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hameesstuff · 2 months ago

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"Ink And Ice"

Pairing: Arranged husband ceo! Jaehyun (single dad) x Wife Artist! Reader

Themes: Arranged marriage, slow burn, lots of angsttttt, fluffy end, smut.

Word Count: ~6.2k

Preview: After losing his first wife, Jaehyun swore he'd never open his heart again. After her death, Jaehyun gave all his love to his daughter, guarding his heart from anyone else. Cold and distant, he kept you at arm’s length—until your quiet warmth and love slowly brought him back to life. One argument and night changes everything.

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The Vows You Didn’t Write

The courthouse is silent, cold in its marble expanse. A place where deals are made in signatures, not sentiments. And that’s exactly what today is—a deal. A transaction masked as a wedding.

You're wearing a cream-colored dress, nothing extravagant, but still too soft for the man standing beside you.

Jung Jaehyun.

CEO of Jung Group. A man you’d seen on the news years ago, at charity galas with his late wife. The perfect family. Until she passed away in a tragic accident two years ago, leaving him with their daughter. Since then, he’s worn grief like armor—tailored suits, expensive watches, and a gaze colder than any winter sky.

And now, he’s your husband.

His hand brushes yours when he signs the marriage certificate. No ring. No vows. Just ink.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he says, voice low, businesslike. “I’ll handle everything.”

You glance up. “Except your daughter.”

That earns the faintest flicker of something behind his eyes. Annoyance? Pain? You can’t tell. He doesn’t answer.

Soa. Five years old. A dimpled smile and big brown eyes that don’t yet understand what losing a mother means. She clung to you the first time you met like she’d known your soul in a past life. You don’t know what you did to earn it, but she loves you already.

And it terrifies you more than marrying a man who doesn’t.

The Guest Room Wife

The mansion is everything you'd expect from Jung Jaehyun—coldly beautiful. Not warm. Not welcoming. White walls, minimalist furniture, the soft hum of silence stretching through every corridor.

You’re shown to a guest room. Not the bedroom. Not his.

“This is where you’ll stay,” Jaehyun says, setting your suitcase down like he’s done it for employees at business trips. “It has a private bath. Soa’s room is just down the hall.”

You nod. “I’m not here to make things complicated.”

He pauses at the door. “Good.”

That night, you unpack in silence. You take out your paints even though he never asked what you do, what you love. You work with your hands—canvas, color, emotion. He works with numbers, walls, and contracts.

You barely see him.

But Soa? She starts appearing everywhere.

At breakfast, climbing onto your lap.

At night, asking for one more story, her tiny fingers curling around yours.

In the mornings, waiting outside your door like you’re the sun rising just for her.

And with every laugh, every question she throws your way, your heart sinks deeper. You weren’t supposed to care this much.

One night, she holds your hand and whispers, “You smell like Mommy used to.”

You don’t cry. Not then. But you do later, alone, in the dark room Jaehyun gave you.

Dinner for Three

The first time you all sit down together is a week after the wedding.

A silent dinner table. Glass and granite. A bottle of wine unopened between you. Jaehyun scrolls through something on his phone while Soa chatters about a butterfly drawing she made in school.

“I told my teacher my new mommy paints better than anyone,” she says proudly.

Jaehyun’s hand stills on the screen.

You glance at him, unsure if he’ll correct her.

He doesn’t.

“That’s sweet, Soa,” you reply softly, your voice barely breaking through the weight of the silence.

Later, as you help clean up, you ask Jaehyun quietly, “You’re uncomfortable when she calls me that, aren’t you?”

His jaw tenses. “She barely remembers her real mother. I don’t want her attaching too quickly to—”

“To me,” you finish, sharper than you intended.

He turns then. His gaze pins you to the spot. Cold. Controlled. “To anyone she could lose.”

You understand, but it still hurts.

Because no matter how kind you are, how careful, he’s already decided you’re temporary.

Ink on His Desk

You never meant to leave the painting there.

It was just a sketch—quick, raw, done late one night after Soa fell asleep on your lap. Her curled body in a blanket, one hand clinging to your shirt. You drew her in seconds, as if your hands remembered a pose from another lifetime.

You left it on the kitchen counter.

But in the morning, it’s gone.

And that afternoon, you see it on Jaehyun’s desk—framed.

He doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t look at you. Just signs documents with precise strokes as if nothing in the world has shifted.

But it has.

Because for the first time, your art is in his world. In the center of it. And that means something.

The Argument

It starts with something stupid.

You ask if he’ll be late again—Soa’s been asking for him every night, falling asleep near the front door.

He says, “My daughter is not your responsibility.”

You stare at him. “She is now. Whether you like it or not.”

Jaehyun looks up, cold. “I didn’t ask for this marriage. And neither did she.”

You step forward, voice low and shaking. “Then why marry me at all? Just to have someone warm your guest room and pretend you’re still functioning?”

That cracks something.

His voice rises—not loud, but furious. “Because my mother wouldn't stop. Because Soa needed someone. Because I needed a body beside mine to make everyone think I was still alive. Is that what you want to hear?”

You breathe in through your teeth. “You’re a coward, Jaehyun.”

“And you—” he steps closer, eyes burning, “—you’re a dreamer who walked into hell thinking you could paint over the fire.”

You whisper, “I wasn’t trying to fix you. I just wanted to be seen.”

The silence after is louder than anything.

Then, finally, he whispers back, hoarse: “I see you.”

And he walks out.

But something has changed.

Because this time, he doesn’t slam the door.

The Shift

The next week is different.

Jaehyun comes home earlier. Watches Soa paint beside you on the balcony. Asks questions about your gallery work. Not often. Just a few. But they land heavily.

One night, he stands in the doorway while you read to Soa. Doesn’t say anything. Just… stays.

When Soa is asleep, you pass him in the hall. Neither of you speak. But your hands brush.

Dinner Scene – The Breaking Point

The long dining table was filled with idle chatter, wine glasses clinking, and laughter that felt too forced to be real. You sat quietly beside Jaehyun, his expression unreadable as he scrolled through his phone between half-hearted bites.

Across the table, Minho—Jaehyun’s cousin—hadn’t stopped running his mouth since you’d arrived. His comments were laced with mockery, each one digging deeper beneath your skin.

"So," Minho began again, swirling the red wine in his glass, his eyes fixed shamelessly on you, "how’s the art world treating you? Still painting... flowers and naked women, or just your own reflection these days?”

You froze, your hand gripping the fork a little tighter.

Minho leaned forward, voice dropping to something too smooth, too smug. “Can’t lie, though. The idea of you covered in paint, messy and bare… now that’s a portrait I wouldn’t mind seeing up close.”

The table fell silent. Even the air seemed to still.

Jaehyun looked up slowly, and for a moment, no one moved. Then, without a word, he stood. The chair screeched back violently, and in two long strides, he was across the table.

“Jaehyun—” someone gasped.

He grabbed Minho by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall with a thud. Dishes clattered. Soa flinched where she sat. Shock rippled through the room.

Jaehyun’s voice was deadly low, face inches from his cousin’s. “You ever speak to her like that again, I swear to God—”

“Jae,” you said softly, standing now, your voice breaking through the haze of his fury. “Let him go. Please.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, jaw tight, hand still fisted in Minho’s shirt. You reached him slowly, gently placing your hand on his arm. “You don’t need to do this. I’m okay. Come back.”

His eyes finally flicked to you—stormy, tormented, and wide with something unspoken. His grip loosened, and Minho slid down the wall, coughing.

Jaehyun didn’t say a word. He just turned, hand brushing against yours for a fleeting second, and walked out of the room.

