the time machine again.

Baldwin looked unsure. "I don't know if it would be safe for you-" you held his hand with your bandaged ones. "Please, Baldwin? Can't you take me with you? And wouldn't I be the most safe when I'm with you?" Ah yes, stroke the male ego.

Finally, he smiled.

"Alright. I supposed it would be fine, after all, you should see the kingdom you're going to be the queen of."

Thoughts? (Also, I need to go shower rn, so I'll put the read more later. Doing so much effort for u guys, my spoiled greedy children)

Part 3 is here.

#yandere baldwin #yandere king baldwin #male yandere #yandere male #yandere x reader #yandere x #yandere x darling #yandere #baldwin iv

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 3 days ago

Text

Break In (Part 2)

Summary: After the break in, the reader heads to the station with Tim to finish her statement. But his co-workers aren't too thrilled with him hiding her for so long and decide on a little payback...

Pairing: Tim Bradford x reader

Part 1

Word Count:

Warnings: language, smidge of angst, teasing

A/N: Okay, I had so much fun writing for this character and you guys seemed to really enjoy it too so let's hop on this bandwagon (and don't worry, I'll be doing plenty of imagine/one shot type stuff too)...

Tim sighed behind the wheel of his truck, shooting you a look when you happily unbuckled your belt. You slid out the door, eagerly waiting by the truck bed for him. He grumbled quietly, grabbing his backpack and barely looking both ways across the lot before he was walking.

You skipped to catch up with him, grinning ear to ear while he reluctantly held open the door of the station for you.

“You can sit at my desk while I change. When I get back, I’ll show you to Nolan, you can finish your report and then you can take my truck back home. Got it?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could do a little ride along today.” He faltered his steps, nearly tripping if not for you catching his arm.

“Over my dead body,” he said, holding up a finger to your face. “Y/N, I’m serious.”

“I’m only teasing,” you said, sliding your hand down to interlace with his. He seemed oddly tense as he walked you into the station and past a set of stairs. He meandered past a few desks before stopping at a plain looking one.

“I’ll be back in a few,” he said, waiting for you to sit in the leather office chair. He rubbed his temple as he turned away, heading out of earshot and down some hallway. You spun around, examining his desk, pouting when you only saw two photos up. One of his sister and nephews, the other looking like it was some cops.

“Dating for nearly seven months and I don’t get a picture,” you grumbled, picking up a perfectly aligned notebook and pen set. How was this the same guy that hadn’t owned a single matching glass until you went and bought him some at Target last month?

“Good morning.” You spun in the chair at the voice behind you, two women appearing. One wore a blue uniform like Tim did, the other in jeans and a blazer. The one in the uniform smiled, giving the other one a mischievous smirk. “You wouldn’t happen to be the B&E at Sunset Ridge last night? The one dating Tim?”

“Oh yeah, that’s her,” said Officer Nolan as he walked past them to a desk behind Tim’s. “How are you doing?”

“Alright,” you said. “A bit shaken up still.”

“Understandable,” said the woman in the blazer. “Nolan, we’ll be back.”

“We?” you asked, both woman pulling you to your feet.

“You like coffee? Let’s grab a coffee before you finish with John,” said the uniformed woman. You glanced back at Nolan, a sympathetic look on his face.

“Ten minutes ladies,” he called, the two leading you outside.

“Uh, who are you guys?” you asked as they pointed over to a coffee cart on the far side of the entrance of the station.

“Lucy Chen. Angela Lopez,” said Angela, a mischievous look on her face. “And apparently you’re Tim’s girlfriend? For how long?”

“Six months,” you said quietly. They both stopped and stared at you, quickly shaking their heads.

“He’s an-“

“Idiot, exactly,” they said to each other, giving you a smile. “We heard he flipped his shit last night on you.”

“That moron,” said Angela, walking again. “Come on, Y/N. We got some things to discuss.”

“You guys aren’t going to give me some sort of if you hurt him speech…” you trailed off when Angela barked a laugh.

“No, no, no, no. We’re going to plot revenge for him being a dick,” said Lucy. You smirked, Lucy’s eyes lighting up. “Oh, we’re going to like you.”

Tim POV

I narrowed my eyes as I walked back to my desk to find it missing Y/N. Nolan wasn’t at his either. Maybe he took her back to an interview room? I spun around, nearly slamming straight into him and his cup of coffee.

“Sorry,” he winced, managing to avoid spilling the hot liquid all over the two of us.

“Where’s Y/N?” I asked, Nolan raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. Lopez and Chen took her outside to get a coffee-” I walked towards the front door, pausing when Angela and Lucy appeared with to go cups in their hands.

“Where’s Y/N?” I asked again, the girls looking at one another.

“We sent her back inside awhile ago.” I looked around, frowning. “Maybe she went to the bathroom?”

“Can one of you check the public ones? Please?” Lopez hummed and went across the lobby, Lucy giving me a look. “What?”

“You look worried. It’s a police station. I’m sure she’s fine,” she said. I kept scanning around the bullpen, Y/N still missing.

“She’s not in there,” said Angela a moment later when she rejoined us. I walked away, the two of them hurrying after. “Timothy.”

“Why did you leave her alone? This place is full of violent criminals,” I said, storming down a back hall.

“Calm down, we’ll help you look,” said Lucy. Ten minutes later my hair was a mess from how many times I’d ran a hand through it. Y/N was fucking missing. What the hell had happened? Did she cross paths with the guy that broke in last night? Did he make bail and grabbed her? Why wouldn’t she have made a sound, alerted someone?

I dialed her phone, hearing nothing around me as I walked the halls. I sent off text after text, call after call, my blood pressure sky high by the time I regrouped with the girls and Nolan in the lobby.

“Tell Gray to lock it down,” I said, going to my desk, looking up the guy who broke into her house yesterday. Someone whistled nearby, my head snapping up. They did it again, an officer turning around in a nearby chair.

My stomach dropped when they gave me a friendly wave, Y/N wearing a hat and one of our rain jackets. “What the…”

“Hm. Eighteen phone calls,” she chided, shaking her head, the color draining from my face. “Thirty…seven texts.”

Y/N stood up as I felt others nearby, my butt plopping down in my chair as Y/N approached. She held out her phone to me, tsking me. “But Tim? I thought we agreed you call the authorities in an emergency first, not me.”

I closed my eyes. Fuck I deserved that. I deserved that so bad. My skin was hot with embarrassment, a few laughs heard behind me. I heard it quiet though, a gentle hand touching mine.

Y/N POV

“Are you mad at me?” you asked him. He opened his eyes, shaking his head. “It was your friends idea for hiding me for so long…and the yelling thing.”

“They know when I need a kick in the ass,” he said, the pink rushing out of his skin. “I know I apologized for yelling but I’m sorry for embarrassing you too. You are a civilian and-”

“And you got scared and had all this extra emotion that you didn’t know how to deal with. I already forgave you last night.”

“Here,” he said, grabbing a notebook and pen, writing down some names and numbers, tearing it off to you. “These are my friends numbers, personal too. And that number at the top is for family to call the department for any reason. From now on we’ll just trust each other to make the right call for ourselves in emergencies, okay?”

“You’re so hot when you’re emotionally mature,” you said, putting a smile back on his face.

“And I kind of like that you’re a little bit evil to go along with publicly shaming me.” You scoffed, putting a hand to your chest. “You have to admit you’re a little twisted.”

“Got to keep you on your toes,” you said, leaning closer, stopping yourself. He raised an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to kiss you at work?”

“You just tortured me the past fifteen minutes with my co-workers and then ask if you’re allowed to kiss me?” You pretended to pout, pecking a kiss to his lips. “Did you finish your statement?”

“Not yet,” you said, spotting Officer Nolan return to his desk.

“Go on. I need to go see where the hell my boot is.”

Ten minutes later your statement was done. The guy, or rather very tall idiot teenager, that’d broken in admitted he was behind the robbery and a few others in your neighborhood. You met with a guy that worked for the DA’s office, Angela’s husband you were pretty sure. After talking with him, you decided not to press charges in exchange for a whole lot of community service and him joining an outreach program for a minimum of six months.

“All set?” Tim asked you when you found him in the lobby near a garage door entrance.

“Should be,” you said, noticing a man with more stripes on his shoulder than Tim standing nearby.

“Who’s your friend, Bradford?” he asked. Tim quietly growled but whoever this was had more authority than him and he bit his tongue.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is my boss-”

“Ah, you’re Gray,” you said, holding out a hand, the man happily shaking it. “I’ve heard mostly good things.”

“That’s acceptable,” he said, shooting Tim a smirk. “Is there a problem?”

“Not anymore,” said Tim, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “Pick me up at six? The alarm system is getting delivered later. We’ll install it this weekend.”

“Sounds good,” you said, pecking a kiss on his cheek. A young man near the garage grinned, Tim immediately barking at him, pointing a finger. “That’s his boot?”

“Yup,” said Gray.

“Is that…normal?”

“His style is…rougher but he makes good officers. I have to get back to it but it was nice meeting you. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Will do,” you said, heading back towards the lobby. You slowed your steps though, glancing back as Gray entered an office. You followed him inside, Gray turning to face you. “Is it a big no no if I wanted to do a ride along?”

“...No. We do them for a number of reasons. Why are you asking me and not…” You made a face, Gray nodding. “Bradford doesn’t want you doing one.”

“He’s a little…over protective, to use a word. I feel like it might…help me understand him more…and with my screenplay,” you mumbled.

“Screenplay?” he asked.

“I’m writing a movie. I’ve stuck to trad paperbacks but this will be my first…sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” you said, turning about to leave.

“Name a character after me and I’ll get you your ride along. But not with Bradford. I need his focus to be on his boot.”

“Not a problem. I was thinking Idris Elba for who plays you?” He gave you a look like you were a kiss ass. “Denzel?”

“Officers Nolan and Juarez will give you a call tomorrow to discuss your ride along later in the week,” he said, nodding towards the day. “Have a good rest of your day, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Tim POV

“So, how was your day dear?” Y/N asked, setting a bowl down in front of me at her kitchen table. I hummed, giving her a look when she trailed her finger up my arm.

“Can I eat my dinner before we get horny?” I teased, Y/N shrugging.

“I’m not the one that walks around without a shirt after his shower every night.”

“I would be perfectly okay with you also being topless you know.” I grinned as she sat down next to me, shooting me a look that it wasn’t happening anytime soon. “Thanks for cooking.”

“It was my turn,” she said, picking up a fork and digging into her pasta. “I put extra chicken in yours.”

“Thank you,” I said as she shoved a piece of garlic bread in her mouth. We ate a few bites, Y/N sipping on a glass of white wine while I drank a beer. “Work was pretty boring, caught up on paperwork a lot.”

“No hunting serial killers today? Dismantle a drug cartel?” she asked, smirking at me. I rolled my eyes, slurping up more pasta. “Save a kitten from a tree?”

“I watched two grown woman argue over a fender bender for an hour while we waited for a tow truck for some insane reason. A four year old accidentally called 911 and his dad about shit a brick when I did a safety check. Oh, my highlight was when my boot got thrown up on by a drunk guy in the middle of the day. Really good stuff.”

“I like your boring days,” she said, softly smiling. I returned it. Boring meant safe in her mind and if that made her happy then I’d be happy too to be bored.

“How about you?” I asked.

“Wrote some, had a meeting with my agent about the deadline for the next book. Oh and I had lunch with those producers that are interested in buying my script when it’s done.”

“You were productive,” I said. She put a hand on my forearm, sliding it up to rub my bicep. Fuck, she was in the mood tonight. I wasn’t about to complain about-

“And I talked to Gray and I’ll be going on a ride along with Nolan and Juarez on Friday. I’ll get so much research for the script. Isn’t that exciting?” she said, grinning wide. I tensed for a split second. My gut screamed no, it was too dangerous. But I didn’t want another fight…and I could threaten Nolan and Juarez into taking only easy calls…

“S’great,” I said, shoving more food in my mouth.

“Lying straight through your teeth I see.” She still smirked, looking through her eyelashes. “I can’t wait for Friday!”

“Yeah. Can’t wait for it,” I grumbled, wondering why the hell I had to fall for such a stubborn woman. “Can’t fucking wait.”

A/N: Are you interested to see how the ride along goes? Let me know in the comments!

#the rookie #tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford x you #tim bradford x y/n #the rookie fanfic #tim bradford fanfiction #tim bradford fanfic #the rookie fanfiction

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amirawrah · 2 months ago

Text

⭐︎ This is all i want

with JOBE BELLINGHAM⭐︎

synopsis: After a playful movie night turns into a chaotic pillow fight, you and Jobe find yourselves tangled up in laughter—and something even deeper. A heart-melting confession and a soft morning after prove that this love is exactly where you both belong.

The evening was set. The lights in your living room were dimmed low, your favorite blanket was spread out across the couch, and a bowl of popcorn sat beside you. Everything was perfect for your cozy movie night with Jobe—except for one thing.

You were both in the middle of trying to pick a movie.

Jobe scrolled through your list of favorites, clearly unimpressed with each option. He let out a dramatic sigh.

“Why do you even like these?” he said, teasing, flicking through the options. “They’re all, like, the same thing. Sad and dramatic.”

You raised an eyebrow, turning your head to look at him. “Excuse me?”

You were both laying on the couch, a pile of pillows surrounding you, your legs tangled together under the blanket. You gave a light tug on the corner of the blanket, pulling it tighter around the two of you. “My movies are classics, Jobe. You just don’t get it. They’re emotional, heart-wrenching. They’re art.”

Jobe snorted, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Yeah, art that makes me cry. No thanks.”

You glared at him playfully. “You’re just mad because your taste in movies is... well, I don’t know how to say this nicely—terrible.”

Jobe’s eyes widened as if you had just insulted his entire existence. “Terrible?! What do you mean, terrible? I have impeccable taste. I’m all about the classics. Action, adventure, you know, something that actually makes me feel alive, not sad for no reason.”

You giggled, shaking your head. “Please, we both know your idea of a ‘classic’ is some boring superhero movie with explosions and people yelling at each other.”

“Excuse me, The Dark Knight is a masterpiece,” Jobe argued, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back into the couch.

You scoffed, leaning in toward him. “It’s literally just a man in a bat suit throwing punches. It’s not even that deep. You know what’s deep? The Notebook. Now that’s a movie that makes you feel all the things.”

“Ugh,” Jobe groaned, dramatically rolling his eyes. “You’re not serious. Are you telling me you would pick The Notebook over Inception? Come on, babe, that’s a no-brainer. Inception blows The Notebook out of the water.”

You threw your hands up in the air, mock-exasperated. “You’re impossible! There is no way you can convince me that Inception is better than The Notebook—not in a million years.”

He tilted his head and gave you a sly smile. “I bet you five pounds you can’t even follow the plot of Inception. It’s way too complicated for you.”

“Me? Not understand Inception?” You gasped in mock horror. “I get it just fine, thank you very much. I’m not the one who falls asleep halfway through a movie, Mr. ‘I only watch action scenes."

“Oh, we’re going there?” Jobe raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You always fall asleep halfway through every movie. The only reason we’re having this debate is because I have to keep rewinding scenes that I know you missed because you were too busy snoring.”

“I do not snore!” you protested, your cheeks turning a little pink.

“Oh, yes you do,” he said, his grin widening. “And don’t even try to lie about it. You always make that cute little snoring sound right around the climax or something.” He laughed as you playfully slapped his arm.

“That’s it,” you huffed, turning away from him. “I’m choosing the next movie. No more superhero nonsense, no more confusing plots—just something sweet.”

Jobe grinned. “Fine. You choose. But I’m picking the snack. No more of this weird popcorn with chocolate in it.”

Your eyes widened in mock offense. “What do you have against chocolate popcorn? It’s delicious, Jobe. Get with the program.”

“I’ll never understand you,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You both stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter, the whole room filled with the sound of your playful banter. It was always like this—easy, fun, and light-hearted. There were no pretenses, no pressure. Just the two of you, enjoying each other’s company and being unapologetically yourselves.

You picked a movie—The Princess Bride, naturally—and tossed the remote back on the coffee table. You pulled the blanket tighter around you, leaning back into the pillows, ready to settle in. But before you could fully relax, Jobe suddenly reached over and grabbed one of the pillows, pulling it playfully toward him.

“What are you—”

Before you could finish, he launched the pillow at you. It hit you right in the face, and you gasped dramatically. “Oh fuck you Bellingham!”

You grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it back at him with as much force as you could muster, but he was already diving at you, his arms pulling you into a pillow fight that quickly escalated from playful throws to full-on chaos. You found yourself laughing uncontrollably as the two of you rolled around on the floor.

You were both so caught up in the moment that you didn’t even realize netflix was asking 'are you still watching'. The floor was now covered in scattered pillows and blankets, the remnants of a chaotic but incredibly fun night. You lay there for a moment, breathless, with your head resting against his chest, your laughter still echoing in the room.

He looked down at you, a soft smile on his face, his fingers brushing through your hair. “This is what I want every night with you,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

Your heart skipped a beat. The sound of his words, so simple yet so full of meaning, made the room feel like it was spinning, but in the best way. You couldn’t help but smile, your cheeks flushing just a little.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same,” you whispered back.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled up in blankets and pillows, his arms around you, the two of you just enjoying the silence and the quiet intimacy of the moment. No movie, no distractions, just you and him.

And somehow, in that peaceful, perfect chaos, you knew this was exactly what you wanted too.

You both lay there in the aftermath of your chaotic pillow fight, the soft hum of your breathing the only sound filling the air. Jobe’s hand was resting casually on your waist, but the way his thumb lightly traced small circles on your skin sent a tingle straight to your core. You shifted slightly, realizing just how close you were. Your heart picked up the pace, and you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you met his gaze.

He was looking down at you, his expression soft but intense, like he was considering something more than just the playful banter you’d been indulging in. You swallowed, suddenly feeling aware of how his body was pressed against yours, the space between you shrinking with every passing second.

“You know, you look pretty cute when you're flustered,” he said, his voice a low murmur that made your stomach flip. There was something in his tone—playful, yes, but there was an underlying hunger there too.

You couldn’t help the shy smile that tugged at your lips, but it wasn’t enough to hide the way your body reacted. The way his eyes were on you now—focused, intense, a little too quiet—made your pulse quicken.

“Really?” you teased, trying to keep the tension light. You shifted again, this time to get a better look at him, but your movement brought you even closer, your chest brushing against his.

Jobe’s breath caught in his throat, and you saw the way his jaw clenched just slightly. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, slid slowly to the small of your back, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush. The shift was subtle, but it was enough to make you feel how much he wanted you—how much he’d always wanted you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The room seemed to shrink, the playful atmosphere from earlier replaced with something heavier, more urgent. Jobe’s lips parted slightly as he leaned down toward you, his nose grazing the side of your face.

“Mhmm,” he whispered, his voice thick with longing, “I don’t think I can go another night without kissing you like this.”

And with that, the playful teasing of earlier gave way to something more primal. You didn’t need another word—his lips crashed against yours, urgent and heated, with all the desire he’d been holding back since the moment you two had started teasing each other.

Your hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt as you responded with equal intensity. His lips were soft but demanding, pressing against yours with a hunger that made your stomach tighten. You melted into him, your body naturally arching toward his, desperate for more.

Jobe let out a soft groan as he deepened the kiss, his hand moving from your back to the side of your neck, his thumb gently tracing the curve of your jaw. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but respond, your hands slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, grazing the warmth of his skin.

He pulled away just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were dark with desire, pupils blown wide. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You have no idea how hard it is, being this close to you and not being able to… to feel you like this.”

A rush of heat flooded through you, and you pushed yourself up to meet him, closing the distance again, your lips brushing against his in a softer, slower kiss this time. The sensation of his lips on yours felt electric, like every touch, every breath was building toward something more.

He responded by pulling you on top of him, the change in position allowing you to straddle him, your body now fully pressed against his. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through you, and for a brief moment, you hesitated, your body tingling with anticipation.

“Jobe…” you whispered, your voice shaking slightly, unsure whether you should push further or just enjoy the intimacy you’d already built.

“Shh,” he whispered, his hands running down your back, his fingertips barely grazing your skin in a way that made you shiver. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He brought your lips back to his, and this time the kiss was deeper, more urgent, as if you both had been waiting for this moment for too long to stop now. His hands roamed under your shirt, brushing against your skin, and every touch made your breath hitch. You responded by tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in a desperate need to feel more of him.

The air between you both was thick with the electricity of your connection, and with every movement, the urgency grew. Your fingers found their way to the waistband of his pants, your mind now clouded with the heat of the moment. But before you could go further, he gently grabbed your wrists, stopping you.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but the intensity of his gaze made your heart race. He was asking for your consent, your comfort, and you realized how deeply he respected you.

You looked down at him, eyes searching his. Your heart was pounding in your chest, your body on fire with desire, but you needed that moment to be as much about trust as it was about passion.

“Absolutely,” you whispered back, your voice steady despite the rush of emotions flooding through you.

A slow smile curled on his lips, and he pulled you back into a deep kiss. The world outside your little bubble ceased to exist as you both gave in to the connection, the passion that had been building for so long.

You woke up to the soft glow of morning light peeking through the curtains, painting the room in a hazy, golden hue. For a moment, you didn’t move—you just let yourself breathe, wrapped up in the warmth and quiet that surrounded you.

Your body felt heavy in the most delicious way, like every muscle was still humming from last night. Every memory rushed back at once—the laughter, the teasing, the way Jobe had touched you like you were something sacred.

You shifted slightly, feeling the barest brush of skin against skin—and that’s when you realized you weren’t alone.

Jobe’s arm was draped lazily around your waist, his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and slow against your skin. His body was pressed against yours, tangled in the mess of blankets you both hadn’t bothered to fix after collapsing into bed hours ago.

You smiled to yourself, heart swelling. It felt… easy. Natural. Like you belonged there, in his arms, like you always had.

You twisted a little to face him, careful not to wake him, but your movement must’ve stirred him because he let out a low, sleepy groan and tightened his arm around you.

“Mm… stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, his lips brushing against your shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, running your fingers through his messy curls.

He shifted again, finally lifting his head enough to blink at you through heavy eyelids. His hair was a chaotic mess, and his face was still flushed with leftover warmth from sleep.

And he was smiling. That soft, lazy kind of smile that made your heart ache with how beautiful he was.

“Morning,” he rasped, his voice deep and rough in a way that made you shiver.

“Morning,” you replied, feeling your cheeks heat under his sleepy gaze.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at each other, grinning like idiots, soaking it all in—the closeness, the quiet, the fact that there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Finally, Jobe stretched, letting out a soft groan as he pulled you even closer, burying his face in the curve of your neck again.

“You’re too good to be real,” he muttered against your skin.

You laughed, the sound muffled by his hair. “Says the guy who’s literally clinging to me like a koala.”

He grumbled sleepily, clearly not in the mood for teasing yet. “'Cause you’re comfy,” he defended weakly, his hand smoothing over your back in slow, lazy strokes. “And warm. And… mine.”

The last word was whispered, almost too quietly to catch, but you heard it—and it made your heart flip so hard you were sure he could feel it beating against his chest.

You tilted your head back to look at him properly. “Yours, huh?” you teased gently, smiling against his hair.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, his expression completely serious despite the playful words.

“Yeah. Mine,” he said, voice low and certain. “And I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t even have to think about it.

“I already do, Jobe,” you whispered.

His smile turned into something softer, almost shy, before he dipped his head and kissed you. It wasn’t heated like the night before—it was slow, sweet, like he had all the time in the world to show you how much he meant it.

When you finally pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his, both of you smiling so wide it was almost ridiculous.

“So…” you said after a while, voice teasing. “What’s the plan for today? Stay in bed forever?”

He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Sounds about right. Maybe we can argue about movies again, have another pillow fight…” He trailed his fingers lightly up your side, making you squirm. “…maybe repeat a few things from last night.”

You laughed, swatting at him playfully. “Wow.”

He gave you a mock-offended look. “It’s your fault. You’re too pretty to leave alone.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but you couldn’t stop smiling. How could you, when Jobe Bellingham was holding you like you were his whole world—and when you felt exactly the same way about him?

And in that messy, sun-drenched room, tangled up in him, you realized you wouldn’t change a single thing.

#mirahsworks🦫#jobe bellingham x reader #jobe bellingham fanfic #jobe bellingham smut #jobe bellingham x oc #jobe bellingham fluff #jobe bellingham #jobe bellingham imagine #jobe bellingham x you #jobe bellingham x black reader #footballer imagine #sunderland afc #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine

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elikajinnie · 3 months ago

Text

P: Obsessed Bff!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Obsession, Implied Stalking, Mentioned Murder, Dark Themes, Blood/Injury, Manipulation, Jealousy, Ambigious Ending.

Synopsis: School was exhausting—early mornings, endless classes, and a future resting on grades you couldn’t bring yourself to care about. The only thing that made it bearable was Ni-ki, your childhood friend who had been by your side for as long as you could remember. But that was the problem. He was always there. You only had him, and now you wanted some space away from him. But Ni-ki had other plans... After all, he wasn’t about to let you go.

a/n: i had jason dean from the heathers in my mind during this :3 now fun fact! i was spacing out during work and the plot just came to me :3

now playing: nowhere to go by bad omens | stalker by badflower | lil demon by future

Watching the clock on the wall tick away the seconds had been your only source of entertainment for the past few minutes. Your eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion, as your arm singlehandedly kept your head from fully surrendering to sleep. The droning voice of your teacher faded into the background, blending with the faint scribbling of pens and the occasional cough from a classmate.

Your only solace was the fact that class was almost over. Your second was that Ni-ki sat beside you, taking notes that you’d probably copy after school. Your third—perhaps the most important—was that if you did end up dozing off, he’d cover for you without hesitation.

That’s what you liked about Ni-ki—he could read you like an open book. After years of friendship, he knew exactly what you needed, when you needed it, and what you liked without you ever having to say a word. He was the one person in the whole world you trusted without hesitation.

So, when he subtly nudged your arm with his elbow, not even glancing your way, you knew it was his way of saying, Stay with me, class is almost over. His notes continued to fill the page in his handwriting, and you briefly wondered if he was even paying attention or just writing for the sake of keeping busy.

You let out a quiet sigh, blinking away the exhaustion, but the weight of the day clung to you stubbornly. Your head tilted slightly toward him, and without a word, he shifted his notebook a little closer to your side of the desk, making it easier for you to read.

A silent agreement. If you weren’t going to stay awake, at least you wouldn’t fall behind.

After all, it was you and Ni-ki against everything. You had him, and he had you. No matter what happened, no matter how hard things got, you both knew that there was no one else who would stick by your side the way he did.

When the clock finally ticked down to the last few seconds, and you both gathered your things. Ni-ki glanced at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, knowing exactly what was coming next.

"Copy my notes later, yeah?" he said, his tone teasing but warm.

You nodded, a small smile forming despite yourself. “You always know what I need, don’t you?”

Ni-ki’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischievous spark. “I’m practically psychic.” His voice was light, but you could hear the affection hidden beneath.

“You should charge for your services,” you teased back, gathering your books as you stood.

“Yeah, I’d make a fortune,” he said, his voice laced with humor. “But then I’d miss out on all the fun moments, like this one.” He nudged you lightly with his elbow, with a soft smile.

As you both left the classroom, the usual chatter and laughter of your classmates filled the air. You stopped by your locker, pulling out the books you needed for the next class while Ni-ki leaned against the locker beside you, his arms crossed, casually watching the hustle of the hallway.

It was then that Hyunwoo approached, his presence slightly more formal than the usual, his expression serious but friendly. “Hey,” he greeted, nodding towards you. “Got a minute?”

You turned to face him, giving a small nod. "Sure, what's up?"

“I wanted to see if you could meet me at the campus café after classes today,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “We need to go over the presentation for the class project we’re working on together.”

You thought for a moment, then agreed, “Yeah, that works for me.” Hyunwoo smiled, offering a small wave and as he turned to leave, you watched him walk off.

But you weren’t the only one watching him.

Ni-ki had gone still, his attention fully on Hyunwoo’s retreating back. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the usual ease in his posture seemed to shift into something more guarded. You could feel the subtle tension in the air, the way his focus remained locked on Hyunwoo as if he were analyzing every move.

“Is something up?” you asked casually, trying to sound nonchalant, but noticing the way Ni-ki’s gaze lingered, his jaw tightening just a little before he finally looked back at you.

“Nah,” he said after a beat, shrugging like it was nothing. “Just didn’t know you and Hyunwoo were getting all buddy-buddy now.”

You rolled your eyes, shutting your locker with a soft click. “We’re partners for an assignment, Ni-ki. It’s not that deep.”

He hummed, unconvinced, shoving his hands into his pockets as the two of you started walking. “Still. You sure he’s just interested in the assignment?”

You shot him a look. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ni-ki glanced at you from the side, his expression unreadable for a second before he smirked, his usual teasing demeanor slipping back in. “Nothing. Just saying, I wouldn’t be surprised if Hyunwoo suddenly starts asking you to ‘study’ more often.”

You scoffed, nudging his arm. “Don’t be annoying.”

“I’m not! I’m just looking out for you,” he said, raising his hands in mock innocence. “If he tries anything weird, let me know. I’ll handle it.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re being dramatic.”

Ni-ki let out a small huff, but there was something serious in his expression as he looked at you. “I just want the best for you,” he muttered, his voice softer now. “I know how people are. They act nice, like they care, but most of the time, they just want something from you.” His hands were still stuffed in his pockets, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You sighed, already used to him being like this. Protective. A little overbearing sometimes. But it was just Ni-ki—it was how he was. So instead of arguing, you simply stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

His body tensed for half a second before he melted into your embrace, his arms circling around you tightly, almost as if he was afraid to let go. His chin rested lightly on your head, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of your perfume. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your shirt, holding you close.

He knew you didn’t see it—didn’t see him for what he really was.

Because Ni-ki wasn’t just protective.

He was possessive.

And he knew exactly what he was doing.

You trusted him. Relied on him. And that was exactly how he wanted it to stay.

So as he held you in his arms, his grip tightening just slightly, his thoughts weren’t on Hyunwoo anymore.

They were only on you.

Ni-ki didn’t let go. He held you just a little longer than necessary, his fingers subtly gripping the back of your shirt like he was grounding himself in the moment. You, oblivious as ever, simply leaned into him, used to his warmth, his presence—used to him.

If only you knew.

If only you saw the way his eyes darkened whenever someone else got too close to you. The way he kept track of the people you talked to, the ones who lingered too long in conversations, the ones who looked at you like they thought they had a chance.

He exhaled slowly, savoring the scent of your perfume, the steady beat of your heart against his chest. It was moments like this that reminded him why he did what he did. Why he always kept an eye on you, why he made sure no one got too close—no one but him.

Because no one else could protect you the way he could. No one else knew you the way he did.

You pulled away first, giving him a small smile, completely unaware of the storm in his mind. “Thanks, Ni-ki,” you said, as if his words had been nothing more than friendly concern.

He forced a smile back, shoving his hands into his pockets again. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, feigning nonchalance. “Just don’t forget it, okay?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I won’t.”

But he knew you didn’t understand.

Not yet.

Ni-ki watched you walk ahead, his jaw tightening slightly as his eyes followed your every step. You were so carefree, so unaware of the way the world worked—of the way people worked. It wasn’t your fault, of course. You were just trusting like that. You always believed the best in others.

And that’s why you needed him.

As he fell into step beside you, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mind was already working through the situation. Hyunwoo was a problem—one that needed to be dealt with. Nothing drastic, of course. Not yet. But he would start small. He knew how to turn people against each other, how to make sure someone like Hyunwoo quietly backed off without you ever realizing why.

You glanced at him as you reached the staircase, your expression curious. “You’re quiet all of a sudden,” you noted.

He snapped out of his thoughts, forcing an easy smirk onto his lips. “Just thinking,” he replied.

“Thinking about what?”

Ni-ki tilted his head, as if considering his answer. “You,” he said simply, watching as your face scrunched up in mild suspicion.

You nudged his arm playfully. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You still keep me around though.”

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “You’re my best friend.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, but it was gone before you could catch it. Best friend. That’s what you always called him. That’s what you believed he was.

And for now, he would let you believe it.

Because as long as you thought of him that way, you would always need him. And as long as you needed him, he could keep you safe.

Hyunwoo wouldn’t be a problem for long.

Ni-ki would make sure of it.

After classes ended, you made your way to the campus café, weaving through the late afternoon crowd of students chatting and studying. The scent of coffee and pastries lingered in the air, and the sounds of conversations filled the space as you searched for Hyunwoo.

It didn’t take long to spot him—sitting at a small table near the window, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie. He looked up the moment you walked in, his eyes lighting up as he quickly straightened in his seat, offering you a small, somewhat shy smile.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice soft but warm.

You slid into the seat across from him, setting your bag down beside you. “Hey, sorry if I kept you waiting.”

“No, not at all!” He shook his head quickly, almost a little too eager. “I—I just got here, actually.”

You smiled, amused by his nervous energy. You had always known Hyunwoo to be the quiet, thoughtful type, but seeing him like this—fumbling slightly, his fingers tapping against the table—was kind of endearing.

“So,” you said, pulling out your notebook. “The presentation. Did you have any ideas on how we should split the work?”

“Ah, yeah,” he said, his gaze flickering down to his own notes. “I, um, wrote down a few ideas, but I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer, so I thought maybe we could decide together?” His voice was gentle, uncertain, as if he didn’t want to overstep.

You nodded. “That sounds good. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

As he hesitantly pushed his notebook toward you, his fingers brushed against yours slightly. It was barely even a touch, but you felt him freeze for half a second before quickly retracting his hand, his ears tinged red.

You pretended not to notice, not wanting to fluster him even more. Instead, you focused on the notes, nodding as you skimmed through them. “These are really good,” you complimented, looking back up at him.

His lips parted slightly, as if surprised by the praise, before a small, bashful smile formed. “You think so?”

“Yeah, you’re really thorough. This is gonna make our work a lot easier.”

He ducked his head a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I didn’t want to mess anything up. I know you’re really good at this kind of thing, so I wanted to keep up.”

Something about the way he said it—so earnest, so quietly admiring—made warmth bloom in your chest.

“You don’t have to try to ‘keep up’ with me, Hyunwoo,” you reassured him. “We’re partners, we’re in this together.”

He glanced up at you then, eyes soft, for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead, he simply nodded, that small, shy smile still lingering.

As the minutes passed, you and Hyunwoo fell into an easy rhythm, bouncing ideas off each other as you worked through the presentation. The initial nervousness he had at the start slowly melted away, replaced by a quiet excitement.

“I didn’t know you were so into this topic,” you said, watching as he animatedly explained one of his points, his hands gesturing as he spoke.

Hyunwoo laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I just really like researching stuff. It’s kind of fun when you get into it, you know?”

You nodded, resting your chin on your hand. “It’s cute.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you realized what you had just said, and Hyunwoo practically short-circuited in front of you. His face turned bright red, and he immediately dropped his gaze to the table, suddenly very interested in the corner of his notebook.

“Cute?” he echoed, voice a little higher than usual.

You chuckled, amused at his reaction. “I meant the way you get excited over things. It’s nice.”

He swallowed hard, nodding quickly as if trying to process your words. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

Neither of you noticed the tall figure standing outside the window, watching. Cause Ni-ki had followed you. Of course, he had. He wasn’t going to let you wander off to meet Hyunwoo alone—someone had to supervise. And that was all it was supposed to be. Just making sure nothing happened.