The house had finally gone quiet. Soa had fallen asleep curled into her blanket, clutching the stuffed bunny you painted flowers on months ago. Jaehyun had kissed her forehead gently, lingering longer than usual, as if needing her peace to steady the storm still curling in his chest.

When he stepped into the bedroom, he found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your robe loose around you, eyes tired and pained.

“I scared you,” he said, voice hoarse. “And I scared her. I—I lost control.”

You didn’t speak, only looked up at him, your silence a gentle kind of patience that made his throat tighten.

He walked over, dropped to his knees in front of you, and pressed his forehead to your stomach.

“I hated myself tonight,” he whispered. “For letting that bastard talk about you like you were nothing. For pretending like I didn’t care, when the truth is—I can’t stand the idea of anyone looking at you the way he did. I’ve been running from this… from you. But you’re the only thing that’s felt real since her. Since everything broke.”

Your fingers slipped into his hair as his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“I see you,” you whispered. “Even when you hide. Even when you push me away.”

He looked up at you, eyes shining with something vulnerable and raw. “Do you still want me? After how I’ve been?”

You leaned down, kissed him softly—an answer he didn’t deserve but one you gave anyway.

He rose, cupped your cheeks with shaking hands, and kissed you again, slower this time. With trembling reverence. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was quiet, gentle… like worship.

“Let me love you tonight,” he said, voice breaking. “As my wife. Not a contract. Not a convenience. Just… mine.”

Clothes were discarded in silence, not in heat but in need—skin to skin, breath to breath. He held you like you were fragile and fierce all at once. His lips brushed your shoulder, your chest, your belly, lingering over every inch of you as though memorizing the story you carried beneath your skin.

When he slid inside you, it wasn’t hurried. It was a sigh, a homecoming. You gasped his name softly, hands clutching his back as he moved with you—slow, steady, grounding.

“I see you,” he whispered into your neck. “I want all of you. The stubbornness, the paint-stained fingers, the warmth you gave Soa when I was too afraid to feel. You are my family now.”

Your eyes filled with tears, and he kissed them away as he moved deeper inside you, every thrust heavy with emotion, with gratitude, with aching love he no longer knew how to contain.

When you fell apart beneath him, trembling, your eyes locked with his—and he followed with a gasp, like a man letting go of grief in the arms of someone who brought him back to life.

Later, curled against him beneath the blankets, your head on his chest, he played with your fingers in silence. Then he whispered, “You were never just someone who walked into my life.”

You looked up.

“You’re the reason it started again.”

And when you fell asleep in his arms, you felt it for the first time—not just desire. Not even just love.

You felt chosen.

Morning After

The morning sun spilled quietly through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. You stirred slowly, sore in the most tender way, muscles aching with the memory of how Jaehyun had held you—how he’d loved you like he was finally ready to feel again.

Your hand reached across the sheets instinctively and found him still there.

Jaehyun lay on his side, facing you, eyes already open, watching you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Didn’t sleep,” he murmured. “Just… didn’t want to miss it. Waking up like this. With you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You look tired.”

“I feel…” he searched for the word. “Clean. Like something broke open and I can breathe again.”

Your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing the faint shadows beneath his eyes. “You’re allowed to rest now, Jaehyun.”

His hand slid beneath the blanket, settling on your belly. “Soa has been calling you ‘Mom’ more lately,” he whispered. “She’s never done that with anyone else.”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “She’s… she’s everything to me.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—soft, slow, sacred. “That’s why I love you.”

The bedroom door creaked open just then, and Soa peeked in, her bunny clutched to her chest.

“Daddy?” she whispered.

Jaehyun sat up slightly. “Come here, baby.”

She scrambled in, crawling up between you, curling into your side like she’d always belonged there. Her small hand reached for yours—and then rested gently on your belly.

“Morning, Mommy,” she said sleepily.

You didn’t correct her.

Jaehyun wrapped his arm around both of you, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and then yours.

And in that still, sacred silence, with your family wrapped around you, nothing else in the world mattered.

Epilogue:

You watched Jaehyun play with Soa in the living room. The little girl, now six years old, was laughing as Jaehyun lifted her high into the air, her giggles filling the room and making your heart swell. Soa had grown so much in the years since she’d come into your life, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for how seamlessly she had accepted you as her mother.

Jaehyun glanced over at you, his eyes soft with affection, before he made his way toward you. He knelt beside the couch, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before resting his hand on your belly. "How’s our little one doing?" he asked, his voice filled with tenderness.

You smiled up at him, feeling the baby kick softly beneath your skin. "I think they’re just as excited to meet you as you are," you said with a laugh.

Soa sat beside you on the couch, her small hand gently pressed against your belly. “Hi, baby!” she whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. “I can feel you moving!”

Jaehyun chuckled from across the room, watching the heartwarming scene. “She’s already got her big sister skills down,” he said, sitting beside you.

With a laugh, you leaned against Jaehyun, watching Soa talk to the baby with all the love in her heart. It felt like the beginning of something beautiful—a new chapter, full of laughter and family. A new beginning.

The End.

Feedback is welcome ;)

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archivegyu · 3 months ago

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masterlist

invisible string

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

There’s a golden softness to late afternoons in Seoul. The kind that melts into the floorboards and sneaks into the corners of rooms. In Seungcheol’s apartment, it spills in through the wide living room windows, lazily painting everything with that hazy warmth only spring can offer. It catches in the ridges of your coffee mug, glimmers against the silver edges of your ruler, and warms the back of your neck as you hunch over the center table.

The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional scribble of your stylus across the screen. Your project , fills the display in layers of blueprints and notes. Post-its clutter the table’s edge, reminders of measurements and deadlines, and in the middle of it all, there’s you; oversized hoodie, glasses slipping down your nose, hair pulled back in a lazy bun.

And next to you, lying belly-up with a kind of careless peace you envy, is Kkuma.

She lets out a little huff, tail twitching as if in a dream. You reach over to scratch behind her ear with your free hand, lips twitching into a tired smile.

This is what most of your evenings look like lately. Half-finished sketches, cold takeout, and a drowsy dog keeping you company while your best friend dances himself to the bone in some faraway practice room.

You hadn’t meant to stay here long. When Seungcheol first offered his spare room, you’d told yourself it was just for a few months — until your life calmed down, until rent became less of a monster, until breathing felt easier.

But the months stretched, and the apartment never stopped feeling safe. He never made you feel like a guest, either. It wasn’t his place. It became yours too. The kind of home that smells like coffee and fabric softener, where the walls are filled with memories neither of you ever had to say out loud.

The front door clicks open a little past eight.

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The soft shuffle of sneakers on tile. The familiar thud of a duffle bag hitting the entryway floor. Then the drag of tired footsteps across the wood, slow and heavy, like gravity itself decided to cling to him today.

“I’m home,” he calls, his voice quieter than usual. Rough around the edges.

Still, you smile without looking. “There’s kimchi fried rice on the stove.”

He pauses, then: “Did you cook or order again?”

“Define ‘cook.’”

He laughs under his breath. A real one. Not the polite, camera-ready kind.

You finally glance up and find him standing a few feet away, hoodie soaked through, bangs sticking to his forehead, sweat glistening at his collarbone. Exhaustion clings to him like second skin, but his eyes are gentle, warm when they land on you.

“You’re still working?” he asks, nodding toward the screen.

You shrug. “Final review is next week.”

“You said that last week.”

“I meant it then, too.”

He shakes his head, kneels to pet Kkuma. She perks up, tail wagging in sleepy little thumps against the floor.

“She’s spoiled now,” he mutters. “Doesn’t even greet me at the door anymore.”