But now, standing outside the café, watching through the glass as Hyunwoo looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world, Ni-ki felt something snap.

He had seen that look before.

Had seen the way people got too comfortable, thought they had the right to be close to you—to be near you the way he was.

And he had dealt with it before.

His fingers curled into fists, his jaw clenching as he watched you laugh, completely unaware of the way Hyunwoo practically worshipped you with his eyes. It made his stomach churn, his mind race. That was supposed to be his job.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Ni-ki was pushing open the café door.

The bell above the entrance chimed, but you were too caught up in the conversation to notice—at least, until a shadow loomed over your table.

You looked up, surprised to see Ni-ki standing there, hands stuffed into his pockets, an easy smirk on his lips. “Hey!” you greeted. “What are you doing here?”

Ni-ki shrugged, his gaze briefly flickering to Hyunwoo, who had gone stiff in his seat. “Just thought I’d grab a drink,” he said casually before pulling out a chair and sitting down beside you without asking.

Hyunwoo glanced between you and Ni-ki, shifting uncomfortably. “Uh, do you guys—do you want me to go?”

Ni-ki’s smirk widened, but there was no humor in it. “Nah, don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here. Keep an eye on things.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Ni-ki…”

He leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over the back of yours, completely relaxed despite the storm brewing in his mind.

“Go on,” he said, nodding at Hyunwoo. “Don’t stop because of me.”

And as much as he kept his tone light, there was something off in his presence—something that made Hyunwoo hesitate before continuing.

Because Ni-ki wasn’t here to supervise anymore.

He was here to claim his place.

You barely noticed the way the atmosphere shifted as Ni-ki made himself comfortable beside you, his presence taking up more space than it should. His arm was still draped over the back of your chair, his body angled toward you in a way that felt too close, but you didn’t think much of it.

He was always like this.

Hyunwoo, on the other hand, looked unsure, his eyes flickering between the two of you. He hesitated before continuing to talk about the presentation, his voice quieter now.

But Ni-ki wasn’t interested in the presentation.

“Wow, Hyunwoo,” Ni-ki suddenly spoke up, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You’re, like, really into this, huh?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was something sharp hidden beneath it.

Hyunwoo blinked, confused. “Uh, yeah? I mean, it’s for class—”

“Right, right,” Ni-ki hummed, nodding. “Just seems like you’re trying really hard. Almost like you’re trying to impress someone.” He tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Who could that be?”

You laughed, nudging Ni-ki’s arm. “Stop teasing him,” you chided playfully, completely oblivious to the way Hyunwoo had tensed.

“What?” Ni-ki blinked at you innocently. “I’m just saying. It’s kinda cute, don’t you think?”

Hyunwoo cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “I just want to do well on the assignment,” he muttered.

Ni-ki chuckled, leaning in a little closer to you. “Sure you do, Hyunwoo.”

You giggled, shaking your head, still not catching onto the underlying tension. To you, this was just Ni-ki being his usual self—teasing, playful, maybe a little mean, but never serious.

Hyunwoo, however, wasn’t laughing.

After a moment, he hesitated before asking, “Are you two… dating?”

The question caught you off guard.

Your eyes widened slightly, and you immediately waved your hands. “What? No! We’re not—we’re just—Ni-ki and I—” You stumbled over your words, feeling the heat rise to your face.

Ni-ki, however, said nothing.

Instead, he simply leaned in closer to you, his body pressing slightly against yours as he rested his elbow on the table. His fingers casually brushed your arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when Hyunwoo glanced at him, Ni-ki’s smirk remained, but his gaze was steady—watching, calculating, almost daring him to say something else.

Hyunwoo swallowed, glancing down at his notebook, suddenly finding it much harder to focus.

Meanwhile, you were still trying to compose yourself, completely missing the way Ni-ki’s fingers ghosted over your wrist, as if subtly reminding you that he was still there.

“W-We’re just friends,” you finally managed to say, forcing a laugh.

Ni-ki exhaled a soft chuckle, but still, he didn’t correct you.

Didn’t agree.

Didn’t deny it, either.

And as Hyunwoo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Ni-ki only leaned in closer, tilting his head slightly, watching him with an unreadable expression.

Because it didn’t matter what you said.

Ni-ki knew the truth.

Hyunwoo tried to shake off the unease settling in his chest, but it was hard when Ni-ki wouldn’t stop looking at him like that—like he knew something Hyunwoo didn’t. Like he was silently laughing at him.

And maybe he was.

“Well,” Hyunwoo said, clearing his throat, “that’s good to know.”

You, still flustered, nodded quickly. “Yeah! I mean—Ni-ki’s my best friend. That’d be… weird, right?”

At that, Ni-ki finally let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned even closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Yeah, weird,” he echoed, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You didn’t notice how his fingers subtly tightened around the back of your chair. Didn’t notice the way he side-eyed Hyunwoo like he was sizing him up.

You were too busy trying to compose yourself, too busy scribbling something in your notebook to distract from the heat still lingering on your face.

Hyunwoo, however, noticed.

And he had to wonder if maybe Ni-ki wasn’t as harmless as anyone would think.

“So,” you said, finally regaining your composure, “should we wrap this up? I think we covered most of the important stuff.”

Hyunwoo hesitated before nodding. “Yeah, sounds good.” He cast a glance at Ni-ki, who still hadn’t moved from his spot practically pressed against you. “Uh… thanks for letting me work with you.”

“Of course!” You smiled, completely oblivious to the way Hyunwoo’s fingers twitched slightly against his notebook.

Ni-ki only hummed, tapping his fingers against the table. “Yeah, this was fun,” he said, though his tone made it unclear whether he actually meant it or not.

As Hyunwoo gathered his things, he hesitated once more before looking at you. “Maybe we can meet up again? Just to go over everything one more time.”

Ni-ki’s fingers stopped tapping.

You, completely missing the way his expression darkened for just a second, nodded enthusiastically. “That sounds great! Just let me know when.”

As soon as Hyunwoo stepped out of the café, Ni-ki’s entire demeanor shifted. The moment the door swung shut behind him, Ni-ki turned his full attention back to you, his smirk returning, but softer this time—more familiar to you.

“Finally,” he sighed dramatically, stretching his arms before draping one across your shoulders with an easy familiarity. “Thought he’d never leave.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “You’re so impatient.”

“I hate group projects,” Ni-ki complained, pulling you in just a little closer as if it was second nature. “Especially when I’m not in them.”

“You wouldn’t have helped even if you were in this one,” you pointed out.

He gasped, placing a hand over his heart like you had wounded him. “Wow. You wound me.”

You rolled your eyes, but let him stay close, not thinking much of it. After all, this was Ni-ki. He’d always been touchy, always draping himself over you like it was his right. It wasn’t weird.

Not to you, at least.

But to anyone else walking by?

It was a completely different story.

The way Ni-ki leaned into you, his arm resting so casually over your shoulders. The way his head dipped closer every time he spoke, his voice just low enough that it felt intimate. The way his fingers occasionally brushed against your arm, light, fleeting touches that felt possessive in a way that wasn’t quite noticeable unless you were looking for it.

To anyone watching, there was no doubt about it—

You and Ni-ki looked like a couple.

And maybe that was the point.

Because as Ni-ki sat there, acting like he belonged at your side, his lips curled slightly in amusement.

Hyunwoo would never come in between you and him.

Ni-ki leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood as his mind raced through the plan he had meticulously crafted. A plan that had been years in the making.

For years, he had quietly worked to ensure that your world revolved solely around him. Slowly, subtly, he'd taken out the people who dared to get too close to you. Each one, a stepping stone to where he was now. They were all nothing more than obstacles to be removed. And every single time, he had been successful. Always.

Now, Hyunwoo had stepped into the picture.

And Hyunwoo, as far as Ni-ki was concerned, was just another pathetic nobody who was standing in his way.

The thought of you smiling at Hyunwoo, laughing with him, looking at him with those bright eyes that only Ni-ki was used to seeing, made something cold coil in his chest. He couldn’t let this go on. He wouldn’t let it.

Hyunwoo wasn’t going to take you from him.

Ni-ki had it all planned out.

Step one was simple, almost too easy. A rumor.

A rotten, venomous rumor that would spread through the school like wildfire. It didn’t matter how small or insignificant it started, because he knew it would reach your ears.

And when it did, when you heard the whispers of Hyunwoo’s so-called true character, you would start to doubt him. You would start to question everything you thought you knew about him.

Ni-ki would ruin him, piece by piece.

The rumor would be about something harmless at first—something enough to be believable, yet still enough to make people look at Hyunwoo sideways. Maybe he had been a felon and just got out of juvie, or maybe he was hiding something from everyone. Something he didn’t want people to know.

It didn’t matter what it was, because the moment it hit the ears of the wrong people, the damage would be done.

Ni-ki’s eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. He could already see it playing out in his head—the small whispers, the sideways glances, the doubt seeping into your mind. He could already picture you questioning Hyunwoo, wondering if you had been wrong about him all along.

And the best part?

You would never suspect it was him.

No one ever did.

Ni-ki had always been the master of subtlety. The master of making things look like accidents. And he knew exactly how to get what he wanted without ever having to dirty his hands.

And Hyunwoo?

Well, Hyunwoo would be nothing more than a casualty of Ni-ki’s game.

His first move was already in motion. He had already planted the seed, and now it was only a matter of time before it took root and began to grow.

Once the rumor spread, Hyunwoo would crumble.

And when he did, you’d come running back to him. You’d see how right Ni-ki had been all along, how much he cared for you, how much he understood you.

You would remember who had always been there for you.

Ni-ki would make sure of it.

Because at the end of the day, it was always going to be him and you against the world.

And no one could change that.

The next day at school, Ni-ki wasted no time. He was a master of timing—he knew how to slip into people’s conversations, how to make himself just noticeable enough for the rumor to take root, and how to stay under the radar. It was all part of the plan.

He stuck close to you, his usual charm and ease masking the fact that he was meticulously watching every detail, every shift in the atmosphere around you. He was perfectly casual, acting as though everything was normal. He laughed at your jokes, teased you the same way he always did, never letting on that his mind was focused on the bigger picture.

The whispers started slow, like the rustling of leaves in the wind. Little things—insignificant things that didn’t seem to carry much weight at first. But with every passing hour, they grew louder.

Ni-ki heard them all.

It was always the same story, twisted more and more as it passed from person to person. At first, it was just idle gossip. “Did you hear about Hyunwoo? Apparently, he’s been… kind of a player.” Someone would murmur it to another, who would then say it to someone else, until it became something else entirely.

By the time the rumor had made its rounds, Hyunwoo was no longer just a “player” or someone with a bad reputation.

No, now he was something far worse.

“Did you hear? Hyunwoo’s a stalker.”

The words stuck out to Ni-ki like a jagged piece of glass, cutting into his amusement. The rumor had shifted, darkened, morphed into something sinister.

“Apparently, he’s been following women around, sending them creepy messages, even showing up to their home.”

Ni-ki’s lips curled into a wicked smile as he overheard a group of students gossiping about it. He could practically taste the chaos in the air, feel the weight of the lie settle over Hyunwoo’s reputation like a suffocating blanket.

He couldn’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction. The rumor was working. It was twisting its way into people’s minds, painting Hyunwoo as something dangerous.

And the best part?

You hadn’t heard yet.

Not directly.

But it was only a matter of time.

Ni-ki kept his position at your side, subtly steering conversations so you wouldn’t be the first to hear the more shocking parts of the story. He knew you well enough to know how to shield you from it—at least for now.

As the day wore on, the whispers continued, but the one that made Ni-ki’s smirk widen even further was the one that he had planted into the wind himself:

"Did you hear? Hyunwoo's obsessed with a girl he can't have. He stalks her. Followed her home the other day. People say he’s been showing up at her favorite spots, too. Who knows what else he’s done."

Ni-ki chuckled quietly to himself. He knew that version would stick.

Hyunwoo had become the perfect villain in this story, and the seeds of doubt had already begun to sprout in your mind.

He didn’t need to do anything else for now. He just had to sit back and watch it unfold.

And as he saw you later in the day, eyes still unaware of the storm brewing, Ni-ki put his plan into motion again, leaning closer to you as if everything was fine.

“Hey,” he said softly, acting like the best friend he always had been. “You okay? You look a little… distracted.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Just tired, I guess. It’s been a weird day.”

Ni-ki tilted his head, feigning concern. “A lot of rumors going around today. You heard the one about Hyunwoo?”

You blinked, shaking your head. “What about him?”

“Well…” Ni-ki leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but people are saying… well, stuff. About him following girls around. And it’s starting to get out of hand, you know?”

You stared at him, eyebrows furrowing. “Wait, really? That doesn’t sound like him…”

Ni-ki shrugged, his eyes flickering briefly over to Hyunwoo’s direction before focusing back on you. “I mean, I don’t know. I just heard it from a few people. But it’s getting weird. People are talking, and the more they talk, the worse it sounds.”

You seemed troubled, biting your lip. “I’m a bit doubtful.”

Ni-ki just gave you a soft, reassuring smile. “Just be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt by someone who doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”

You gave him a grateful smile, completely unaware of the dark satisfaction that lurked behind his eyes.

Ni-ki didn’t need to say anything else.

It was only a matter of time before it bloomed into the full-blown truth everyone would believe.

And as the days passed, the rumor continued to spread, slowly poisoning every conversation that Hyunwoo was a stalker. The whispers followed him wherever he went, and soon enough, students began to glance at him sideways, avoiding eye contact or even crossing the street when they saw him coming. It wasn’t long before the gossip turned into outright hostility—people gave him cold stares, making snide remarks behind his back.

Ni-ki watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction, each twisted word building the barrier between you and Hyunwoo. He saw the small, hesitant glances you shot in Hyunwoo’s direction, the doubt that began to creep into your eyes. Every time you talked to him, it was more stiff, more uncertain.

Ni-ki, of course, stayed right by your side, always the supportive friend. He was always there to offer a comforting word, a soft touch when you seemed troubled.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked one afternoon as you stared off into space, looking like you were lost in thought.

You sighed, glancing at him with a faint frown. “I don’t know… it’s just… I’ve been hearing so much stuff about Hyunwoo lately. People are saying things, and I don’t know if I should believe them or not.”

Ni-ki’s lips quirked up in the slightest, though his eyes were filled with concern, like he genuinely cared. He moved closer to you, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “It’s tough, right? I get it. But, honestly, maybe it’s better to just listen to what people are saying. Sometimes the truth comes out in ways you wouldn’t expect.” He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting toward Hyunwoo, who was talking with a few people across the hallway. “I’ve been hearing some pretty... unsettling things, too. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

You stared at him, your expression caught between confusion and doubt. “But... He don’t seem like that type of person. I don’t want to just believe everything I hear.”

Ni-ki nodded slowly, his hand gently resting on your shoulder in an almost possessive way. “I understand, really. But just... think about it, okay? Trust your instincts, and take care of yourself. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what happens.”

His words seeped into you, and you felt comforted. Still, a part of you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in your gut. Something didn’t sit right, but you didn’t know what to make of it yet.

Over the next few days, Hyunwoo became more isolated. He didn’t fight back against the rumors—he didn’t have the energy to. He was becoming a shell of the person you had known, retreating into himself, avoiding eye contact, and withdrawing from everyone. It was as if the weight of the rumors was suffocating him.

Ni-ki, though, was always there, watching over you. He continued to play the perfect role, offering you endless support, making sure you never felt alone.

But he was also keeping a close eye on Hyunwoo, watching him from the shadows, making sure the damage he had caused wasn’t coming undone.

And as you noticed the change in Hyunwoo—his slumped shoulders, the way he barely spoke to anyone anymore—something in your heart twisted with guilt. You weren’t sure what was real and what wasn’t anymore. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.

Ni-ki smiled to himself as you turned away from the window, your eyes still clouded with uncertainty.

Everything was going according to plan.

Yeah no.

Ni-ki’s previously carefully constructed world seemed to shatter in an instant. The next day, he walked into school, expecting to see the usual whispers, the usual isolation surrounding Hyunwoo. He’d kept his distance, knowing that the rumors were doing their job, eroding the trust between you and him bit by bit. He was just waiting for the final nail in the coffin—the moment when you'd pull away from Hyunwoo for good.

But then he saw you.

Talking to him.

Laughing with him.

As if the past few days had never happened.

Ni-ki stopped dead in his tracks, his heart thudding in his chest. His eyes locked onto you and Hyunwoo as they stood by the lockers, shoulders brushing naturally. You were smiling up at him, and it wasn’t the polite, distant smile Ni-ki had seen before. No, this was the real thing. Your eyes were bright, your laugh light, your body turned toward him with a sense of comfort that made Ni-ki's insides twist with something cold.

No.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The rumors had worked. They had to have worked. Hyunwoo should have been pushed away, isolated, out of your life. He should’ve been some distant memory by now, something you could brush off as a mistake.

But here you were. With him.

Ni-ki’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Maybe it was just a fluke, maybe you were being nice, but the way you laughed at something Hyunwoo said—the way you looked at him—was something deeper than just a casual conversation.

He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let you slip away like this.

Ni-ki’s gaze darkened as he walked past them, trying to stay out of sight, but unable to stop himself from keeping a close watch. He heard Hyunwoo say something, and then, to his fury, you laughed. Really laughed, that kind of laughter that only happened when you felt at ease, when you trusted someone. Ni-ki wanted to storm over and pull you away from him, to drag you back to where you belonged—by his side.

But instead, he just stood there, hidden in the corner, his mind spinning.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

You were supposed to be his.

Ni-ki’s breath quickened as his grip on his phone tightened. He needed to think, to do something, anything. He couldn’t let Hyunwoo take you from him.

It was then that the thought hit him—maybe it was time to escalate. The rumor was no longer enough. He had to do something more.

But what? What could he do to ensure that you would never look at Hyunwoo the way you used to look at him?

A surge of panic mixed with anger coursed through him. He couldn’t lose you.