You hum without thinking, eyes drifting back to your screen. “She likes people who feed her on time.”

He snorts. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t pass out on the floor again.”

You raise a hand in lazy salute, already tuning back into the chaos of your canvas.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

You’re fast asleep by the time he finds you again.

Curled up on the center table, cheek pressed to your folded arms, a pencil still tucked between your fingers. Your laptop screen has dimmed to black, casting the room into a warm hush. Kkuma lies beside you, paw resting near your knee like she’s been guarding you all evening.

Seungcheol exhales quietly from where he stands in the hallway, towel slung around his shoulders. His hair is still damp, shirt clinging slightly to his skin from the shower. His body aches from practice, but his chest aches for something else entirely.

He steps forward, careful not to wake you. There’s something fragile about the scene; the way your face is turned toward the window, the way your brows are relaxed, mouth slightly parted, like the weight you always carry has finally slipped off for just a moment.

And God, you still wear that hoodie he gave you two winters ago— fraying at the sleeves, too big for your frame, swallowed by the fabric.

He kneels beside the table.

“You weren’t supposed to fall asleep like this,” he murmurs softly, reaching to brush a stray hair out of your face.

You don’t stir. You never do, not when you’re this tired. It’s something he’s learned from the years. How you give everything you have until your body stops you. How you always say you’re fine even when you aren’t. How you carry the weight of the world in silence.

He hesitates, then gently scoops you up in his arms. You sink into his chest instinctively, head resting against the hollow of his shoulder. You smell like shampoo and his vanilla lotion you pretend not to like.

Your fingers twitch once in your sleep, curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

And that’s what does it; that tiny movement, that subconscious reach for him. Like something inside you knows, even now, even half-asleep, that it’s him.

He carries you to your room, nudging the door open with his foot. Lays you down slowly, carefully, like you’re something precious. Something breakable. His fingers linger on your wrist for a second too long before he pulls the blanket over you.

Then, without thinking, he reaches up and grazes the back of his knuckle along your cheek.

“Night, pretty girl,” he whispers, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Even your dreams deserve rest.”

He closes the door quietly behind him.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Back in the living room, Seungcheol sinks into the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. The quiet presses in; thick and full of everything he’s never said.

Kkuma climbs up beside him, paws light on the cushion. She flops down, tail flicking once, then still.

He chuckles softly, leaning back. “She’s gonna burn herself out before she even graduates.”

Kkuma yawns.

“She doesn’t take care of herself unless someone makes her. It’s annoying,” he says, his voice softer now, gentler. “But… I wouldn’t want anyone else to be the one who reminds her.”

Silence stretches between him and the dog.

“You know, I’ve been trying to ignore it. For years, maybe. Told myself it was just comfort, or familiarity. Like she’s just… always been here.”

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.

“But it’s not that. It’s never been that.”

His voice wavers just a little.

“I’m in love with her.”

There. He says it. Not to you. Not to anyone who can answer. Just to the only soul in the room who might understand.

Kkuma lifts her head slightly, ears twitching.

“I don’t even know when it started,” he continues, his eyes growing distant. “Maybe it was when she stood up to my bully. Maybe when she shared her candy and said I could have the red one.”

A soft laugh escapes him, short and breathless.

“Maybe I’ve always known.”

He reaches down and pets Kkuma’s head again, more to ground himself than anything.

“I don’t know what she’d say if I told her. I don’t know if she’d laugh, or freeze, or leave.” His voice turns quiet. “But I’d rather have her here, like this, than risk losing her at all.”

He looks toward your closed bedroom door.

“So maybe I’ll just wait a little longer.”

The city hums quietly outside the windows. And in this in-between, not quite night, not quite morning; he sits in the golden aftermath of everything unsaid, gently held by the thread that’s tied you to him all this time.

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aleksatia · 4 months ago

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You've been in a relationship for a short time, and a lingering question has been eating at you—are you truly good enough in bed? After some thought, you finally ask him what kind of sex and positions he likes the most.

🎨 Rafayel – "A Canvas of You"

He doesn’t answer right away. He never does. Instead, he watches you—too long, too intensely—until your skin warms beneath his gaze, your breath shallows, your body betrays you before he’s even touched you.

Then, he moves. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Fingers brush your shoulder, catching the strap of your dress. A single shift of his hand, and it slides down, fabric slipping over your skin like a sigh. His knuckles graze bare flesh—unhurried, deliberate, as if testing the way you react to the smallest touch.

"You know, Cutie," he murmurs, voice rich and smooth, "I’ve always thought you’d make the perfect canvas."

Then, just as easily as he came to you—he’s gone.

Your body sways before you catch yourself, the absence of him too stark, too sudden. Across the room, you hear him move. A clink of glass. The whisper of bristles lifting from their place. And then—the slow swirl of ink, thick and black, rolling against the brush like liquid night.

You exhale, only to inhale too sharply when he turns back.

"You’re not serious."

His lips curve, just slightly. "I never joke about art."

Then—he paints you.

The first stroke is nearly nothing, a whisper-light touch against the slope of your shoulder. The ink is cool, pooling where the fine bristles meet skin, spreading like something secret. His breath, warm and steady, lingers close—too close—as his free hand finds your waist. His palm fits there like he’s done this before.

"Hold still," he murmurs. Low. Dark. A warning wrapped in velvet. "Or I’ll have to start over."

You don’t move. You can’t move.

The brush glides downward, slower this time, tracing something unseen, something only he understands. Right where your pulse betrays you.

"Do you know what it says?"

You shake your head.

His lips tilt—not quite a smirk, not quite soft. And then, before you can form a thought—he kisses the ink.

A slow, claiming press of lips against bare skin, sealing the mark he’s left on you.

"Mine."

The brush moves again, lower, lazier, dragging out the moment like he enjoys the wait, like he enjoys watching you wait.

Then—he switches hands.

And everything shifts. Fabric slips further. Falls.

Your breath catches as his gaze flicks upward, locking onto yours.

The moment stretches, the room too still.

Then, a quiet click of his tongue. "Tsk," he muses, tilting his head as if in contemplation, the brush tapping lightly against his fingers. "Now I really will have to start over."

And this time, there’s no mistaking the intent in his voice.

☀️ Xavier – "A Public Revelation"

You expect restraint. A flicker of amusement. The usual walls of composure, too perfect to crack.

But this—this is something else.

He moves without hesitation, without a single wasted second. One sharp step forward, and suddenly, his hands are on you. Firm. Unyielding. Fingers pressing into your waist as he pulls you into him, his grip absolute. Your breath stumbles, your body caught in the shift before your mind can catch up—

Then—his arms tighten.

The ground vanishes beneath you.

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, legs instinctively locking around his waist in search of balance, but he doesn’t give you that either.

"Like this," he murmurs. The words are soft. The meaning isn’t.

You open your mouth—to question, to push back, to remind him who he is.

But his hold shifts, pressing you closer.

And everything else fractures.

Because Xavier doesn’t do this.

Not like this.

Not with raw certainty, without calculation, without the endless steps ahead he always keeps in his back pocket.

But right now? Right now, he isn’t thinking.

His next words land like the first snap of a fire in a quiet room.

"Especially in public."

Your heart stops. Then slams into motion, too fast, too much.

"What?"

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to.

His eyes are darker now, their usual cool edge gone, replaced by something thicker. Heavier. The kind of quiet hunger you’ve always known was there—but never like this.

"I wonder," he muses, too casually, "if you’d still be so composed if someone walked in right now."

Heat floods through you. "Xavier—"

"Shh." His lips graze the edge of your jaw, a whisper of contact, soft and deadly.

Your breath stutters. He smirks against your skin.