He couldn’t.

Ni-ki’s mind flicked to the moments he had spent with you over the years, the times he had held you close, promised to protect you. He had been patient, always patient, but now, the slow and steady approach was failing. He couldn’t let it go on any longer.

The next move was crucial. It had to be.

But for now, all he could do was watch as you and Hyunwoo continued to talk, oblivious to the storm brewing just behind the curtain.

Ni-ki's frustration was reaching a boiling point. For days, he had played his cards, whispered his lies, and watched as his plan failed to have the desired effect. He tried everything he could think of: more rumors, subtle hints, and even staging situations that would make Hyunwoo look bad. But each time, it was like you didn’t even notice. You didn’t pull away from Hyunwoo. If anything, you were only getting closer to him. Laughing, talking, hanging out. You, who he had always been able to manipulate and control, were slipping away from him.

It was maddening.

Ni-ki couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus on anything else. Everywhere he looked, you were there with Hyunwoo, your friendship with Hyunwoo growing stronger, while his grip on you weakened. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface was now bubbling over.

And that’s when he decided he couldn’t take it anymore.

He found you after class, cornered you by the lockers where you were just finishing up with your books. His steps were quick, purposeful, and he was barely holding back the storm brewing inside him.

“Y/N,” he snapped, his voice sharp, and your eyes flickered up to meet his.

You looked confused at his tone but didn’t back away. “What’s up, Ni-ki?” you asked, voice still calm, like there was nothing out of the ordinary.

He couldn't control the frustration that seeped into his words. “What’s up? Are you seriously asking me that? You've been acting like everything’s fine with Hyunwoo. After everything that's been going on? You still won’t listen to what everyone’s saying about him?”

You took a step back, your brows knitting in confusion. “What are you talking about? I told you, Ni-ki, Hyunwoo is not like that. He’s a shy, quiet nerd, not some creepy stalker. People have been blowing things out of proportion.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. The way you spoke, the way you defended him—defended Hyunwoo—it was like a slap in his face. It made his blood boil.

“You really believe that?” Ni-ki’s voice was dangerously low now. He was clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles were white. “You really believe he’s just some shy guy? I’ve been telling you the truth, Y/N. People warned you! And you’re just ignoring it, defending him like he’s some kind of angel. He’s not. He’s a liar and a manipulator. He’s been playing you the whole time.”

The anger in his voice was almost enough to make you step back, but you didn’t. You just looked at him, your face filled with an expression he couldn’t quite read, but the words that left your mouth next hit harder than anything he’d ever heard.

“I’m not going to listen to your lies, Ni-ki,” you said, your voice steady but filled with something he couldn’t ignore. “I’ve known Hyunwoo for some time now. He’s not perfect, but I trust him. And that’s something you’re just going to have to accept.”

His chest tightened, the words stinging him more than they should have. You trusted him. You trusted him more than you trusted Ni-ki.

He could feel the weight of his own breath, shallow now, fighting to stay composed. “You really think he’s worth trusting, huh? After everything that’s been said about him? After all the warnings people have given you?”

Your face softened, but there was an unmistakable firmness in your gaze. “Yes, I do. And I think you’re letting your jealousy get the best of you, Ni-ki. This isn’t like you.”

His eyes narrowed, the words stinging more than he ever expected. Jealousy? Was that all this was to you?

“Jealous?” His laugh was dark, almost bitter. “You think this is about jealousy?” He stepped closer, his voice low and almost threatening now. “You think I’m jealous of him? I’m trying to protect you from someone who doesn’t even deserve to be in your life. You’re so blinded by him, you don’t see it. You don’t see that he’s just using you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” you said, your voice firmer than he had ever heard it before. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Ni-ki. I can make my own decisions.”

It felt like the ground beneath him was slipping away. He had always been the one who kept you close, always been the one who kept you from making mistakes. But now, you were pushing him away, trusting someone else more than you trusted him.

And that was something Ni-ki couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept.

He took a step back, his breathing ragged, but his eyes locked onto yours. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned sharply, his fists still clenched at his sides. He didn’t say another word as he stormed off, his heart pounding in his chest.

You wanted to believe some random nobody over him? Fine. Then he was no longer playing by the rules.

The days after the confrontation with Ni-ki felt different, unsettling. At first, you tried to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of your mind, but it was hard to shake. Ni-ki had always been the one person you could count on, the one who understood you in ways no one else did. But his sudden behavior, his insistence that Hyunwoo wasn’t someone to be trusted, made you feel... uneasy. The way he’d confronted you, the way he had looked at you like you were making some kind of mistake—it wasn’t the same Ni-ki you’d known for years. And you couldn’t help but feel a strange distance creeping between the two of you.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized just how weird his actions had been. He was clingier, possessive, almost... desperate. And that wasn’t like him. It set off an uncomfortable feeling in your chest, one you didn’t know how to place. You started pulling away, not answering his messages right away, not seeking him out like you used to. It wasn’t that you wanted to push him away, it was just that something didn’t feel right anymore. And it was leaving you with more questions than answers.

In contrast, Hyunwoo had been nothing but calm and sweet. He hadn’t let the rumors or the cold treatment from others affect him. And, oddly enough, his presence started to bring a sense of peace to you.

One afternoon, you found yourself sitting with Hyunwoo in the library, reading a book while he worked on some school assignments next to you. The atmosphere between you was calm and quiet, a comfortable kind of silence that let your mind wander. But the longer you sat there, the more you realized that you weren’t really reading the words on the page. You were lost in thought, replaying the scene with Ni-ki over and over in your head.

You didn’t even notice when Hyunwoo had stopped working and was looking at you, his gaze soft, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

"Y/N?" His voice broke through your thoughts, gentle but persistent.

You blinked, snapping out of your stupor. “Huh? Sorry, Hyunwoo. What were you saying?”

He hesitated for a moment, his cheeks flushing as he looked down at his hands. “I, uh... was just wondering if maybe... you’d want to go out with me one night?” He glanced up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and hope, his face turning even redder. “You know, just the two of us. I mean, if you want to, of course.” He stumbled over his words, clearly embarrassed.

You felt your heart skip a beat, a strange tightening sensation in your chest. This wasn’t something you had expected. You hadn’t considered Hyunwoo like that—not in a romantic way. Sure, he was sweet, and you enjoyed spending time with him, but that kind of thought hadn’t crossed your mind.

“I, uh...” You froze for a moment, unsure of what to say. You hadn’t even considered the possibility of going out with him like that. You had just started to get to know him as a friend, but now, the thought of it seemed... strange.

You glanced away for a moment, trying to collect your thoughts, feeling your nerves starting to kick in. "I... I’ll think about it, okay?" you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed a nervous tremor.

Hyunwoo’s eyes lit up at your response, a shy, relieved smile forming on his lips. “Really? You’ll think about it?” His voice was hopeful, almost too hopeful, and you could see how happy the simple suggestion made him.

You nodded, feeling a strange knot in your stomach. “Yeah... I’ll think about it.”

He smiled even brighter, his face turning a shade darker. “Okay, well... I’ll be waiting, then.” He turned back to his work, but the smile lingered on his face, and you could see the way he was trying to hide his excitement behind his concentration.

You sat there for a long moment, staring at the pages of your book but not really seeing them. Your mind was spinning, your heart racing in your chest. You had no idea what to make of what just happened. You didn’t have feelings for Hyunwoo—at least, you didn’t think you did—but something about his shy, hopeful smile made something inside you stir, a weird feeling that you couldn’t quite explain.

Was this what it felt like to be unsure?

You felt suffocated, like the air around you was pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe. Why did he have to ask that? Why now? You liked being around him, but not like that. Not in the way he clearly wanted.

Ugh. You hated this.

You didn’t want to hurt him. But you also didn’t want to lead him on, didn’t want him to think there was a possibility when there wasn’t. And yet, when he had looked at you like that, so full of quiet hope, you couldn’t bring yourself to immediately shut him down.

Now you were stuck in this awful middle ground, confused and conflicted, unsure of what to do next.

You clenched your fists in your lap, your nails digging into your palms. I just want things to be simple again.

“Hey... you okay?” Hyunwoo’s voice broke through your thoughts again, softer this time, like he could sense something was off.

You forced a small smile, even though your chest felt tight. “Yeah,” you lied. “I just... I have a lot on my mind.”

He nodded, not pressing further, and went back to his work. But you weren’t really present anymore. Your thoughts were a mess, your emotions tangled up in a way that made you want to scream.

You barely even noticed the pair of sharp eyes that had been watching you from the moment you had stepped inside the library.

Ni-ki.

He had been waiting, lingering by, watching the way you interacted with Hyunwoo. Watching the way your expression faltered when the other boy spoke to you. And now, seeing the way your shoulders were stiff, the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, he knew something was wrong.

Something had happened.

And Ni-ki was going to find out exactly what it was.

Ni-ki didn’t hesitate. His steps were slow, calculated, as he made his way toward your table. His hands were shoved casually in his pockets, but his eyes—sharp, assessing—were locked onto you.

You didn’t notice him at first, too lost in your thoughts. But Hyunwoo did. His body tensed slightly, his fingers tightening around his pen.

Ni-ki slid into the seat beside you, close—too close. His shoulder brushed against yours, and you startled, blinking up at him.

“Ni-ki?”

He tilted his head at you, feigning innocence. “What? Can’t I sit with my best friend?” He turned to Hyunwoo then, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, Hyunwoo. What are we working on today?”

Hyunwoo hesitated. You could tell he was trying to stay calm, but you could also see the shift in his demeanor—the slight unease in his posture, the way he averted his gaze.

“Uh, just some classwork,” Hyunwoo muttered, not looking at Ni-ki directly.

Ni-ki hummed, like he was actually considering the answer, but his attention was on you again in an instant. His fingers tapped against the table, his leg bouncing slightly as if he were holding back something. “You seem lost in thought,” he mused, tilting his head at you. “Everything okay?”

You opened your mouth, then hesitated.

You could tell him. You could let it all out—the confusion, the pressure, the guilt eating away at you. But something about the way Ni-ki was watching you made you hesitate. His eyes were too sharp. Like he already had the answer and was just waiting for you to confirm it. “I’m fine,” you said instead, forcing another small smile.

His gaze flickered, just for a second, before he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Is that so?”

You nodded, ignoring the way your stomach twisted.

Ni-ki leaned back, exhaling a dramatic sigh. “Well, if something was bothering you,” he said, eyes darting briefly to Hyunwoo before returning to you, “you know you can always tell me, right?” His tone was lighthearted, but you knew him well enough to catch the underlying message.

You swallowed hard. “Of course.”

Hyunwoo cleared his throat. “Um, actually, I think I should get going,” he said suddenly, closing his notebook. “I have something to take care of.”

You frowned, confused by his sudden change in demeanor. “Oh... are you sure? We didn’t even finish studying.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Ni-ki before landing back on you. He forced a smile. “Yeah, I’ll just... see you later, okay?”

Before you could say anything else, he grabbed his bag and left.

You stared after him, feeling that tightness in your chest again.

“Wow,” Ni-ki chuckled beside you. “Didn’t know he was so jumpy.”

You turned to him, frowning. “Ni-ki, what was that?”

He blinked at you innocently. “What was what?”

“You know what I mean.”

His smile didn’t waver. “I was just sitting with my best friend. Is that a crime?”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.

Ni-ki’s head tilted slightly, his eyes locked onto you. “You’re acting strange,” he mused. “Are you sure you’re okay? You know you can tell me anything.”

There it was again. That suffocating weight in his words.

You forced a tight-lipped smile, gripping the straps of your bag. “I’m fine, Ni-ki. Just… tired.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure? I mean, I worry about you. Especially with everything going on lately.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I— I have to go,” you blurted out, stepping away from the table so quickly that your chair scraped against the floor.

Ni-ki’s smile didn’t falter immediately, but you noticed the way it froze slightly, like it wasn’t quite real.

“You’re leaving so soon?” he asked, voice still light, but his eyes? They were unreadable.

You nodded, barely sparing him another glance. “Yeah, I just— I need to do something.” Then you turned, quickly walking away before he could say anything else.

You didn’t notice the way he stared after you, the way his expression darkened the moment your back was turned. His smile slowly faded, lips pressing into a thin line, his fingers twitching slightly as he watched you disappear through the library doors.

You didn’t see any of it.

All you could focus on was getting to Hyunwoo.

Your feet carried you through the hallways, your heart hammering against your ribs. You didn’t know why you felt this urgent need to find him, but after what had just happened, you had to. You needed to check on him, needed to make sure he was okay. But as you stepped outside, scanning the campus for any sign of him—he was gone.

Weird...

Your footsteps echoed against the hallway tiles as you hurried from one familiar spot to another, frustration gnawing at you with every passing second.

The classrooms? Empty. The cafeteria? No sign of him. The study lounge? Nothing.

With every place you checked, Hyunwoo seemed more and more like a ghost—like he had disappeared off the face of the earth.

That’s when you remembered.

The photo room.

Hyunwoo had once told you about his love for photography, how he would spend hours developing pictures in the red room, watching them come to life in the dim glow. If he wasn’t anywhere else, maybe he was there.

Heart pounding, you made your way down the quiet corridor leading to the photography lab. The moment you reached the door, you hesitated. Something about the stillness on the other side felt… off. But you shook the feeling away, gripping the handle and pushing it open.

A wave of dim red light washed over you, casting long shadows across the room. The faint chemical scent of developing solutions filled your nose. Photos hung from wires, clipped up to dry, swaying gently in the air.

But Hyunwoo wasn’t there.

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders slowly melting into disappointment. Where could he have gone?

Just as you were about to turn and leave, something caught your eye.

A photo—hanging slightly lower than the others.

Your brows furrowed as you stepped closer, the dim red glow making it hard to make out the details at first. But the longer you looked, the clearer it became. And when you finally realized what you were looking at, your breath hitched.

It was you.

A photograph of you, taken from outside your bedroom window.

Your stomach twisted painfully as your eyes darted to the photos beside it. Some were of trees, the sky, random shots of nature. But scattered among them, hidden in plain sight—were more photos of you.

You in class. You walking home. You reading at the library. You staring out of your kitchen window, completely unaware.

A chill ran down your spine as you took a step back, heart hammering against your ribs.

What the hell was this?

The air in the room felt thick, suffocating as you stood there, staring at the countless photos of yourself. Your hands trembled as you flipped through them, each one worse than the last. Some of them were taken so close, so intimately, that you felt exposed just looking at them.

Then—

The door creaked open.

Your breath caught in your throat as you whirled around.

Hyunwoo stood at the entrance, his wide eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He looked… surprised.

“Why are you here?” he asked, voice laced with confusion.

You swallowed hard, gripping the photos in your hands as if they would disappear if you let go. “I was looking for you.”

His expression softened for a split second—until his gaze dropped to the pictures in your hands.

“You…” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “Do you like them?”

Your stomach twisted violently.

"You took these?" The words came out in a breathless whisper, but the disbelief quickly turned into anger as you waved the photos in his face. "You took these?!"

Hyunwoo’s eyes widened in alarm when he actually saw the pictures, hands coming up defensively. “No! No, I didn’t— I would never take those! I don’t know where they came from!”

“You expect me to believe that?” You felt your voice rising, panic and fury twisting together inside you. “These are pictures of me, Hyunwoo! Taken from outside my house! Who else could’ve done it?”

“I don’t know!” he pleaded, his voice cracking. He looked genuinely distressed, but you were too far gone to care. “I only take pictures of nature and trees! Someone must have put them there, I swear!”

His words made you pause.

Because you remembered something.

Hyunwoo had once told you—very distinctly—that not many people had access to the photo lab. That only a few had keys to the room.

And yet, somehow, these pictures ended up here.

Your jaw clenched as the realization hit.

“You’re lying,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I should’ve believed what people said about you. I should’ve known—” You took a step back, feeling disgust crawl up your spine. “You are a creep. You are a stalker.”

Hyunwoo’s face crumbled. “No, please—”

But you were already backing toward the door, chest heaving, mind racing.

You needed to get out of here.

Away from him.

"Please, you have to believe me!" Hyunwoo pleaded, his voice desperate, his hands reaching out like he could physically hold onto your trust before it slipped away completely.

But you were already gripping the door handle, heart pounding in your chest like a drum. You needed to go.

"Stay away from me!" you snapped, yanking the door open.

Hyunwoo moved instinctively, trying to grab your wrist—whether to stop you or just to make you listen, you didn’t know. You didn’t care.

SLAM!

You shoved the door shut with all your strength, and the solid thud of it colliding with Hyunwoo’s face was followed immediately by a sharp cry of pain.

You didn’t stay to see the damage.

Didn’t look back.

You ran.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps as your feet pounded against the tile floors, the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The hallways were eerily empty, the school quiet except for the echo of your frantic footsteps.

You didn’t stop.

Not when your legs started to burn. Not when your lungs screamed for air. Not until you were far, far away from that room, from those pictures, from him.

Hyunwoo’s breath was still ragged as he clutched his nose, the sharp sting of pain radiating through his face. He could feel the warm trickle of blood slipping past his fingers, but he barely registered it. His mind was spinning too fast, replaying everything that had just happened.

You—your horrified expression. Your accusations. Your retreating figure as you ran away from him like he was some kind of monster.

His stomach twisted painfully.

He had to find you. Had to fix this.

Gritting his teeth, he braced himself to stand, but just as he began to push himself up—

The door creaked open.

For a split second, hope sparked in his chest.

“Y/n?” he croaked, expecting to see you. Expecting you to have come back, second-guessing your words, ready to listen.

But it wasn’t you.

It was Ni-ki.

Hyunwoo’s entire body went still.

The dim glow of the room made it hard to read his expression, but the way he stood there—calm, relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world—made Hyunwoo’s skin prickle with unease.

Ni-ki tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering down to Hyunwoo’s bloody nose before dragging back up to meet his gaze.

“Tough day?” Ni-ki asked, voice smooth, casual. Too casual.

Hyunwoo swallowed thickly, trying to shake off the chill creeping up his spine. “What… what are you doing here?”

Ni-ki stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. His eyes trailed lazily over the photos hanging from the wires, his lips curling slightly in amusement.

“Just checking in,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over one of the pictures. One of you.

Hyunwoo felt his pulse quicken.

"You—" He hesitated, a sudden thought slamming into him like a freight train. "You did this."

Ni-ki finally looked at him again, dark amusement flickering in his gaze. "Did what?"

"You planted these photos here,” Hyunwoo accused, forcing himself to his feet despite the throbbing in his face. “You wanted her to find them. You wanted her to think it was me."

Ni-ki didn’t deny it.

He simply smiled.

"Wow," Ni-ki said, slow and mocking. "Look at you, putting all the pieces together. Guess you’re not as dumb as you look."

Hyunwoo clenched his fists. His entire body was shaking—not just from anger, but from the sickening realization that Ni-ki had been playing a game this whole time. That he had been set up.

"Why?" Hyunwoo demanded. "What the hell is your problem?"

Ni-ki sighed, stepping closer. "My problem?” He let out a soft chuckle, leaning in slightly, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You are.”

Hyunwoo barely had time to react before Ni-ki’s hand shot out, gripping his throat in a bruising hold.

"You should’ve stayed in your lane, Hyunwoo," Ni-ki murmured, his grip tightening, his expression unreadable. "But you didn’t. You got too close. And now?" He smiled wider, something twisted in the way his lips curled.

"Now you’re done."

Ni-ki's grip was unrelenting, his fingers digging into Hyunwoo’s skin as he struggled desperately to break free. He tried to shove him off, twisting and pushing, but Ni-ki was taller and stronger.

"Let go of me!" Hyunwoo gasped, his breath coming out in short, panicked bursts as he thrashed against Ni-ki’s hold.

But Ni-ki only tightened his grip, forcing Hyunwoo back against the table. His dark eyes gleamed under the red light, his expression eerily calm despite the madness lurking beneath the surface.

"You took her away from me." Ni-ki murmured, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You were never supposed to be here. You were never supposed to be in her life."

Hyunwoo’s stomach dropped as Ni-ki reached into his pocket, and before he could even process what was happening—

The glint of a knife caught the red light.

Hyunwoo’s blood ran cold.

His struggling grew frantic as his eyes locked onto the sharp blade in Ni-ki’s hand, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest.

"You took my girl away," Ni-ki accused angrily. "But that’s okay. I know how to fix things. I know how to get rid of pests."

Hyunwoo’s breath hitched. "Ni-ki, please—"

"She’ll come back to me," Ni-ki continued, ignoring him completely, his grip steady as he lifted the knife higher. "And this time, she won’t leave. This time, she’ll be mine—permanently."

Hyunwoo's eyes widened in terror. "You’re insane!" he shouted, thrashing harder, his body screaming for an escape. "You don’t have to do this—please, don’t do this—!"

But Ni-ki only grinned.

And then—

The knife came down.

You couldn’t believe what your life had come to.

Your body felt ice cold, your fingers numb as you walked aimlessly through the school hallways, your mind clouded with disbelief, shame, and something else—something worse.

Hyunwoo had those pictures.

Pictures of you.

Moments where you were completely unaware—fresh out of the shower, changing in your room, lost in thought by your window.

These weren’t normal pictures. They weren’t innocent.

They were intimate.

The kind of images that no one should ever have taken. The kind of pictures that made you feel exposed, violated.

Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea clawing up your throat.

How could you have been so stupid?

You had wanted a friend. Someone other than Ni-ki. Someone to prove that your world didn’t have to revolve around just one person.

But that person—the one you had chosen to trust—had turned out to be a vile stalker.

He had stolen your privacy, taken something that wasn’t his to take.

And Ni-ki…

Ni-ki had been right all along.

He had warned you. Had tried to keep you safe. Had told you not to trust Hyunwoo, and you—

You had ignored him.

A fresh wave of regret crashed over you, suffocating and overwhelming. You should have listened. You should have been careful.

All you hoped now was that it wasn’t too late.

That Ni-ki would forgive you.

That he would take you back.

Because right now, the only place you felt truly safe was with him.

You spotted him before class, standing near the lockers, casually chatting with a few people. His back was partially turned to you, his posture relaxed.

For a moment, you hesitated.

What if he was still mad? What if he didn’t want to see you after how you had doubted him? But you couldn’t keep this weight in your chest any longer. You needed him.

Taking a shaky breath, you pushed forward, weaving through the hallway until you reached him.

“Ni-ki.”

His name came out softer than you intended, barely audible over the noise. But somehow, he heard you. The conversation around him stilled as he turned his head, eyes meeting yours. And just like that his amusement vanished.

The people around him looked between the two of you before one of them nudged his arm. “We’ll catch up later.”

Ni-ki didn’t acknowledge them as they walked away. His attention stayed fixed on you, a slow blink the only reaction he gave.

You swallowed, shifting nervously under his stare. “Can we talk?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond.

Then, after what felt like forever, he tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a small smile. “Now you want to talk?” His voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

You bit your lip, guilt twisting in your stomach. “Ni-ki, please…”

His smile widened slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he leaned back against the lockers, crossing his arms. “Alright,” he mused, studying you. “I’m listening.”

You shifted on your feet, looking up at Ni-ki anxiously. His expression was tense, his dark eyes locked onto you like he was peeling you apart layer by layer, searching for something.

“I…” You hesitated, your throat dry. “I was wrong.”

He didn’t react. He just stared.

“I should have listened to you,” you continued quickly, hoping that if you just kept talking, he’d say something. “You were right. Hyunwoo was—he is a creep. I shouldn’t have doubted you, Ni-ki. I should have trusted you.”

Silence.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he looked at you through lidded eyes. “You should have,” he murmured.

The knot in your stomach tightened. “I—I know. I feel awful about it. I just wanted to know if we—if you could forgive me.”

Ni-ki tilted his head, watching you. Then, in a movement so slow it made your breath hitch, he reached out, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “I don’t know…” he mused, his voice light, teasing. But his fingers gripped your chin just slightly, keeping your eyes on his. “You really hurt me, you know?”

Guilt crashed into you, making your chest ache. “I didn’t mean to,” you whispered.

“But you did.” His grip didn’t tighten, but the weight of his touch made you feel like you couldn’t move. “You chose him over me.”

“No,” you rushed to say, shaking your head as much as his hand would allow. “I wasn’t choosing him over you, I swear. I was just—”

He sighed, cutting you off. His fingers slid away, and suddenly, you missed his touch. “You know,” he said, voice soft, “after everything I’ve done for you, I really thought you knew me.”

Your stomach dropped. “Ni-ki, I do—”

“Do you?” He gave you a sad smile, “because if you really did, you would have never doubted me.”

Your throat tightened. “I won’t ever again,” you said quickly, desperate to fix this. “I promise, Ni-ki. I’ll listen to you. I’ll trust you.”

He hummed, eyes studying you. “You sound so sure now.”

“I am.”

Another beat of silence, then Ni-ki sighed dramatically, as if this was all so difficult for him. “Well…” He suddenly grinned, his usual, easy-going expression slipping back into place. “I guess I can forgive you.”

Relief flooded through you. “Thank you,” you breathed.

But you didn’t notice the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes. You didn’t notice the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the way his posture shifted ever so slightly—like a predator easing back into position after a temporary setback. All you saw was Ni-ki, your best friend, smiling at you again, forgiving you. That was all that mattered.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you had been holding, and without thinking, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. “I missed you,” you murmured against his shoulder.

Ni-ki stilled for a second. Then, slowly, his arms came around you, pulling you in just a little too tight, his hand settling against the small of your back. “Oh,” he breathed, voice dripping with affection. “You have no idea how much I missed you too.”

You smiled, completely oblivious to the way his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, as if grounding himself.

As if making sure you wouldn’t slip away again.

When you pulled back, he studied your face, his expression unreadable. Then, in an instant, he was back to his usual self—grinning, shoving his hands into his pockets like nothing had happened. “So,” he said casually, “since I’ve so graciously forgiven you, I think you owe me a little something.”

You blinked. “Owe you?”

He smirked. “Mhm. You ditched me, remember? So I think you need to make it up to me.”

You bit your lip, guilt still swirling in your chest. “Okay… What do you want?”

His smirk widened just the slightest bit, his eyes gleaming. “I have an idea,” he said simply.

You let out a small laugh, rolling your eyes. “Alright, fine. Be mysterious then.”

That was all he needed to hear.

Ni-ki's smirk didn’t waver as he draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you just a little too close, but you didn’t question it. Why would you?

If his grip on you was a little firmer than usual, you ignored it. If his fingers brushed against your shoulder just a little too slowly before settling, you thought nothing of it. Because you were too relieved. Too happy to have him back.

And Ni-ki knew that.

“C’mon,” he said, leading you down the hallway, his pace slow and easy. “Let’s get out of here before class starts. You owe me, remember?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know, Ni-ki..”

He sighed dramatically, nudging you with his shoulder. “Skipping one school day won’t kill you. Besides, you seem stressed.” He gave you a sideways glance, tilting his head slightly. “You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Your stomach twisted. “I just… I don’t get it,” you admitted quietly. “How could Hyunwoo do something like that? I really thought he was my friend.”

Ni-ki clicked his tongue. “That’s the thing about people,” he murmured, his grip on you tightening just a fraction. “They lie. They pretend. They disappoint you.”

You swallowed, unsure of why his words made a shiver crawl up your spine.

But before you could say anything, Ni-ki suddenly brightened, tugging you forward. “Enough about him,” he said cheerfully, like he hadn’t just spat his last words. “Let’s go. I wanna spend some time with you.”

You hesitated for only a second. Then, finally, you nodded.

Because Ni-ki was right. You were stressed. And spending time with him would help.

So you let him lead you away.

And you didn’t notice the way his smirk returned as you finally fell into step beside him. You didn’t notice the way his fingers twitched against your shoulder.

Because Ni-ki had won.

You were right where you belonged.

Ni-ki had a way of making everything feel easy.

The moment you agreed to skip class with him, any lingering guilt melted away. He took you downtown, leading you into store after store, insisting you pick out whatever you wanted.

At first, you protested. “Ni-ki, this is too much—”

But he just rolled his eyes, pushing a expensive sweater into your arms. “Shut up and let me spoil you.”

And you did. Because how could you say no when he looked at you like that?

After shopping, he dragged you to the arcade, a smug grin on his face as he cracked his knuckles. “Alright, what do you want?” he asked, motioning to the rows of claw machines and prize walls.

You pointed at a ridiculously large plushie sitting inside one of the machines. “That one.”

He let out a low whistle. “Going big, huh?”

“You said I could pick anything,” you reminded him with a smirk.

Ni-ki laughed, ruffling your hair. “Alright, princess. Watch and learn.”

And, of course, he won. Because of course he did. After three tries—because “I’m warming up, shut up”—he proudly pulled the giant plushie out, shoving it into your arms with a satisfied grin. “There,” he said, watching as you hugged it tightly. “Now you can’t say I never get you anything.”

You beamed at him. “Thank you, Ni-ki.”

Something flickered in his gaze at your words, but before you could question it, he slung an arm around your shoulders again. “Alright, enough fun. Let’s go to my place,” he said, leading you out of the arcade.

That was how you ended up in his room, curled up on his bed, the giant plushie beside you as a movie played on his TV.

You were comfortable, warm, and full from the snacks he had insisted on buying.

It felt safe.

Leaning against his pillows, you sighed happily. “Today was fun.”

Ni-ki turned to you, a lazy smirk on his lips. “Told you.”

You laughed softly, glancing at him. “I am supposed to be the one making it up to you, remember? Doing the things you did today.”

His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second before he grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. You will.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Huh?”

But Ni-ki just reached over, casually tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, voice low. “Just relax. I like having you here.”

You smiled, resting your head against the plushie.

And Ni-ki?

He just watched you, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

Because everything was perfect.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he paused the movie, his hand casually moving to the remote. “I’ll be right back,” he said, standing up. “Gotta hit the bathroom.”

You nodded absentmindedly, your attention shifting to the movie screen as he disappeared out of the room.

The silence in the room felt heavier than usual, and you stretched your legs under the blankets, the muscles aching from staying in one position for so long. Standing up, you felt the soft rush of air hit your skin as you stepped away from the bed.

You wandered around the room, your eyes taking in the familiar space. Ni-ki’s room was always so... him. The shelves lined with trophies, random trinkets, and a few of his old toys. Your gaze flicked over the pictures on one of the shelves—mostly candid shots, most of them of you and him together.

You smiled softly, memories flooding your mind.

There was one where you both were little, a snapshot of you and Ni-ki running through a park, laughing with carefree expressions. Another where you two were sitting in the same spot at a carnival, a huge stuffed bear between you, just like today.

But what caught your eye the most was a picture of the two of you at a family gathering. You were both a bit older, but the way you were smiling at each other, your cheeks flushed from laughing, made something flutter in your chest.

You picked it up carefully, your fingers brushing against the glass frame. You didn’t remember exactly when it was taken, but the memory felt so vivid—Ni-ki teasing you, making you laugh so hard that you nearly choked on your drink, then gently patting your back when you’d spilled it.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

A soft sigh left your lips as you placed the frame back, running your fingers along the shelf. Everything here felt like home.

You turned to walk back to the bed, about to sink into the comfort of the blankets once more, when something caught your eye.

On Ni-ki’s desk, almost hidden in plain sight among some scattered papers and random objects, was a photo book. You hadn't noticed it before. It looked out of place, lying there as though it had been carelessly thrown aside in a rush, half-forgotten.

Your brow furrowed. You didn’t remember seeing it the last time you were in his room, and curiosity tugged at you. You tilted your head, your feet carrying you instinctively toward his desk.

You reached out, picking it up cautiously, the cover was plain, a simple, dark leather binding that had clearly seen better days, worn from use. You assumed it would be full of memories—pictures of you and Ni-ki growing up, like all the other ones in the room.

But as you opened it, your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t what you expected.

The pages were indeed filled with pictures. Pictures of you.

But these weren’t the happy, carefree photos of your childhood that you had seen in the frames on the shelf. These were different.

These were pictures of you when you were unaware. Taken without your consent.

Your heart raced, and your palms began to sweat as you flipped through the pages. Picture after picture, each one more unsettling than the last. There you were, sitting on the bus, walking home, standing by the window of your house, your back to the camera. Your face, your body, captured in intimate, personal moments.

Your throat tightened as your mind struggled to process what you were looking at.

The pictures were disturbingly familiar. They looked exactly like the ones you had seen in the photo room. The ones that had sent a cold chill down your spine. The ones you thought were taken by Hyunwoo.

You could feel your pulse in your ears, panic swelling within you. This was wrong. This was beyond wrong.

You flipped through the pages faster, as if the speed would make the truth less real. But it only made it worse. The photos were endless. You could see the places you’d been, the things you had done—none of it private, none of it yours anymore.

The realization hit you like a slap across the face.

Ni-ki had been following you. Watching you.

Your stomach churned, nausea creeping up your throat. You could feel the tightness in your chest, the pressure building, suffocating you.

And just as you were about to flip the page again, a familiar voice broke through the fog of your thoughts.

“Hey,” Ni-ki called from behind you, his tone light, like he was calling your name in some sort of casual greeting.

Your body froze, and the book dropped from your hands, the pages scattering on the desk as you turned to face him.

His eyes scanned your face, as if looking for something—something you couldn’t give him.

“I didn’t expect you to be so interested in that,” he said softly, his voice almost too calm.

You swallowed hard, the words stuck in your throat, and your heart beat wildly in your chest. You wanted to scream, to run, but all you could do was stare at him.

He smiled then, but it was different. There was no warmth in it. Just something cold, something that made the room feel smaller, darker.

“Why... why do you have these?” you finally managed to ask, your voice trembling.

Ni-ki’s smile widened, and he took a slow step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Because I wanted to remember you,” he said softly, his voice oddly sweet. “Every little moment. Everything about you.”

You backed away instinctively, your mind scrambling for some form of defense, but the words tangled in your throat. You were stuck. Trapped.

Ni-ki reached out, a glint of something dark in his eyes as he touched your arm gently, his fingers lingering.

“But don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice soft, almost reassuring. “You’re not going anywhere. You never have to.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your entire body screamed for you to run, but your legs wouldn’t move.

And Ni-ki just watched you, the satisfaction in his gaze unmistakable, as the world around you felt like it was collapsing.

Because now you realized—Ni-ki had been controlling everything.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Your mind was too fogged, too overwhelmed to process it all at once. You could only stare, your mouth slightly open, your hands shaking at your sides.

And Ni-ki…

Ni-ki just smiled, that same soft, knowing smile that had always comforted you before—but now, now it felt suffocating.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, stepping closer, reaching out with careful hands as if you were something delicate, something that could shatter at the slightest touch. His fingers brushed your cheek, his warmth stark against your cold, clammy skin.

“You look so scared,” he whispered, his voice drenched in something too sweet, too tender. “You don’t have to be. I’m right here.”

Your body flinched instinctively, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. His presence, his words, his touch—it was all too much, too overwhelming, and you felt trapped, like a moth caught in a web, the silk threads of his affection and obsession binding you tighter with every second.

“This is a lot, isn’t it?” Ni-ki cooed, his hand slipping down from your cheek to your shoulder, his grip firm yet comforting. “I know it must be confusing. But you don’t have to worry about anything.”

His eyes softened, and for a fleeting second, you almost believed him.

Almost.

But then you remembered the book. The pictures. The lies. The control.

“N-Ni-ki…” Your voice came out weak, barely above a whisper.

He hummed in response, tilting his head like he was waiting for you to say something important, something that mattered. But the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t even know what you were trying to say.

You didn’t know what to do.