"Oh? Now you’re quiet?"

One of his hands moves, dragging slowly up your spine, deliberate in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how firmly he’s holding you in place.

How easily he could keep you here.

Everything inside you screams to push back, to push him, but your body is already betraying you, already tilting into him, already wanting.

Because Xavier is always the one in control.

But now? Now, he’s letting you see exactly what happens when he stops pretending.

And the worst part?

You want him to keep going.

🩺 Zayne – "A Lesson in Restraint"

The question lands between you like a scalpel on steel—clean, precise, dangerous in the wrong hands.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he adjusts his stethoscope.

Cool metal meets warm skin as he presses it just below your collarbone, his touch impersonal, professional—except it isn’t.

"You should breathe normally," he reminds you, voice smooth, even, impossible to read.

But you don’t. Because you can feel him.

The warmth of his fingers as they rest just beneath the curve of your ribs. The calculated press of his palm steadying you—not too firm, not too soft, but just enough to remind you who’s in control of this room.

You swallow. He hears it.

His lips twitch. "That’s not normal breathing."

Your chest rises too sharply as you force air into your lungs, but it does nothing to steady your pulse. He listens anyway.

Slowly. Methodically.

He moves the stethoscope lower, following the delicate line of your sternum. The sensation is impersonal. It should be impersonal.

Except his gaze never leaves yours.

"You know," he muses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something, "your heart rate tells me more than you ever do."

Your fingers tighten where they rest on the edge of the examination table.

A slow inhale. A calculated pause. Then, finally—he answers you.

"I like discipline." The words are soft. Absolute.

The stethoscope lingers.

"I like knowing you can listen."

A small flick of his wrist—the stethoscope is gone. But his hand?

Still there. Palm resting lightly against your ribs, right over your heart.

He can feel it. The way it betrays you.

"I like when you stay exactly where I put you," he continues, still clinical, still calm. "When you don’t move until I say you can. When I touch you—" his fingers barely shift, but it’s enough, more than enough, "—and you tremble, but you don’t pull away."

Your breath catches. His thumb moves, a single slow drag against bare skin.

"You like that too, don’t you?"

Heat spreads.

His lips curve, slow, knowing, as if this was never a real question—just a test you were bound to fail.

Then—he leans in. Not touching. Not yet.

"If you don’t believe me," he murmurs, "let’s run an experiment."

His breath is warm against your jaw, his voice dropping lower. "For the rest of the day, you do exactly what I say. No questions. No hesitation."

A pause.

Then, his lips barely move, but the words strike like a direct hit to your pulse.

"I wonder how long you’d last."

Your fingers twitch. A fraction.

His smirk sharpens.

"Well." He exhales, deliberate, slow. "Just the idea made your hands shake."

His eyes flick down—brief, knowing.

Then, finally, he steps back, scribbling something onto his clipboard like nothing just happened.

"I’ll take that as a yes."

🐱 Sylus – "The Edge of Control"

He lets the silence stretch. A deliberate thing. Like he’s daring you to take back the question before he answers it.

Instead, he laughs—low, rich, like the hum of an expensive engine, the kind built for speed, for power. The kind that always wins.

Then—he moves. No hesitation. No warning.

Your back hits the desk.

Glass rattles. Papers scatter. The entire room shifts around him—because he is the one who dictates movement here.

One strong hand pins your thigh open, fingers digging into bare skin like a silent command. The other?

Wrapped around your throat. Not tight. Not cruel. But undeniable.

"You really want my answer, kitten?" he murmurs, head tilting, watching the way your pulse slams against his palm.

Your breath catches. He sees it. Feels it.

His grip flexes. A silent dare.

"Because if you do," he continues, tone almost conversational, like he’s discussing something as ordinary as stock prices, "you better be ready for it."

His thumb drags up—slow, deliberate—over the fragile line of your pulse, over your jaw, over the part of you that always betrays you first.

"You wanna know what I crave?" he muses, lips curving—not mocking, but daring you to ask again.

Then—he leans in.

The heat of him, the undeniable weight of his presence, his breath against your cheek, like he’s already claimed the space between you as his.

His lips brush against your ear.

"You," he whispers.

One word. Absolute.

"You," he repeats, slower this time, savoring it.

Not a single hint of hesitation. Not a flicker of doubt.

"You, when you stop thinking."

His teeth graze skin. A slow drag. A threat.

"You, when you let go."

And then—his hand moves. The one at your throat? Gone.

Before you can even process the loss, before you can catch your breath, his palm is already flat against your stomach, pressing down—hard.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to make you feel it.

Just enough to force you to recognize what’s happening.

Just enough to remind you who you’re dealing with.

"You, when you take me without hesitation," he continues, his free hand dragging slowly, lazily down your thigh. "When you stop waiting for permission."

His fingers flex.

"You, when you give in to it."

A pause.

Then—his smirk sharpens.

"But, kitten—" his breath warms your lips now, so damn close, so deliberate, so Sylus.

"You already knew that, didn’t you?"

Your fingers twitch. He sees.

He grins.

"Well." A slow exhale. "Just the idea made your thighs shake."

And then—he leans back. Lets go.

Like it was all his choice to begin with.

His eyes flick down—brief, knowing.

Then—a lazy stretch, a roll of his shoulders, a smirk so smug you want to slap it off his face.

"You got what you wanted," he murmurs, running a hand through his silver hair as if he wasn’t just wrecking you without lifting a finger.

Then, with obscene, devastating confidence:

"So." A tilt of his head. A challenge in his voice. "You gonna do something about it?"

🍎 Caleb – "No Holding Back"

He stops stirring.

The question lingers in the air, sweet and dangerous, like the scent of warm batter and fresh coffee—except he’s not thinking about breakfast anymore.

Slowly, he looks up from the mixing bowl, brows lifting, like he needs a second to process the fact that you just said that.

Then—a quiet chuckle.

A small, breathless shake of his head, like you’ve just thrown him completely off-balance. Like you don’t even realize what you’ve done.

"Damn it, Pip-squeak," he mutters, setting the whisk down with deliberate ease. "You really startin’ my morning like this?"

But you don’t take it back. Of course you don’t.

And that? That’s all it takes.

Because Caleb’s already too far gone for you.

His fingers curl around the mixing spoon, scooping up a bit of batter, thick and golden, before lifting it between you.

A test.

You meet his gaze, and instead of moving away, instead of hesitating—you take it.

Lips parting. Tongue flicking against his finger, slow, unshy.

And that’s it.

The spoon clatters onto the counter as his free hand is suddenly at the back of your neck, dragging you in, swallowing the little smirk he knows was there.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for days. Like he doesn’t care that the stove is still on, that the batter’s going to burn, that the sun hasn’t even fully risen yet—because none of it fucking matters.

Not when you’re here.

Not when he finally has you.

His hands are everywhere at once, gripping, pulling—desperate, but never careless. Because he knows you. Knows exactly where to touch, exactly where to press, exactly how much to take without pushing too far.

You make a sound—a soft, startled little thing—when he lifts you right onto the counter, right between his arms, right where he wants you.

"You wanna know what I like?" he breathes against your lips, forehead still pressed to yours, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands tighten on your thighs.

"This."

A pause.

Then, lower. Rougher.

"When you’re not expectin’ it."

His lips graze your jaw.

"When we shouldn’t have time."

He kisses the corner of your mouth—a tease, a warning.

"When I wake up and you’re still half-asleep, curled up in my sheets, lookin’ soft as hell, and I know—I know—the second I touch you, you’ll let me."

His fingers flex, breath rougher now.

"Or when it’s the middle of the damn day, and you say shit like this, and suddenly I don’t care if breakfast burns, ‘cause, princess—"

He leans in.

Nose brushing yours. Smirk curling against your lips.

"You really think I’m just gonna let you walk away after that?"

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frmisnow · 9 months ago

Text

play pretend ! ₊⟡⋆ nsfw.

the premise of fake dating your best friend, for just a weekend, is hilarous.. and scary. but what happens after is even scarier.. it's just play pretend right?

warnings / includes — sex, heavy fwb themes, bit of angst

shame coated you when you woke up in one of the guest rooms, carefully placed onto the bed at about 3am by no other then jungkook while you were dead hungover. pure rotten shame rests in your cheeks, paints them red when you say bye to his family a few hours later as jungkook couldn't quite even look at you.

everything about him was different. the way he moved around you, the way he avoided looking directly at you. hell, even his voice sounded quieter, less confident, like he didn’t know what to do either.

something had changed him, for the worse.

and it was all your damn fault.

you had thought the car ride would give you both time to defrost, pretend that whatever happened the night earlier did in fact not happen, crack some jokes but to no avail — long, defening silence.

silence and shame don't go well together, the color they create on the canvas of yours, it soaked through you. stayed with you for the next five days, it's the color of the message you send him at 11 pm on saturday, asking him how he was doing.

it's the ugly color of the 'delivered' button that stays there for the following two days.

the dress you wear to the next party is bright, anything to drown out the guilt that was eating you alive.

the music is loud, and so are you. laughing a little too hard, moving a little too close to anyone who shows you attention. you take another sip of whatever is in your cup, the liquid burning its way down your throat but dulling the ache in your chest.

and then there’s him.

you don’t see Jungkook immediately, but you feel him before your eyes catch his across the room. you feel the way the air shifts, the way your stomach churns when you notice the familiar set of his jaw, the way his eyes flicker toward you.

you almost drop your drink.

because it feels like a candid flashback of that night—only now it’s all so different. why did things have to be so complicated?

you’re pressed against some guy you barely know, his lips grazing your neck in a way that should distract you. you’ve been letting it happen, letting him flirt, letting his hands wander because it’s easier than thinking about the mess you left unresolved.

but then there’s jungkook. he stands on the other side, the neon light painting his face; his look wasn't judging. maybe light disappointment but more observing then anything, really. and it reminded you of how you used to stare at him whenever he was going after various girls at these exact sorts of parties.

it makes you sick, makes the unfamilar hands on your body feel foul and uninviting, it's not the fire burning through you like it had that night, it's cold ice, slowly creeping through your veins, making it's way to your brain.

said ice whispers things you don't want to hear, reminds you of things you don't want to think about.

"fuck, i think i like you."

you run of upstairs to the nearest balcony, the house was familar one of your mutual friends', this place was where you used to play spin the damn bottle in high school. now it feels haunted, just as univiting as the guy's hands felt a few minutes ago, why did everything feel so distant now? first jungkook, now everything else. why was it so consuming?

you light up a cigarette, you didn't usually smoke but you wanted to feel that fire again, the warmth, the pure need from a week ago. you regreted not having fucked the guy because you were sure he could've made you forget for longer then this cig could.

“thought I might find you here,” he says behind you, kneeling next to you yet keeping a safe distance, his voice low and cautious.

"you shouldn't have," you respond coldly, because anger is a better emotion to feel then regret and you had plenty things to be frustrated about, "you've been avoiding me for a whole week, don't pretend like you give a fuck." you don't meet his eyes, just take another drag.

but you see him flinch in the corner of your eye. great, the guilt sits in you once again.

he shifts slightly, and you can feel the tension radiating off him , “i know I’ve been a jerk, but it’s not that simple—”

“then make it simple.” your voice is sharper than you intended, but the hurt has festered for too long. you finally turn to face him, “i need to know what you want. because this? whatever this is? it’s fucking misery.”

the words hang heavily in the air, and for a moment, silence stretches between you. jungkook looks like he’s grappling with his thoughts, the tension in his body palpable. then, slowly, he closes the distance between you, his eyes softening as he cups your face in his hands.

“can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice a whisper, as if the question itself is laced with vulnerability.

you nod, and the moment your lips touch, it’s like everything else fades away. the kiss starts soft, gentle, as if he’s savoring the moment, and you can feel your heart begin to race.

it's nothing like the previous fire you had wished to experience earlier, it's delicate warming sunlight, brushing over your skin, washing away the hideous color that had built over the last few days.

“friends with benefits,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and sweet. “we get to have this-” he kisses you again, slow and lingering, “—without the pressure of expectations.”

“expectations?” you echo, your mind racing as you try to process his words.

“yeah,” he replies, his lips brushing against yours, each touch sending shivers down your spine. “we can enjoy each other without worrying about where it’s going. just... pure fun.” his hands toy with the hem of your dress, before returning your gaze.

time slips quick, it all feels so raw, so different from that night yet all so much better.

his hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer, driving deep inside you with a primal urgency. you can feel the way he fills you, stretching you perfectly. you're so glad you aren't drunk, that you'll remember this in the morning and the day after.

you claw at his back, nails digging in, urging him on, needing more, wanting all of him. and he curses, runs his mouth like the talkative brat you knew he always was, degrades you one second, tentatively kisses your cheeks the next.

his hands rest on your tighs as he kisses along your clit once again, sweet, real. taunts you 'for the mess you made on your friend's coach' but he doesn't give you time to feel guilty, just starts nuzzling his face back into your pussy, licking along.

no, jungkook will never make you feel the same guilt again. you're sure of it, well — not that you could really properly think under these conditions anyway.

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teddybeartoji · 1 year ago

Text

suguru geto is unbelievably captivating.

he catches your eye immediately – standing tall, he's got one hand on the subway pole to keep his balance. his hair is tucked into his hoodie with only a few strands left out to frame his face. you can only see his side profile but it's enough; a sharp, prominent jawline and a beautiful nose, thin eyebrows, a pierced lip and a pair of tired eyes. you feel bad for thinking it but the dark bags under them leave you no other option.

afternoon sun peeks from the windows behind him, successfully making the scene before you seem like a painting. the colors move; the shades of green flashing by as trees wave you goodbye, the different hues of the tired grays, of the big buildings taking up space as the base of the canvas. splashes of black and white and silver and beige are thrown into the mix, too. his slacks, his big headphones, his jewellery, his totebag. but what truly brings it all together, is his deep, dark maroon hoodie; there's a hint of purple in it aswell, and you just think it's one of the best colors you've ever seen. you figure the thought is a bit silly, but you can't get it out of your head.

something so comforting about it, something so warm and welcoming. something a little murky about it. you can't look away.

you forget about everybody else around you. for you, it's just him in this moment. a total stranger. you don't know him and you probably never will; a pang of hurt hits right under your ribs at the thought. you wonder what his name is, you wonder how his voice sounds. how warm his hands are, and what's his favourite color. no, he doesn't seem like the type to have a favourite color. childish. you'd have to ask about a favourite drink or a book perhaps instead. you're fine with that.

you can spot a few rings on his fingers, a silver watch and a bracelet or two peering from under his sleeve. his hands are pretty. they look good. you also think that you can see a tattoo sprouting from under the collar of his hoodie but the dark lines are blending in with the strands of his hair, so you can't be sure. you want to be sure.

your foot taps against the floor or the cart, your body itching to scoot a little closer to him. you want to see his whole face. you need to. fidgeting with your own fingers, you continue observing the man in front of you. he might step out every second now, you can't waste any more time.