And Ni-ki could tell.

His expression was gentle, something so sickeningly affectionate that it made your stomach twist. He let out a soft sigh before pulling you forward, wrapping his arms around you like a lover soothing their frightened other half.

“There, there,” he murmured against your hair. His fingers trailed slow, lazy circles on your back, his touch light but firm enough to keep you pressed against him. “I’ve got you. I always have.”

You let out a shaky breath, your entire body stiff in his embrace, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“You’re so cute,” he whispered, his voice almost adoring as his hand came up to cradle the back of your head. “So innocent… too trusting for your own good. You needed someone to protect you, didn’t you? Someone who understood you.”

His fingers tangled in your hair, and he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

“I did this for us,” he murmured against your skin. “So you wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. So no one would ever take you from me.”

Your breath hitched.

You should’ve run. Should’ve fought. Should’ve screamed.

But instead, you just stood there, frozen in place, as Ni-ki held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Because you had always trusted Ni-ki.

And that’s exactly what he wanted.

a/n: Answers to possible questions; 1. Ni-ki did kill Hyunwoo in the photo room. 2. Ni-ki wanted you to find the photo book. 3. Ambigious ending, so you choose if you wanna forgive Ni-ki or tell the police :)

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 2 years ago

Text

FOLIE Á DEUX ─── jonathan crane ✧

ೃ⁀➷ “Not all love is gentle. Sometimes it's gritty and dirty and possessive, sometimes it's not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth.” - Azra T.

pairing. professor!jonathan crane x stalker!reader

summary. you’ve been stalking your professor for 8 months, keeping track of his movements with your diary. one day, said professor informs that you left something of yours behind in his office…

warnings. swearing, choking, p in v, dacryphilia, oral sex (f), dubcon (if u squint), stalking, breeding, orgasm delay/denial, unprotected sex, hair pulling, student-teacher relationship, SMUT UNDER THE CUT

word count. 4.5k

a/n. this is my first ever smut, so if it sucks i really do apologize. also, im kinda unsure where the plot on this one went, but whatever! lastly, i do try to keep all my fics gender-neutral, but seeing as this is smut, i had to choose, and the reader is afab.

“Miss [Name], please stay behind after class. I need just a moment's worth of your time.” Your professor said absently, not looking at you, when he handed back your essay on the human id.

You hummed, nodding your head carefully. “Yes, Professor Crane.”

Inwardly, you swooned at his choice of words: “I need just a moment's worth of your time.” He’d highlighted the existence of both you and him in the sentence, as if coexisting together, with one another, was plausible.

Later, when class ended, you’d packed up all your things, and walked into Professor Crane’s office off to the side, where he was tidying up.

“You asked me to stay behind, sir?”

“Yes,” Crane acknowledged your presence, looking at you squarely. “You forgot something in my office during our last tutoring session.”

Your eyes widened slightly, both at the fact you’d left one of your items behind, and that your Professor had seen the item, and knew it belonged to you. He hadn’t mistaken it as his own, or anyone else's - he knew it was yours.

“Oh!” You said, a beat later. “Thank you for telling me. Where is it, exactly?”

“Before we get to that matter - do take a seat - I believe we need to have a, ah, talk.” He gestured to the seat in front of his office desk, the same seat you sat on every Wednesday at 6:30 for the past few months.

“A talk, sir?” You pried, but sat down anyway, reveling in the one-on-one time you were experiencing with your favorite professor.

That was the main motivator for getting tutored by the man - you adored going in, having an entire hour of him all to yourself.

Prior, you pretended not to get some of his lessons, let your grade in his psychology class slip to a pitiful mark so low he couldn’t ignore it. You’d started the semester with a stellar grade, so he took it upon himself to offer tutoring - he knew you could understand his method of teaching, and theorized that you hadn’t been able to pay attention in class because of the sheer size of people attending.

In actuality, however, you understood everything completely - it was merely your obsessive attraction following him like the sound of thunder trailing behind lightning.

Crane scrubbed his face when you sat, thinking intently on what he wanted to say. “I need you to understand, Miss [Name], that a student-teacher relationship is completely taboo. Such a thing can never - should never, occur.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and suddenly, you were reminded how you hadn’t seen that book in a while, you hadn’t read it when you woke up, when you went for lunch, you hadn’t even written anything about him for the day—

Your professor slid open one of his desk drawers, and pulled out the familiar pocket notebook you kept with yourself at all times.

“I’m telling you about rules, Miss [Name], because you forgot this.” He said, voice low. “And, pardon my intrusion, but the stuff you have written here is quite… intriguing.”

Your heart began racing in your chest, a cold sweat trailing down your back. “Professor, I- whatever you read in there—“ You began, but froze when he opened the notebook, thumbing through the pages.

Crane cleared his throat, looking intently at the words. His expression changed several times as his eyes flitted over your writing, and you felt your body burn with shame.

“January 26th. Professor's gloves were found in the nook of his podium. I was looking for the green apple he’d forgo from finishing, his teeth tracks fresh on the alabaster flesh, but found his winter wear instead. Gloves were brought home - I imagined he’d come over to mine, undressed his biting winter clothing, and forgot his sweet mittens here.” Your professor read your diary out loud. Crane looked like he enjoyed your shame being laid out bare, but you were too absorbed in a whirlwind of emotion to notice.

“P—Professor, please, I - I can explain, I didn’t mean anything—“

“April 17th. Professor came down with a flu, like I expected. I saw him walking in last week’s evening downpour and waited for what day this week he’d call in. Later, he bought cough syrup and aspirin at the convenience store. I watched him struggle to care for himself, covered head to toe in blankets, missing meals, barely able to keep upright. I wish professor knew how well I could care for him, how I fulfill his every request and need. I saw how touchy he was, how he fidgeted, that feverish want — I could satiate him like no-one else.”

His lips enunciated every word, and the longer he went on reading, the dizzier you felt; your professor, your darling, had found out - he had found out - he had found fucking out -

“Be honest with me, Miss [Name]. Do you stalk me?” Your professor said, slipping off his wire-framed glasses. The man leaned in closer now, elbows resting on the wooden desk.

Your eyes darted away from him, looking anywhere but forwards. You felt like you had been stripped away, so bare your professor could count how many ribs you had, how many minor hairline fractures your tattered bones had collected over the years. You tried to analyze the man’s reaction through your peripheral, but it was to no avail - he was as cold as he had been during class, during your entire time knowing the professor.

You breathed, in and out, analyzing the situation tenfold, precisely, trying to find a way out of this place alive, dignity intact. Then, you found it.

This man had ensnared you, entranced you with his delicious charm and carefully spoken words. You repeat inwardly to yourself: Crane knew all the right words, all the right places to touch. If he dared press charges, you would tell the world he hurt you first.

“Yes, Professor Crane.” You nodded, unabashed after deciding how to deal with everything. He can’t touch me with this. I’ll just go first: please, he took advantage of me! I needed to pass his class… and he offered a solution to me. He’s lying! Lying to you all. He just wants to destroy me… and hide his sin.

“The human body knows when someone’s watching them, but you haven’t noticed, not once in the 8 months I’ve watched you. You didn’t notice, even when I followed you home, even to Arkham. Every obscure outing you’ve had, I’ve been there.”

“I’m quite alarmed by this information, Miss [Name]. Moreso by the absence of your remorse.” Crane said, but mere seconds later a low laugh was drawn out of him, looking more amused than alarmed if anything.

Crane’s tone was husky, nearing a purr, and he clasped his large, calloused hands together contemplatively. “What were you going to do to me, Miss [Name]? Or were you just going to watch, standby my life?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, unable to respond to his provocations. You didn’t want to alarm him further, tell him you’d been planning to finally have him, once and for all, as soon as you got a hold of his house keys and got the chance to replicate your own pair. You didn’t tell him that you were barely restraining yourself from knocking him out during your tutoring sessions, wanting your darling all for yourself for more than an hour a week.

“Are you not afraid, Miss [Name]? What I can do to your life with this information? How I can ruin you, paint you mad enough to be admitted to Arkham?” he continued, closer than ever before and whispering in your ear. His plush lips brushed past the shell of your ear, making your heart skip a beat.

You winced, both from the feeling of him near you and his sweet voice spewing poison in your ear, but quickly composed yourself, for you knew things he didn’t know you knew.

Then - you weren’t quite sure what possessed you, but - your hand came up to his hair, tugging so he could hear you, “Professor - or, should I say… Scarecrow, what would you do, if I told the police what Gotham University’s psychology professor did in his spare time?”

“What would you do, if I plastered pictures of the renowned Doctor Jonathan Crane wearing the familiar burlap sack mask all over Gotham - especially in places the Batman frequented?”

“I can destroy you, sir.” Your voice was quiet, but dangerous, a terribly alluring thing, like a melody Crane heard a long time ago and remembered every time he smelt the must of an old piano. “Don’t push me.”

This time, Crane stilled, turning to face you fully. His gaze had darkened, looking at you through his long lashes. “My dear, you should’ve just told me how bad you wanted to find out how this fear-toxin of mine can break you.” He whispered, so quiet you had to strain yourself to hear.

With your professor's warm breath fanning on the nape of your neck, you couldn’t help how you squirmed, clenched your thighs together - especially when you had been dreaming of something like this for the past eight months. You couldn’t count how many times you found yourself with your hands down your pants at the thought of your darling professor having his way with you… controlling you completely.

You didn’t answer the man for a moment, gulping down the dryness in your throat. “Would you, sir? Would you let fear dominate me like those tortured souls in the Narrows?”

Crane’s eyes trailed across your face, then he pulled back, leaning in his chair, a grin all teeth and no tongue spreading across his lips. There was something there, you realized, something he noticed in the intone of your voice - had he noticed the neediness, the warble as your thoughts went elsewhere? The arch in your back, your body desperate to be as close to him as possible?

“Can I tell you what I think?” said Crane, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “I think you want me to. I think you want me to see you tremble… shake in fear… you want me to hear you beg. I think you want to be utterly consumed by me.”

The deep timbre of his voice, the suggestion in his words, how he stared you down with each syllable, sent electric shivers down your spine. You took in a sharp breath, leaning your head back to look at the ceiling, compose yourself, when—

Crane’s rough hand gripped at your throat, thumb caressing the little notch at the center, and your heart fluttered, jumping at his touch.

“Fear is an addicting, beautiful thing, is it not? You’re afraid of me, but you can’t help how fucking needy you are.” Your professor spoke, pressing down further on your neck. He had noticed.

His touch made your skin feel like it was on fire, the rough pads of his fingertips digging bruises into your delicate skin. It was the most delicious thing you had ever felt, and you leaned into it, despite the connotations of death by asphyxiation looming over your shoulder.

Your professor manhandled you, dragging your weak body over to his side of the desk, hand still curved neatly around your throat. You were growing dizzy, a fearful, pleasure-filled fog slowly clouding your mind, and you couldn’t speak. All you could do was let out little squeaks of surprise & pleasure, a moan rumbling out of you as he pressed down further.

Crane was saying something, but you couldn’t tell under the pressure. His facial expression was all you needed, however; his eyes were bloodshot, lustful, so laser-focused that, if looks could kill, you’d have been long gone, while a feral grin replaced his emotionless facade. Crane’s usually well-kept appearance had dissolved, and his hair was askew, tie loose, buttons haphazardly undone.

Suddenly, the man pressed himself flush against you, pressing his face into your hair, your neck - losing himself in you. His tongue flicked out, dragging a long stripe down the side of your neck, and you jumped, a startled whine tearing out of your choked-up throat.

His grip on you tightened. “What? I’m just having a taste. Is that so wrong?” At your wide eyes, and silent response, he let out a fitful laugh. “You’re coated in shame, darling. You’re sour.”

You squirmed - not because you didn’t enjoy it - you just couldn’t breathe, but Crane didn’t care. His fingernails were sharp, maybe even drawing some of your blood.

“Plea— sir, I can’t breathe,” you stuttered out raspily. His face remained unchanged while listening to your pathetic pleas, before he leaned in close.

“Beg for it. Beg like you’re terrified for your life. You might as well be,” he said, and he began pressing his thumb into the center of your throat, choking you fully now.

You nodded - as much as the allowance between his hand and your head allowed, anyway. “Professor, please,” you said breathily, “please let me go. I’ll do any- anything, just puh— please stop.”

“Ah, there it is,” Your professor cooed, eyes shutting at the sweet intone of your pleaing, distressed voice. He was losing himself in your words. “Keep going… and don’t forget the crying. It's my favorite part.”

“Let - me go! Please,” you whimpered helplessly, mustering thick, heavy tears to form at the corners of your eyes as you saw black spots dotting your vision.

A lump formed in your throat, choking your words. “Please… stop! Let me - breathe,” You said, leaning delightedly into his touch. His other hand was now digging painfully into your hip, as if the professor were focussing intensely on holding back.

“Look at you go,” Crane clicked his tongue, eyes opening and gazing deep into you. He pulled you in closer to him, letting go of your abused throat.

You finally breathed, taking in such large bouts of air you might’ve choked and keeled over right there. But then, Crane’s hands at your side crawed carefully to your rear, while the other hand came up to the crown of your head to pet you.

He whispered into the top of your head, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” You said raspily, your face pressed flat against his bandy chest.

His hand found the swell of your ass, fingers grabbing hold and squeezing so tight you were sure there’d be a bruise later, “About doing anything. For me.”

You nodded, still not looking at him. This answer didn’t please him, however, and the hand that had been petting you tangled through your hair and roughly pulled you away, to look up at him. “In words.”

“Y— yes. I’ll do anything for you.” You rattled off, prickling pain twisting in your scalp.

“You’ll be a good girl for me?”

“The best.”

A grin twisted his pink, plush lips, and he promptly pushed you face down flat against his cold, wooden desk. It was rough, and sudden, pain blooming in your side. But there was a tug in your lower stomach at the way he handled you, all selfish and touchy and focused solely on chasing after his own pleasure.

Crane’s hands roamed all over your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch was insatiable, rubbing and petting and kneading at every part of your body.

His hands found your thighs, squeezing at the flesh, before hiking up your skirt and inspecting your panties. “Oh, you’re fucking soaked,” Crane rumbled out, voice like gravel. “You liked it, didn’t you? When I said I’d admit you to Arkham.”

Then, you heard him kneel down, and begin to press sloppy, wet kisses on your legs. “Be honest,” he said between kisses, “you want me to admit you, have you all to myself in isolation.”

You didn’t respond, instead whimpering and bucking forward when you could feel Crane’s sharp teeth brush over your sensitive skin. He noticed the effect he had on you, and you felt him smile against you.

“Please,” you keened out, not dissimilar to how you begged him just moments ago, “stop teasing, Professor.”

You felt Crane’s hot breath fan over your clothed mound, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “Stop teasing, how?” he said at last, before suddenly pushing your panties to the side and licking a stripe up your cunt. He lapped at your lips, collecting your wetness on his tongue, but he didn’t go further.

“Pro - Professor,” you whined, grounding out a low moan. It wasn’t enough, and he knew it. He liked playing with you, making you squirm and shake and beg for more.

“What? This not enough for you?” He pulled away, and you hissed at the cold that hit you. Then, he tugged, hard, pulling both your underwear and your skirt down to your knees.

“You want me to eat you out till you’re a trembling fucking mess, don’t you?” He buried himself between your legs, “I knew you were a horny little slut.”

Finally, his tongue found you once more, and pushed deep into your folds. Crane’s tongue ran across every rivet your pussy had, before darting out to your clit, suckling at the velvet bundle of nerves. His touch drew out a high-pitched keen, your back arching.

You couldn’t see him, face still pressed against the wooden desk, but you could hear him, the filthy squelching of your pussy and his tongue making your knees buckle.

“Fuck, Jonathan,” you choked out, when he went deeper into your quivering hole, your body tingling like nothing you’d ever felt before. At your reaction, his name curling around your pretty little lips, he went faster, wet mouth brushing against you, licking you up and down, animalistic, following his instinct to a tee.

“Please, wait -“ You said, feeling the knot in your insides grow tighter, the heat washing over you like a steaming shower, toes curling in your flats.

“What?” He growled out beneath you, not letting up his assault on your cunt.

“I don’t - don’t wanna come on your tongue…” You said, shaking your head weakly against the desk. “Wanna - wanna feel you in me.”

Jonathan snorted, and continued to lap up your insides, “D’you think you have a fucking choice? Huh? I know you’re a whore, you could do this all day. I’ll just make you come again on my cock.”

Before you could protest, or even just whine at his words, you shut your eyes, feeling yourself come undone, your legs barely able to keep you upright. His hands had reached away from your thighs, rough fingers toying with your fleshy button, maximizing the climax washing over you tenfold.

“Jonathan, Jonathan!” You practically screamed out, heat in your stomach pulsing rapidly.

“Ugh, fuck,” You heard him say, “you’re creaming all over my fucking face.”

You were a complete mess by the time he pulled away from you, your high washing away as Crane wiped the come and wetness off his face.

“You came that hard, just on my tongue?” He mocked, fingers spreading your lips and observing your swollen pussy as you laid flat, weakly gripping the edge of the desk so you’d stay standing.

“Well,” he said, reaching down to his pants and undoing his belt buckle and fly, “M’not done with this sweet little cunt just yet.”

Your eyes widened, “I’m - I’m still sensitive, wait-“

Jonathan didn’t listen, however, letting his pants and boxers pool at his feet, stroking himself in the artificial light of his office, which smelt like sweat and sex.

He spat on his hand, first coating his cock in it, then your parted lips (which you theorized was just because he wanted to feel you up again), before lining up his thick head at your entrance. “God,” he groaned, “you’re so fucking wet.”

You keened at the intrusion you felt between your legs, “Jonathan, please, jus’ - give me a sec to rest —“ You were interrupted however, by the shock of how big he felt.

You hadn’t gotten a look at him, but as he let himself slowly enter you, you could tell it was bigger than anything you’d ever taken before. “You’re - you’re too big!” you squeaked out, “You won’t fit.”