his shoulder seem very broad, his posture almost immaculate. handsome – you think he looks very handsome. well put together. his clothes aren't wrinkled, there isn't a single hair or a speck of dust anywhere on them as far as you can see; the only things that betray his true state of being are his eyes.

purple. glued to the window in front of him, he watches... nothing. he seems a little out of it. he's not focused on the trees or the buildings, the people aside him. you think about what kind of music he might be listening to.

the subway doors open and you jolt, head turning around to look at the platform behind the glass. people stand and leave, and a few come in, leaving an open space for you to take on the bench you're currently sitting on. and you do take it.

there he is.

you can see his eyes a little better now. keen and sharp, he reminds you of a wolf. a malnourished one. the corners of his mouth are tilted down and he really does seem tired. but he's still utterly, utterly beautiful. his skin is almost perfect, his hair shiny and his lips a little glossy. but not too glossy though – no, he definitely uses something like shea butter. something that isn't too thick, something that doesn't smell or taste too strongly. it just seems right.

you've never been this captivated by a stranger before. it's weird. the effect this man has on you without ever even sparing you a glance. you think about asking for it. for a glance. for a second of his time. a fraction of it? anything. everything.

how would he greet you? would he be mad? would he think that you're bothering him? would he give you a smile? a scoff? an eyebrow raise? would he let you ask whatever your heart desires? or would he brush you off, never even removing his headphones when you try to speak to him? oh, it hurts. the blatantly fake heartbreak still hurts.

his trainers are clean - they're white with some accents on them. they match his hoodie. you wonder which he bought first. did he buy the other with the intent of wearing the two pieces together? you want to ask him. that's not his favourite color though, right? no, no – he wouldn't have one. this man reads books and watches movies that are mostly only shown at different festivals. you don't mind it.

films. foreign films. he knows names of the directors from the top of his head, he could probably name a few cinematographers, too. fancy. but that's not his main thing, definitely not. there's something missing, something you can't grasp with just your eyes. what is he passionate about? truly passionate. what does he pour his heart into? is that why he's exhausted? is he tired from loving something? is it starting to hurt now? is it overwhelming? does he want a break? does he want to rest? does he want to get away?

the sun finds your eye from behind his body, forcing you to tear your eyes from him. the cart stops again, the doors open. you try to rub out the slight burn, suddenly a bit frantical that you'll really lose him. you look up and—

he's not there.

he isn't there anymore.

people walk past you, plopping down beside you as you're still trying to find him. turning in your seat, you eye the station. maroon, maroon, maroon, maroon. c'mon, how fast does this man fucking walk?!

but he's just not there.

you think it's unbelievably unfair that it's the sun that made you lose him. isn't she supposed to be full of love? bullshit. with a huff, your shoulders slump and your eyes fall shut while sinking into the bench below you. the cart seems to rumble more now, the seat way more uncomfortable than it was a mere minute ago. you really are disappointed; in yourself and in the world. why didn't you get up? why didn't you speak to him? better to get a no than to drown in the million 'what if' questions in your head. stupid. you're stupid.

"hi."

as you listen to the voice recording of the station names, the very same ones you memorized years ago, you crack open your eyes. your own shoes stare back at you; they're dirtier than his were. you don't think too deeply about the comparison. sun dances on the ground before you, the various shapes entertaining your mind with the shadow play. but you don't stay for long; trailing up, you see the familiar paint and your heart skips a beat. white and maroon. black. maroon. silver.

purple.

#i miss him:(((#sugu #wtf mickey can write #geto x reader #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru drabble #geto suguru fluff #jjk geto #jjk x reader #jjk drabble #jjk fluff #jjk x you #geto x you #geto fluff #geto drabble #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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bytemee · 2 months ago

Text

۶ৎ STUNNER — yu jimin.

“my little angel in disguise..."

⌗ in which— you're a painter who hasn't picked up a brush in months. then one night at your best friends gallery, you meet a stranger who inspires you more than you ever thought possible. you don’t know her name. you don’t know that she’ll disappear before morning. you don’t know that when your hands finally remember how to move, how to paint, it’ll be her face staring back at you from the canvas.

but—when your best friend sees your finished piece, she says eight words that change everything:

"why the hell did you paint the princess?"

pairing. princess!karina x painter!fem!reader

warning(s). language, mentions of alcohol and smoking, mild angst, kissing + implied nsfw but not explicit, happy ending.

word count. 5.7k

authors note. @bimkayd for u. i also have to update my masterlist...bad.

when creativity strikes, it strikes.

like, really fucking hard. and it always comes at the worst times—when you’re in the shower, when you’re half-asleep, when you’re five minutes away from an important meeting you don’t even want to be at. but for the past few months, it hasn’t come at all.

time blurs when you’re stuck in the same four walls, staring at blank canvases like you're trying to have a staring contest with them. the paints dry in their tubes, waiting for you to wake up from whatever this is—this rut, this drought, this fucking nothingness in your head.

yunjin tells you it’s a phase. "everyone goes through it," she says over the phone, her voice tinny with excitement, too busy preparing for her own gallery opening to properly pity you. “come to my exhibit tonight. it’ll help.”

so you go to her art gallery opening. you haven't been out of the house in weeks. you haven't painted anything worth showing in months. it's a miracle you can dress yourself and brush your teeth without collapsing.

the gallery is packed when you arrive, an ocean of well-dressed bodies moving in slow currents, sipping expensive champagne from delicate flutes and admiring the artwork. most of these paintings are by yunjin herself—all bold colors and abstract shapes—but there are a few others here, too, and you spend some time wandering around, looking at them all.

your favorite is a painting done in blues and greys, full of sharp angles and harsh shadows. the paint looks thick enough to feel under your fingertips. there's a small plaque in front of it that reads "untitled" and nothing else. you stare at it for what feels like hours, but it must only be minutes because when you look up, yunjin is standing beside you, smiling.

"do you like it?" she asks.

"i love it," you reply. "it's stunning."

she laughs. "that's what i was going for."

yunjin nudges you playfully with her elbow. “so? feeling inspired yet?”

you scoff, but it lacks real bite. “i don’t think staring at other people’s work is going to magically make me able to paint again.”

“maybe not,” she muses, taking a sip of champagne. “but getting out of your own head for once might.”

you don’t have the energy to argue with her. not when she’s right. not when she’s always right.

you then let her drag you through the gallery, introducing you to people whose names you’ll forget before the night is over. collectors, critics, other artists—everyone here looks effortlessly put together, as if they belong in a world you haven’t touched in far too long. you nod, you shake hands, you make small talk. it takes every ounce of strength you have just to act normal, as if you haven't been locked inside your own head for months now. as if there isn’t a black hole where your creativity used to be.

"your work is so… bold," says one woman, sipping from her champagne flute. "i love it."

"thank you," you say, hoping your smile doesn't look as strained as it feels.

you glance around the room, looking for anything that might distract you from this conversation. a familiar face. a bathroom sign. anything. but all you see are unfamiliar faces and unreadable paintings on the walls, and suddenly you feel dizzy.

claustrophobic.

you need to get out of here.

now.

"excuse me," you mutter, slipping away from the woman before she can ask another question.

you don't know where you're going, but it doesn't matter. as long as it's somewhere else. your shoes click against the tile floor as you weave through the crowd, eyes focused on the exit ahead, sliding out the door into fresh air.

the night is cool on your skin, but not cold. you can still hear the sounds of the city echoing off the buildings, muffled music from inside the gallery mixing with distant traffic and the occasional car horn. it's a beautiful night, perfect weather for an art opening. if only you could appreciate it.

you lean back against the wall, fishing your pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. they're crumpled up but still intact, thanks to the tin foil wrapper you put around them before heading over here. you've been trying to quit lately, but old habits die hard.

besides, you figure you deserve this one.

you light a cigarette and inhale deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly, watching as it curls and dissipates into the air. it tastes terrible—like ash and chemicals and bitter regret—but it calms your nerves, just a little bit.

and then the door swings open again.

at first, you think it's security. some guy ready to kick you out for loitering in the wrong place. but then you see her, stumbling out the back entrance of the gallery, looking flustered and annoyed. she's wearing an expensive-looking gown with a slit up one side, showing off her long legs, and heels so tall you'd trip over them yourself if you tried to walk in them. her hair is perfectly coiffed and her makeup flawless, but her expression says she wants to be anywhere else.

you stare, transfixed. she’s all contrast. elegance and frustration. poise and unrest. a picture-perfect masterpiece comes to life.

"do you have another?" she asks, motioning to your cigarette.

her voice snaps you out of your reverie, and you arch an eyebrow. she looks too perfect, too put together, to be standing here asking you for a cigarette. "you smoke?"

a pause. then, "no. never actually."

you laugh to yourself, not in a mean way, more like you're trying to convince yourself this isn't actually happening. "so why'd you ask me for one?"

"because i want to try," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "i want to try something new."

she’s so fucking out of place here. all that polish, all that perfection—it makes her look like a mirage, something that can't possibly be real. her hair’s perfect, her makeup looks like it was painted on by a master, and that damn dress? it’s made for a runway, not this alley. she’s like someone dropped a fantasy into a real, gritty world, and for some reason she ended up here.

her eyes don’t leave yours as she waits—most likely for you to respond, to offer the cigarette she asked for, to say something, anything—but you stay silent because your mind is working faster than your body right now, and you need a moment to catch up.

“you wouldn’t like it,” you finally say, once the gears have started turning again, your words sounding much steadier than you feel.

her eyebrow furrowed, her lips turning down just slightly at the corners. not quite a frown, not yet, but a near thing. you've never wanted to capture an expression on canvas as much as you do right now, her face in all its beauty and annoyance.

"why not?" she asks, sounding indignant, almost insulted. "do you not trust my judgment? my tastes?"

she seems to be talking herself into it, the challenge sparking something behind her gaze. and though her posture doesn't change, you can practically feel the determination radiating off her.

you laugh. "you're missing out on the exhibit, you know."

"i could say the same to you," she counters. "why are you out here?"

you could give her a simple answer, something about needing a break, needing air, needing to get away from the suffocating crowd of people who actually have something to show for themselves. but none of that would be the truth, so you simply shrug and say—

"—wasn't really feeling the whole art world pretentiousness thing."

"strange place to be if you're not a fan."

"my friend dragged me." you admit, dropping the cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of your shoe.

she cocks her head to the side, eyes flicking down to the now extinguished butt before looking back up. it's her turn to stare at you. to take in your appearance—the plain button-up, dark dress slacks, and polished black leather shoes. if not for the tattoos peeking out from your sleeves and collar, you'd just look like another patron, dressed to impress and blend into the crowd.

"are you an artist as well?"

you smile at the question, "used to be."

her gaze softens, "used to be?"

"haven't painted in a while."

the pout is back, her eyebrows scrunching together as she stares at you, clearly processing this information, taking in your words and decoding them, working through their implications and how they fit into the context. she settles with, "well, do you plan to ever again?"

it's a simple question. one you should have a simple answer to, but life isn't simple. and art, well, art's a fucking mess. your shoulders rise before dropping.

"why not?" her eyes narrow. "have you given up?"

"not giving up." you tell her. "just stuck."

her lips press together like she doesn’t quite believe you. like she’s debating whether to push, whether to pry, whether you’re just making excuses.

"stuck how?" she asks, arms crossing over her chest.

you huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “you ask a lot of questions.”

“i like knowing things,” she says easily. “and i like understanding people. you intrigue me.”

it shouldn’t affect you the way it does. but those words—you intrigue me—they lodge themselves somewhere deep, twisting and turning like a key fitting into a lock you didn’t realize was waiting to be opened.

you glance down, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the pavement, considering how to answer. the truth is ugly. the truth is that you used to paint like your life depended on it—because, in a way, it did. it was your lifeline, your voice, your way of making sense of things when nothing else made sense.

and then, one day, it just—stopped. the inspiration, the fire, the need—all of it dried up, like a well you kept going back to, only to find it emptier each time.

"you ever look at something so much you forget what made it beautiful in the first place?" you ask instead.

she doesn’t answer right away; she just watches you, eyes flickering over your face. trying to read you is like a puzzle box. or a book. you wonder what kind of story she thinks she finds on your face. what she sees, besides the tired bags under your eyes and the slight tremble in your hands.

when she speaks, her voice is quiet. low. it carries across the distance between you and hits you right where it counts.

"i think everything can be beautiful again. if you look at it the right way."

"yeah?" you say, a little more bitter than you mean to. "that easy, huh?"

her lips quirk, not quite a smile, but close. "i didn’t say it was easy. i just think… maybe beauty isn’t lost. maybe it’s just waiting to be found again."

you swallow, forcing yourself to scoff lightly, to shake your head. "you always this philosophical, or is that just the champagne talking?"

she laughs, soft but real. "i haven’t had a single sip tonight."

"then what are you doing out here?"

"i needed fresh air."

your fingers twitch. she speaks again.

"and maybe you just need a new muse."

you wonder if she even realizes what she’s saying. if she knows that, somehow, without even trying, she’s already painting herself into every blank canvas in your mind.

the night unravels like a half-finished painting—smudged, chaotic, too many colors bleeding into each other. you don’t remember who kissed whom first, only that one second she was looking at you like she saw something worth figuring out, and the next, your hands were on her waist, and she was breathing against your lips.

it’s desperate. messy. her dress pools on the floor of your too-small apartment, and her skin feels like something you’re not supposed to touch but can’t help but reach for anyway. you don’t ask her name. she doesn’t ask for yours. it’s better that way.

and then, when morning comes, she’s gone. no note, no number, nothing. you don't have to guess if it was real or not because the memories are too vivid, too sharp, for it to be anything but. you lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything over and over in your head.

the way she looked. the way she tasted. the way she felt.

your hands are itching, craving the feeling of your brush in your hand.

it’s not a choice. not really.

your body moves before your mind can catch up, reaching for the brushes, the paints, and the canvas that’s been gathering dust in the corner. the moment the bristles touch the surface, it’s like something clicks back into place—like an old wound finally scabbing over.

she appears in fragments first. the curve of her jaw. the slope of her neck. the way her lips parted like she was about to say something, only to change her mind. it’s obsessive, almost. you don’t even think about what you’re doing, only that you have to do it. the need rushes through you like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

you don’t know how long you sit there, lost in the act of pulling her from memory onto canvas. hours, maybe.

that’s how yunjin finds you.

she kicks the door shut behind her, dropping a bag onto the counter like she’s another name on your lease. "you alive?" she asks, but then she sees you—sees the paint on your hands, your clothes, your face. sees the finished piece propped up in front of you.

and she stops short.

"oh."

her tone is surprised, breathless, then she laughs, loud and disbelieving.

"oh my god," she says, eyes wide with something between amusement and shock. "why the hell did you paint the princess?"

you blink, exhausted. “what?”

she gestures to the painting like it should be obvious. “why did you paint the princess?”

your stomach drops. “the what?”

she stares at you. “you’re joking.”

“i—” you look at the painting. at her.

your pulse thuds in your ears.

“yunjin,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

it’s a joke. it has to be.

you wait for yunjin to laugh, to tell you she’s messing with you, but she doesn’t. she just stares at you, then back at the painting, then back at you again like you’re the dumbest person alive.