He laughed, hands resting on your hips as he held you upright. “I’ll make it fit,” he said, before roughly pounding the rest of himself into you, stretching out your inexperienced cunt.

You choked, his fat cock pushing you wider than you’d ever been before, the pain biting at you, a burning feeling spreading within your lower body. “Jon- Jonathan,” was all you could say, as he slowly pulled out, pure relief written on your face, until he sank right back into you, somehow deeper than before.

Tears welled in your eyes, as he gripped harshly on the flesh of your hips, making you pound back and forth on him. His cock was hard, and thick, and he was forcing the thing deep within you at an excruciatingly quick pace. Your sensitivity was the cherry on top to this whole situation - you were trembling, body weak, shallow breaths and teary moans tearing out of you at the overstimulation.

Soon, however, the pain slowly dissolved into a filthy, exquisite pleasure that echoed throughout your entire body. The rhythm your professor had gotten to was downright perfect, filling you completely and making you clench in all the right places. Crane made your brain go foggy, focussing solely on the sound of your skin slapping against each other in the quiet, after-hours office, his taller frame encapsulating you completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he cooed, hands moving to splay across your ass and spread you open further. “How many cocks have taken this sweet pussy, huh?”

You gulped. “Just,” you started, but then your eyes rolled to the back of your head, stopping you mid-sentence as his length brushed up to your most sensitive spot.

“How,” he gripped you tighter, “many,” slipped out, “cocks!” then thrust into you roughly, rougher than before and making the desk screech forward a few inches.

“Just one!” You said at last, words choked up as his long cock pierced you.

“Just one, huh?” He said and began pounding in and out of you faster, rougher, needier, “I bet you didn’t even fucking come, you’re so tight. This pretty pussy of yours is practically virgin.”

“Uh-huh,” you said incoherently, thoughts blending together. “Jus’ a - a fucking virgin for you,” you babbled out, losing yourself in the fast-paced pleasure he was serving on a silver platter.

“That you are,” Jonathan growled, “you’re just my horny virgin. Mine.” Every thrust he plunged into you brushed up against that plush spot deep within you, making you drool, body going slack.

“Oh, jesus, you’re so fucked out,” he murmured, looking down at your limp, trembling form. “Drunk on my thick fucking cock.”

The ecstasy was becoming too much for you now, controlling you completely, like if he stopped fucking you right now you’d be so fucking needy, going slowly insane until he touched you again. You knew you wouldn’t be able to fuck anyone else and feel the same; he made you feel fucking feral, instinctual, your id going into drive and controlling you instead of logic. Your darling was the only one you wanted to offer yourself up completely to. He could do anything he fucking wanted to you, and you’d take it in stride.

“Jonathan,” you keened, feeling your walls clench around him tighter, “m’close.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, voice deep and dangerous, “keep that orgasm in, whore, till I tell you to.”

Your cheeks burned, distraught at the denial of your release, especially when his cock slipped out of you as he flipped you over. Quickly, however, he rammed his cock back into you. You were facing each other now, and you could see how hot and bothered he looked, despite how confident and careless his words had been as he fucked you.

His lips were bitten between his teeth, hair sticking to the sweat on his face, cheeks flushed. He was focussed entirely on getting back that rhythm, and you let him, watching how his gorgeous features contorted as your hot cunt sucked him in.

Your arms reached around his neck, and he promptly lifted your legs up to hook around his back, making him fill you even further.

“Fuck me!” You squealed, his shaft reaching places you didn’t know could be reached. It was getting harder to stop your impending orgasm, and your felt fucking sick at how sweetly he was stretching you, how you knew you couldn’t let go no matter what despite the delicious pleasure.

“Already am, baby,” he grumbled, rutting in and out of you at a dizzying pace. You felt his pace stutter, slightly, and you heard his small, revealing whines of pleasure as his head was nestled in the nook of your neck, and you knew he was close.

The thought of him coming in you made you tighten and tense, and he felt it, your back lifting off the desk in an arch.

“Fuck, how’d you get even tighter?” he said shakily, before sliding out of you so far he almost pulled out completely, then let his cock thrust into you so hard you saw stars dancing across your vision.

You merely mewled back at him in response.

“Come,” he said breathily, “come all over my thick— ugh, fuuuck, just like that, yes,” his sentence was cut off as you let go, letting the waves of pleasure surge through your body like electricity.

Your body shook, your knees trembled, and an animalistic whine slipped out of your bruise throat as he thrust into you jerkily. Just as quickly as you camez, he did too, and you felt Jonathan’s load shoot straight up into your worn-out cunt, not impeded by a condom of any sorts. Crane’s head cocked back as he did so, jaw clenching as he released his sweet and sticky liquid deep within you, warm and coating your walls completely.

For a moment, he laid atop of you, and you both kept silent, the office filled with nothing but your breathing and the sweet smell of come. Then, he pulled away, both of you wincing as his cock left you, his come dripping out of your weeping hole onto his office floors.

He pulled his underwear and pants back on, but revelled in your own crumpled form on his desk, your shirt hiked up, your skirt and panties hanging off your ankles, barely there. It was a shame he couldn’t have explored further up your body, groped those tits he loved seeing bounce during tutoring, but his need to fill your pussy up took precedent.

Jonathan swiped a finger into your cunt, collecting some of your combined liquid, and you flinched at the feeling. Then, he licked at his dirty finger. “Oh, baby,” he heaved, “we taste delectable mixed together.”

You raised a brow, then weakly lifted yourself off the desk, pulling up your panties and skirt (not without adoring the feeling of Jonathan’s fresh, wet come smearing all over your panties and sensitive cunt) before reaching for his hand. He leaned in towards you, and you lapped up the juice on his finger, grinning up at him.

Jonathan looked completely lost in your performance, brows knitted. “Jesus fucking christ,” he whispered under his breath, “where has a perfect little fucktoy like you been hiding from me?”

“Oh,” you said, nonchalant, “just stalking you.”

#jonathan crane x reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #batman begins #scarecrow x reader #jonathan crane #scarecrow #jonathan crane smut #cillian murphy smut

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wbbfannnnnn13 · 1 month ago

Text

Motion Sick // Chapter 4

Theme: homoerotic friendship angst

A/N: More angst, but the plot is moving forward slowly. Not much else to say other than I was giggling and kicking my feet at my ability for building tension and creating more angst. I think something might be wrong with me lol.

WC: 6K

Warnings: none

**** Chapter 4 ****

The past two weeks have been hell. Not fire-and-brimstone hell. Not even midterms-and-no-coffee hell.

Worse.

The slow, quiet, watching-your-person-slip-away kind of hell.

It started with the texting.

Azzi hadn’t meant to look. She really hadn’t. But when your locker is literally three inches away from someone else's and a phone buzzes loud enough to echo through the entire room, instinct kicks in. Her eyes flicked down before she could stop them. Just a glance.

But there it was.

A text from Kathryn⚽️

Azzi blinked. Once. Twice. Then she set her jaw, hard enough to feel it in her temples, and chucked her basketball shoes into her locker like they’d personally offended her.

Cool. Whatever.

Then came the dorm incident.

She was just going to help Ice with homework. Nothing dramatic. Nothing sneaky. Just some econ flashcards and maybe a few dumb inside jokes to break up the stress. She wasn’t trying to see Paige.

She wasn’t.

But on the way to Ice’s room, she passed Paige’s. The door was wide open—classic Paige, always forgetting to close it—and Azzi’s gaze flicked inside before her brain could even register what it was doing.

And there they were. Paige and Kathryn. Sitting on Paige’s bed, knees touching like it was the most natural thing in the world, eyes locked on the TV screen, controllers in hand, the blue glow of Fortnite lighting up their faces. Paige was leaning slightly into her, shoulder angled just enough to suggest comfort, familiarity. Kathryn’s laugh—loud and unfiltered—cut through the background noise as she tilted her head back, and Paige smiled at her like this was normal. Like this was hers now.

Azzi ducked into Ice’s room before her stomach could catch up with her.

But the worst?

The worst was the library.

Because it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t messy or loud. It was just… normal. And somehow, that made it worse.

She’d gone in for a quiet study hour. Headphones in. Hoodie up. Full-on incognito mode. But then she saw them.

Across the room, tucked at one of those long, creaky library tables—Kathryn, laughing softly at something Paige said. Paige, with her hair in a messy bun and those glasses she rarely wears (but always looks stupid cute in), scribbling in a notebook like she wasn’t currently tearing Azzi’s heart in two. Like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t even know.

But then—movement. A shift from their table. She glanced back.

And that’s when she saw it.

Paige’s hand, light and casual, resting on the small of Kathryn’s back. Just a brush of fingertips against sweatshirt cotton—barely there, but unmistakably familiar. The kind of touch that said: I’ve done this before. The kind that said: I want you to go first. I’ve got you.

Kathryn stepped ahead without hesitation. And Paige followed, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like they’d already figured each other out. Like whatever they were becoming didn’t need translation.

It was polite. That was the worst part.

Simple. Innocent, maybe.

But to Azzi?

It felt like a final cut. Not a slice. A slow, twisting knife.

She closed her laptop. Packed her things too fast. Told herself she was just tired. That it wasn’t a big deal. That Paige had every right.

And she did.

But that didn’t stop the crash.

Not the kind of heartbreak that came with tears or dramatics. Not yet, anyway. Azzi didn’t cry. She just… went quiet. So quiet it scared her a little. Like even her heartbeat knew not to make a scene.

She walked back to her dorm in a daze. Kicked off her shoes without untying them. Pulled her blanket over her head and disappeared into the stillness.

Because watching Paige fall for someone else wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not when she was the one who let her go. Not when she was the one who never said the words.

But still—it did. God, it did.

****

Azzi didn’t remember falling asleep Friday night—just that when she woke up Saturday, her hoodie was still on, her pillow was damp, and her throat ached like she’d swallowed something sharp in her sleep.

She didn’t get up.

The lights stayed off. The shades stayed drawn. The world felt distant, like it was happening without her. She stayed curled under the covers, letting time pass without keeping track of it. The only time she moved was to turn and face the wall, where the shadows were deeper and the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Her heart felt stuck—somewhere between her ribs and all the things she still hadn’t said.

She was grateful it was the weekend—grateful no one expected her to be anywhere or do anything. It gave her space to disappear without too many questions.

She didn’t eat much. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t even text Derrick back until Sunday night—and even then, it was just a simple: thanks for the soup. appreciate you.

Because the truth?

She’d pretended to be sick. And maybe on the surface, she was—exhausted, drained, aching in ways she couldn’t explain. But the kind of sick she felt wasn’t something NyQuil could fix.

She couldn’t handle Derrick’s kindness. Couldn’t stomach the way he knocked softly on her door, like she might shatter. Or the way he left a little care package outside—NyQuil, orange Gatorade, and two kinds of Campbell’s, all lined up beside a sticky note that said rest up, superstar.

It made her feel worse. Guilty, in a way that clung to her ribs and wouldn’t let go.

And Caroline—God, Caroline definitely knew.

She knocked once Saturday night. Didn’t come in. Just slid a granola bar under the door and said, “Eventually you’re going to have to talk to me. Or eat something. Either one.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she couldn’t.

Her voice was gone—used up by sobs she hadn’t even bothered to hide anymore.

She cried until there was nothing left. Then she cried some more.

And for the first time, it wasn’t quiet. It was messy. Loud. The kind of heartbreak that cracked you open from the inside out, that made you press your face into a pillow and scream until the ache turned into static.

It wasn’t cinematic or graceful. It didn’t leave bruises. Just a hollow kind of heaviness. A grief that hung in the air long after the tears stopped.

By Sunday night, Caroline had had enough.

She barged in without knocking, flipped on the overhead light like she was conducting an exorcism, and planted herself at the foot of Azzi’s bed.

“Okay,” she said flatly. “Get up.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Caroline yanked the blanket down anyway. “You don’t get to rot forever.”

Azzi blinked at her, eyes glassy, voice a rasp. “I’m not rotting.”

“You’re literally fermenting in your own sadness.”

Azzi turned away.

Caroline sighed—less annoyed now, more tired. “Look, I know you’re hurting. And I know it sucks to see her happy with someone else. But you don’t get to crawl into a hole and give up. That’s not you.”

Azzi swallowed hard. “It feels like me.”

“Well,” Caroline said gently, like she was trying not to scare her off, “then maybe it’s time to be someone else.”

The words didn’t hit all at once. They sank—heavy and slow—like a stone settling in her chest.

Because Caroline was right.

Azzi had spent so much time dancing around the truth—whispering it in her head but never daring to say it out loud. Like if she didn’t speak it, maybe it wouldn’t take up so much space in her chest. Maybe she could keep pretending.

Wanting Paige had always been the constant. Quiet, steady, stubborn. But wanting wasn’t the same as choosing. And she’d never chosen her. Not fully. Not when it counted.

She let the moment slip. Then another. Then a year. Then more.

She told herself it was timing. Or fear. Or loyalty. But deep down, she knew—she’d been scared of what it would mean to want something so badly it might undo her.

So she stayed still. While everyone else moved forward. She held Derrick’s hand and tried to memorize a future she didn’t believe in. She smiled for pictures she didn’t want to be in. She sat in rooms with people who loved her and still felt like a ghost of herself.

She let Paige go.

Not because she stopped loving her, but because loving her felt like breaking some unspoken rule she’d written in her own head.

Not a rule anyone had said out loud. It was quieter than that. Sneakier. It was in the way people talked, or didn’t. In the way certain things got brushed off or changed subject. Like there was only one right way to love, and Azzi had already missed the memo.

She didn’t grow up hearing that love like hers was bad. But she didn’t grow up hearing it was okay, either.

And sometimes, silence could sound a lot like shame.

So when it started—when Paige started feeling like more than a teammate, more than a friend—Azzi did what she thought she was supposed to do. She pushed it down. Folded it up. Told herself she was just confused. Told herself it wasn’t real.

And even when it was clear that it was real—achingly, undeniably real—she still didn’t choose it.

She convinced herself Paige deserved someone who didn’t have to untangle every feeling. Someone braver. Someone who didn’t flinch at their own reflection.

So she stood still. Let Paige go.

And somewhere along the way, she started to disappear. Faded herself out until all that was left was a version of her that blended in. The safe kind. The quiet kind. The kind who didn’t take up space.

The kind who convinced herself that watching Paige be happy with someone else was the price she had to pay for staying silent.

And what had that ever gotten her?

This. A dorm room that felt smaller every day. A boyfriend who was kind and steady and completely wrong for her. And a heart that cracked a little more every time she saw Paige smile at someone who wasn’t her.

She was so tired. Of pretending. Of flinching at her own reflection.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Just stared at the granola bar still sitting on her nightstand, unopened. Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks blotchy and warm. Her hoodie clung to her like a second skin, too much and not enough.

And then—finally—she sat up.

The blanket slid from her shoulders. Her joints ached like she'd aged a decade in a weekend. But her voice, when it came, didn’t waver.

“I think I have to tell her,” Azzi said, quiet but clear.

Caroline froze in the doorway, like she hadn’t expected that sentence to actually come out. “Tell her… what exactly?”

Azzi met her eyes. There wasn’t drama in it. Just a calm sort of exhaustion. A truth that had been building for years.

“All of it,” she said. “That I never stopped. That it was always her. Even when I pretended it wasn’t.”

Caroline let out a slow breath, like she’d been holding it in for way too long. Her eyes softened.

“Finally,” she whispered, crossing the room to sit beside her. “God, Azzi. What took you so long?”

Azzi leaned her head on Caroline’s shoulder. Let herself exhale.

“I guess I just needed to feel the kind of pain that would make me brave.”

****

That night, Azzi lay awake in bed, eyes on the ceiling, heart thudding slow and loud in the dark. A single thought ran laps through her head:

What if she doesn’t want to hear it?

The question made her stomach turn. Because maybe Paige had moved on. Maybe she didn’t need closure or confessions or anything from Azzi anymore.

But under the fear—under the ache that had lived in her chest for what felt like forever—something else flickered. Hope.

Because Paige’s birthday was next weekend. Her twenty-first. And if there was ever a time to take a swing at the impossible, maybe this was it.

Azzi already had something for her.

A gift she’d bought months ago—long after everything had shifted. After the silence between them had become more familiar than conversation. After they stopped texting about classes or movies or the dumb things their teammates said in the group chat.

This wasn’t some last-minute impulse buy. It wasn’t from when they were still Paige-and-Azzi, still trading playlists and brushing knees under cafeteria tables, still staying too long in film study just to sit beside each other.

No—this came after.

After the awkwardness. After the slow fade. After the ache had settled in her bones like weather she couldn’t shake.

She hadn’t planned on giving it to her. At first, she told herself it didn’t mean anything. Just a small gesture. A stand-in for everything she couldn’t bring herself to say.

She figured she’d toss it eventually. Or bury it in the back of a drawer, forgotten like an old uniform or a season that didn’t end the way it should’ve.

But she didn’t.

She kept it. Because somewhere underneath all the tension and time and heartbreak, one thing hadn’t changed:

She still cared. Still loved her. Even if Paige had no idea.

And now, with her birthday coming up—her 21st, no less—it felt like a chance. Maybe not to fix everything. Maybe not to go back. But to be honest.

Finally.

Paige Kathryn’s easy. That’s the thing.

She’s warm without trying, always ready with a quick joke or a crooked smile. She walks like she’s got nowhere to be but still manages to show up exactly when Paige needs a break from her own thoughts. And she listens—actually listens—like every dumb story Paige tells is worth hearing.

It’s been good. Really good.

Paige hadn’t meant for it to become a thing. Not really.

But now it’s late-night library runs that turn into hour-long breaks. It’s Kathryn sliding a pack of peanut butter crackers across the table mid-study session and saying, “Eat. You get mean when you’re hungry.” It’s walks across campus in the dark, sneakers scuffing the sidewalk, when neither of them really wants to say goodnight yet.

It’s also the dumb stuff. The good dumb stuff.

Late-night Snap streaks. Post-practice hangouts that feel casual but start to mean something. Pulling Paige into casual selfies and captioning them “tall girl energy 🫡.”

She makes Paige laugh. The real kind. The kind that escapes before she can think to hold it back.

And Paige? She’s laughing more. Sleeping better. Feeling… lighter, somehow.

She finds herself noticing the way Kathryn scrunches her nose when she’s thinking. The way she instinctively reaches for Paige’s cup without asking, takes a sip, and makes a face like “too sweet” before handing it back.

There’s been no big moment. No huge shift.

Just a slow unfurling. Safe. Steady.

And Paige hadn’t realized how much that meant until last night.

They were hanging out in her dorm room common area—feet propped on opposite chairs, a half-eaten brownie from the café between them, not saying much. The kind of quiet that felt easy. Familiar.

Kathryn had just beaten her in Connect Four (again) and was leaning across the table with that smug grin she always wore when she won. “You’re really bad at this,” she teased, bumping the empty board with her knuckle.

Paige rolled her eyes and reached out to shove her shoulder, but Kathryn caught her wrist mid-air, laughing.

And then she didn’t let go.

Not right away.

She held on just long enough to shift the moment—just enough to blur the line between playful and something more.

It was quick. But Paige felt it.

A flicker of heat. A heartbeat that didn’t know which direction to go.

And then later— Kathryn hugged her.

Not in a big way. Just one of those quick, easy squeezes people give when they mean it. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything, just gives.

Paige hugged her back. Her chin rested on Kathryn’s shoulder for half a second too long.

And that’s when it hit her.

A flutter. Low and sudden in her stomach. Tiny. Stupid. But real.

And right behind it— A sharp pang of guilt that made her breath catch.

Because she hadn’t felt anything in a long time. Not since Azzi. Not really.

And it’s not like she and Azzi are together. Not anymore. Not that they ever really were. But still— That flicker of feeling felt like something close to betrayal.

She tried to shake it off. Blamed it on nerves. On the way Kathryn’s hoodie smelled like vanilla and clean laundry. On how it had been so long since someone made her feel wanted and unafraid at the same time.

But the guilt didn’t budge. It settled in low, like a dull ache she couldn’t stretch out of.

She thinks about asking Aubrey. Or Amari. Hell, maybe even Caroline. They’re the only ones who know the full story—who were there when everything cracked open and fell apart.

But she already knows what they’ll say. You deserve to be happy. You’re not doing anything wrong. Azzi made her choice.

And maybe they’re right. But that doesn’t help.

Because Paige is still carrying the pieces. Still hearing Azzi’s laugh in quiet moments. Still wondering if she’s allowed to let someone else in.

****

The bass hits before the door even shuts behind her.

Ted’s is packed, as expected. It’s the first warm-ish Friday in weeks and practically every athlete at UConn has crawled out of their dorms to celebrate. The place smells like spilled seltzer and cheap cologne. Someone’s already chanting something off-beat near the bar. And the floor is just sticky enough to remind Paige it’s not exactly five-star, but that’s not the point. Ted’s is familiar. Loud. Private, in that no-one-posts-anything-from-here kind of way.

She’s officially twenty-one. And for once, she’s letting herself have a good time.

Her friends made a whole production out of it—streamers in their dorm, a cake littered with random mini liquor bottles, and a sash that says “Coach P” in sparkly gold letters she swore she wouldn’t wear, but now kind of doesn’t want to take off.

Aubrey is three shots deep, yelling something about doing karaoke later. Amari’s already dancing with some guy in a UConn Track & Field hoodie. The whole team showed up.

She finds herself scanning the crowd.

Not for Kathryn. Kathryn’s out of town. Soccer game. She’d texted earlier with a selfie and a “wish I could be there tonight 🖤” that made Paige’s stomach flip and her thumb hover way too long before replying something safe.

She likes Kathryn. A lot. More than she’s letting herself think about. There’s a calm to her. A steadiness. She listens without interrupting. Texts good morning without needing a response right away. Paige has caught herself smiling mid-practice more than once lately just thinking about her. And no, they’re not official. They haven’t kissed. Not yet. But it feels like they’re headed there. Fast.

And that should be enough.

But then she sees her.

Or at least, she thinks she does.

It’s hard to say, really—with the haze of cheap fog machines and colored lights cutting across the floor, the crowd moving like a heartbeat. Azzi, clear as day, standing near the middle of it all. Cropped, tight black tank. High-waisted jeans that hug her hips in a way that makes Paige want to look away and stare all at once. Her hair’s down tonight, curls wild around her shoulders, catching the light like she planned it that way.

Azzi’s laughing at something Ice says, head tipped back, and Paige feels it—right in her chest. A slow, burning ache she’s been trying to smother for weeks.

She shouldn’t care. Not when things with Kathryn are going so well.

And yet.

One look at Azzi, and Paige is winded.

She tries to steer clear. Swears she will. But then the crowd shifts and suddenly they’re closer, pulled into the same gravitational field by the music and the sweat and the history that’s never quite left them.

Azzi turns—and yeah, she sees her now.

There’s a flicker. In her eyes. In her jaw. Something unspoken that passes between them in the time it takes the bass to drop.

And then—Azzi smiles.

Soft. Familiar. The kind of smile that makes Paige feel seventeen again. The kind that used to be just for her.

“Happy birthday, P,” Azzi says, pulling her into a hug before Paige can decide whether to run or melt. Her arms slide around Paige’s waist with ease, like they remember the way.

Paige hugs her back, breathing her in—coconut conditioner and something sweeter underneath, something almost like home.

It’s brief. But it leaves her heart scrambled.

Azzi pulls back, just enough to meet her eyes, and then—without a word—holds out a hand.

Paige hesitates. For a second. Two.

Then she takes it.

The music swells. Some throwback R&B track with just enough bass to make everything feel hazy and suspended—like the room isn’t spinning, exactly, but tilting, ever so slightly. Just enough to make it hard to tell where the beat ends and where the impulse begins.

They don’t say anything. Not yet. They just start to move.

Not choreographed. Not performative. Just… instinct. Muscle memory.

Like their bodies remember something their mouths are still too afraid to say.

Azzi slides closer. Just a step. Just enough.

And Paige—she doesn’t stop her.

It’s easy. Too easy. They find the rhythm like they’ve done this a thousand times before—and maybe they have. In dorm rooms. At team banquets. Alone, in kitchens with songs playing off someone’s half-dead speaker.

Paige’s hands hover at Azzi’s waist, unsure at first. Cautious. Like touching might make it real. Azzi’s fingers trail from Paige’s elbow downward, just barely grazing, like she’s asking permission without words.

Then lower. Then still.

And suddenly— It’s not innocent anymore.

It’s subtle, at first. The way their hips shift in sync. The way Azzi’s back presses into Paige’s chest, slow and deliberate. The way Paige breathes in at the contact, like she wasn’t expecting it to feel quite like this.

But the intent— It’s loud.

The air thickens between them, charged with something neither of them dares name out loud. The bass in the song is pounding, but it’s nothing compared to the sound of Paige’s own heartbeat in her ears.

Azzi moves just enough for her shoulder to brush Paige’s jaw. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to ruin everything.

And Paige doesn’t move.

She doesn’t breathe.

Because for one impossible second, she wants nothing more than to stay right here—frozen in this in-between space, where they’re not saying anything but everything is being said.

She’s not sure how long they stay like that. Minutes, maybe. A whole song. Maybe two.

But it’s long enough for something to click inside her. A warning bell. A gut-check.

Because Kathryn.

Because this—whatever this is—feels dangerous. Feels like crossing a line she swore she wouldn’t cross. Not again. Not when there’s someone waiting in the wings who makes her laugh until her ribs hurt. Not when she’s finally starting to believe she could be someone new—someone good.

Paige steps back.

One small step. But enough.

Azzi turns slightly, eyes searching hers. There’s a question in them. Something tentative. Hopeful.

Paige shakes her head. Just once. Small. Almost imperceptible. But it’s enough.

Then she turns. One step, then another—pulling herself away from the static, from the heat building between them, from the girl she still dreams about far more often than she admits.

She disappears into the crowd. Back into the noise. Into the blur of music and movement and anything that doesn’t feel like this.

She doesn’t look back.

Azzi

Azzi hadn’t planned to say anything tonight. Well—she had, earlier. But after talking with Caroline, she’d told herself to wait. To let Paige have her birthday first. To not make it about them.

She almost stuck to that plan.

But then Paige had looked at her like that on the dance floor.

Had let her hand rest at her waist. Had leaned in, smiling, melting, moving like the song was written just for them. Like they were the only two people in the room. Like maybe—just maybe—they weren’t standing in the middle of something broken. Like the pieces between them weren’t so fragile after all.

And then— Paige shook her head.

Barely. Just once. But it was enough.

Azzi watched as she turned and walked away, slipping into the crowd like it didn’t hurt. Like they hadn’t just been on the edge of something.

Azzi didn’t follow. She couldn’t.

She just stood there, the song still playing, the lights still pulsing, her hands suddenly empty. And all she could think was— Of course she walked away. Because that’s what they do.

One reaches out. The other lets go.

So yeah—maybe after that, she’d wanted a second. A moment alone. Just her and Paige, somewhere quieter. A minute to breathe, to ask what the hell that was, to finally say the things she hadn’t said in months.

But Paige wouldn’t let her.

Every time Azzi tried to grab her hand, lean in, whisper “Can we just talk?”—Paige ducked out of reach. Said something like “Later” or “I need another drink” or “Caroline’s calling me.” And then she’d vanish—toward the bar, the booth, the crowd. Anywhere Azzi wasn’t.

It didn’t take long to catch on.

She wasn’t just busy. She was avoiding her.

From the booth, Azzi watched as Paige laughed at something someone said—head thrown back, hair falling into her face, a seltzer clutched loosely in one hand. She stumbled a little, grinning, cheeks flushed, that oversized white T-shirt slipping off one shoulder like it belonged to someone else and didn’t quite fit right.

She looked happy. Light. Untethered.

And Azzi felt it in her chest, that familiar twist. You’re so stupid, she thought. Of course this wasn’t the right time. Of course she doesn’t want to talk to you.

What had she even been thinking?

This was Paige’s night. Her birthday. Her friends. Her music. Her chance to forget everything for a while. Azzi wasn’t part of that. She was the afterthought. The weight. The reminder.

The ghost.

She sank lower into the booth, resting her drink on her knee, staring at the condensation instead of the crowd. She hadn’t realized how much hope she’d been holding onto—quietly, stubbornly. How badly she’d wanted Paige to still want her, even just a little.

But all she felt now was guilt. Low and heavy in her stomach. The kind that didn’t make a scene—it just stayed, quietly wrecking things from the inside.

You always ruin the good things.

So she drank.

Not enough to forget. Just enough to blur the edges.

The tequila burned, but not as bad as the look Paige gave her when their eyes met across the room and Paige turned away like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

Somewhere in the haze, Azzi ended up leaning against the wall near the back exit, drink number four (or five?) clutched in her hand, vision a little blurry. The music pulsed through her bones but she felt nothing.

She didn’t even see Caroline at first—just felt the tug on her wrist and the gentle voice saying, “Okay, you’re done.”

“I’m fine,” Azzi mumbled, though the floor disagreed.

“You’re not,” Caroline said, her tone just this side of gentle. “You need to go home before this gets worse.”

“I’m not—”

“Look, I already found a freshman who’s sober and heading back to the dorms. You’re going with her.”

Azzi wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come.

She just let herself be led toward the door, vaguely aware of someone pressing a Gatorade into her hand and murmuring something about “hydrate” and “text me when you’re back safe.”

She didn’t say goodbye to Paige.

Paige probably didn’t even notice she was gone.

Azzi didn’t remember making the decision—just the pull. That low, magnetic kind of grief that starts in your chest and drags the rest of you with it.

One second she was being led out of the bar by a wide-eyed freshman offering her a blue Gatorade and a sloppy “you good?”, and the next she was climbing the back stairwell to Paige’s dorm.

It was muscle memory now. Half-sober autopilot.

She didn’t knock.

No one on the team ever locked their doors. Not unless they were hooking up or pissed off.

Paige hadn’t locked hers.

Azzi stepped inside quietly, barely making a sound. The fairy lights above the mirror buzzed low, casting the room in warm gold. Paige’s jacket was slung across the desk chair. One of her shoes lay sideways under the bed. The place looked like it had spun out and never quite recovered.

Azzi’s throat tightened.

She pulled the small box out of her coat pocket—white paper, blue ribbon, a folded corner from where it had been pressed against her side all night. Her fingers hesitated, then set it down gently on Paige’s desk. Right there between a tangled phone charger and a half-eaten granola bar. Like it belonged.

She didn’t leave a note. Didn’t explain. Didn’t touch anything else.

She just stood still, eyes sweeping the room like it might still tell her something she didn’t already know. Like maybe the echo of what they’d been still lived somewhere between the blankets and the bulletin board. Like maybe the version of her that used to feel at home here would walk back through the door at any second and fix everything.

But she didn’t.

So Azzi turned and left.

Back in her room, she stripped down to her tank top, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling until her vision blurred. Everything inside her was too loud—regret, tequila, and the static of Paige pulling away on the dance floor.

She buried her face in the pillow and let herself break. No noise. No words. Just slow, quiet unraveling.

Paige

She wasn’t going to let it ruin her night. That was the decision. Final answer. No revisions allowed.

What happened with Azzi on the dance floor—yeah, it knocked the wind out of her. Stole a breath. Tilted the room. But only for a second. She bounced back. She always bounced back.

She smiled through it. Let the music carry her into another round of drinks, into another round of too-loud singing and shoulder-swinging dance moves. She let her friends drag her back to the middle of the room like nothing had happened. Like she wasn’t still reeling from the way Azzi looked at her. From the way it almost meant something again.

She even let Caroline put a plastic tiara on her head—sparkly and crooked and loud—and yell “Birthday Princess coming through!” like she was announcing royalty.

It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was exactly what she needed to pretend.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t run after anyone. She didn’t look back.

Instead, she kept moving. Smiling. Spinning. Nodding along like her thoughts weren’t ricocheting all over the inside of her head.

She cracked a few jokes. Posed for blurry selfies with sweaty foreheads and red Solo cups. Sent Kathryn a Snapchat of her third seltzer, captioned: god is a woman and her name is tequila. Kathryn replied with a picture of her stuffed bear wearing a UConn hoodie and the word obsessed.

It was dumb. It made her smile anyway. Because that’s what you do. You smile. You collect the small, easy things. You pretend they’re enough.

When the team stood on the booth to sing her happy birthday—shouting off-key, holding fake lighters in the air, harmonizing like absolute disasters—she laughed. Genuinely. She even did the little curtsy at the end, full performance mode, hand on her chest like she’d just won an award.

She didn’t think about the fact that Azzi wasn’t up there with them. Didn’t think about how every time she turned around, Azzi was there—but never with her. Always on the edge. Always watching. Always just out of reach.

She didn’t think about the way her chest still buzzed. From that dance. From Azzi’s hand on her waist. From the softness in her voice when she’d said, “Happy birthday, P.”

She refused to think about it.

Because if she thought about it—if she let herself feel even a fraction of what that moment almost was—she knew she’d unravel.

So she didn’t. She kept drinking. Kept laughing. Kept playing the part.

She shut down Ted’s like a pro—hugging everyone on the way out, taking one last photo by the neon sign in the back, holding her heels in her hand like it was senior prom.

And sometime around 2:40 a.m., she collapsed into her dorm bed. Still wearing her jeans. Still missing one earring. Still buzzing from something that wasn’t quite alcohol.

Half a smile lingered on her face.

It didn’t reach her eyes.

****

The next morning, her mouth tasted like metal and fruit punch, and her brain felt like it had been punted across campus.

She groaned into her pillow, limbs heavy, head pounding, sunlight stabbing through the blinds like it had a personal vendetta. Everything hurt. Even her earlobes.

She rolled over, squinted at the blinking phone screen on her nightstand. 8:42 a.m. Her alarm was set for 8:00.

She blinked again. Then bolted upright.

“Oh my God.”

She was late. For rehab. Not kind of late. Not five-minutes-late-but-charming-about-it. Actually late. And she hadn’t even brushed her teeth.

Still half in last night’s clothes, she scrambled out of bed, yanked open her dresser, and grabbed the first hoodie she could find. Then a pair of sweatpants from the floor. She jammed one leg in, stumbled, cursed, tried again.

As she turned to grab her sneakers from the corner, her elbow clipped the edge of her desk.

Something slid.

She looked down.

A small white box sat there. Neat. Quiet.

Wrapped in white paper. Tied with a ribbon.

Right in the center of her desk like it had been waiting.

She blinked at it. Felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck. She didn’t remember seeing it last night. But then again, she barely remembered getting into bed.

She paused. Brows knit. Curiosity stirring, slow and cautious.

She reached for the box—fingers brushing the edge of the ribbon, just about to lift it—

Buzz buzz. Her phone lit up again.

Ayanna: Where r u rehab started ten minutes ago don’t make me lie for u again 🫠

Paige groaned, grabbed her phone, stuffed it in her hoodie pocket, and turned back to the drawer for socks.

In her rush, her hip bumped the desk again—harder this time—and the box tipped.

It slid off the edge. Softly. Landed in the open top dresser drawer with barely a sound, nestled between mismatched socks, a stray makeup brush, and a broken hair tie.

Paige didn’t notice.

She’d already moved on, pulling her hoodie over her head, jamming her feet into sneakers, muttering a breathless, “I’m gonna die,” as she shoved her keys and Gatorade into a tote and raced for the door.

The room stilled.

Sunlight crept across the desk. And the box stayed buried. Unopened. Unnoticed.

Waiting.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd

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