“you seriously didn’t know?”

your mouth is dry. you shake your head. yunjin lets out a sharp breath.

"oh my god. you—you slept with the princess, and you didn’t even know?” the words hit you like a punch. you stare at the painting—at her—but it doesn’t make sense.

princesses don’t sneak out of fancy events. princesses don't try to bum cigarettes off strangers in alleyways. princesses don’t have one-night stands with random depressed artists they meet in the back of art galleries.

you swallow hard, rubbing a hand down your face. “fuck.”

“yeah,” yunjin says, crossing her arms. “fuck.”

you stare at her, then at the painting, and then back at her. the gears turn in your head, trying to connect the dots, trying to fit this new information into the picture. "are you sure?" you ask, even though you know she wouldn't lie about this. "like, absolutely fucking positive?"

"of course i'm fucking positive!" she throws her hands up. "do you not pay attention to the news at all?"

your mind whirls with the new information.

it’s not that she was just some stranger slipping out before sunrise. she's a princess. a whole gorgeous untouchable, have you said untouchable? — princess.

and now she’s everywhere. on the news, in magazines, her face staring back at you from glowing screens and glossy pages. every headline, every camera flash, every fucking update on her. princess karina seen leaving in the royal car. princess karina attending an art gala. princess karina, princess karina, princess karina.

you try to forget. you try to be normal again—whatever that means. you go back to ignoring your canvases, sitting on the couch, flipping through channels you don’t really watch. you even let yunjin drag you out a few times, shove drinks in your hand, and tell you to move on already. but it doesn’t work.

because she’s still in your head.

so you chase.

not in the obvious way. not in the stupid, reckless, get-yourself-arrested-for-trying-to-climb-the-palace-gates way.

you chase in the quiet ways. the ways that don’t make sense to anyone else. the ways that make yunjin groan and say, “you are literally the most tragic idiot i’ve ever met. but i'll help you anyway."

and that's how you find yourself here. in a palace that is stupidly big.

like, what do you even do with this much space? big. it’s all gold and chandeliers and marble floors and suits of armor standing around, looking vaguely threatening. it makes your skin itch.

you don’t belong here. you know that. but neither did she, that night outside the gallery. and if she could slip out of this world for one night, maybe—just maybe—you can slip in.

yunjin had connections. she always did. you didn’t ask questions when she got you in, just pulled the sleeves of your borrowed suit down and tried not to look like you wanted to throw up.

you have a plan. it doesn't go smoothly.

"i'm sorry, miss. only those on the guest list may enter."

"oh, i—" you scramble to find an excuse. any excuse. "i am on the guest list."

the guard doesn't move. he doesn't even blink.

"what's your name?"

"uh—" your mind blanks. "it's a very long name. very, very long. with a lot of letters. like, a lot of them. you wouldn't be able to pronounce it."

the guard doesn’t look amused. or convinced.

"try me."

you throw out the first thing that comes to mind. "it’s, uh… y/n… the first… y/ln… the third."

silence.

then yunjin, from beside you, coughs so hard you think she might pass out. you nudge her with your elbow, but she’s already turning away, shoulders shaking.

the guard, however, does not laugh. he just stares at you like you’re the dumbest person to ever breathe.

"that’s not a real name."

"it could be," you argue weakly.

he crosses his arms. "it isn’t."

you exhale through your nose, willing yourself not to turn and run. not yet. not when you’re this close.

yunjin, finally recovering, clears her throat and steps in. "okay, okay, my idiot friend here—who, i assure you, is actually very harmless—just has a little bit of trouble with names. what they meant to say is that they’re a guest of lady yu."

the guard squints at you both, skeptical. "lady yu?"

"yes," yunjin says smoothly. "you know, lady yu. very high society. loves art. huge fan of… uh, brush strokes."

you resist the urge to slap a hand over your face.

the guard exhales, clearly debating whether dealing with the two of you is worth his time. eventually, he lifts a radio to his mouth, murmuring something you can’t hear. a beat later, he nods.

"you’re clear to enter."

you don’t ask how yunjin pulled that off; just grab her hand and pull her inside before the guy can change his mind.

and then you’re in.

the palace is even more ridiculous further inside. every inch screams money. gilded ceilings, more enormous chandeliers, even shinier marble floors that make you extra aware of how not rich you are.

you scan the room, searching, heart pounding in your throat. and then—

there.

at the far end of the ballroom, half-surrounded by nobles and dignitaries and all the kinds of people who actually belong here, she stands. regal. poised. effortlessly untouchable.

princess karina.

and she’s looking right at you.

you swallow. she arches an eyebrow. her expression shifts, then she's up and moving. in your direction. then, without a word, her fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but not rough, and she turns, pulling you with her.

you barely have time to process what’s happening before you’re weaving through the gilded halls, past guards who barely spare you a glance, past murmuring guests too distracted by their own conversations to notice the princess slipping away with some stranger in a borrowed suit.

she doesn’t stop until you’re deep in the palace, past the public rooms, past the private suites, past everything anyone else has a right to see. only then does she let go.

you swallow hard, rubbing at your wrist. "subtle."

she ignores you, crossing her arms. "what the hell are you doing here? you're not supposed to be here."

your throat feels dry. "i know."

"then why are you?"

you lick your lips, suddenly 1000x more nervous than you were standing outside the palace gates. "i—" you inhale sharply. "i tried to forget you. and i couldn’t."

"that’s unfortunate."

your chest tightens. "is it?"

she exhales softly through her nose. "what do you want, really?"

and it hits you, all at once, all over again. why you’re here. why you had to come.

you take a step forward, closing the distance between you. your eyes never leave hers. "do you know what it means to be a muse?"

that throws her. a small crease forms between her brows. "i—"

"it means you exist everywhere," you cut in before she can finish. "even when i try to ignore it. even when i don’t want to think about you. you show up in every color, in every stroke of my brush, in every painting i try to create. you are impossible to forget."

her mouth opens and closes. "that doesn’t—you can't—"

"it means you stole something from me," you continue, your voice growing softer as you close the last bit of distance between you. "something i didn’t even realize i was missing until you came into my life and showed me what it meant to feel alive again. you're my muse."

her breath catches at that, lips parting just slightly, as if to speak, but no words come out. you take advantage of the moment, reaching up to cup her face in your hands, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. she leans into your touch, eyelashes fluttering against her skin, eyes falling shut for a moment. and then they open again, dark and intense and so, so beautiful.

she searches your face as her hand reaches up to rest against yours. you want to kiss her, want to tell her you want her in the simplest terms, in a way that even a princess can understand. you lean forward, pressing your forehead against hers, and ask, "do you feel the same? was it real, what i felt between us?"

you barely whisper the question out loud, barely hearing her inhale as she closes the space between you. her lips brush against yours, featherlight but enough to make your stomach flip. “i can't be that for you,” she says against your mouth.

and your heart breaks. you know you were just a one-time thing, just a quick fling for her. it's the whole princess thing. you knew it would be complicated, but you couldn't stop thinking about her, and she's looking at you with such an intense look, a look that says she can't forget you either, and that has to be worth something, right?

you don't realize you said all of it out loud until she pulls away, blinking rapidly. "wait, no—that's not—that's not what i meant," she stammers, suddenly looking much younger and more vulnerable than you've ever seen her. "that night at the gallery, with you, was real. that was—it was the only time i've ever felt that way."

"but," like always

her gaze softens. "we can't. you can't just come in here like this."

she says the last bit as if you've done something wrong, and her hands pull back to her sides. you don't have it in you to care about her rules anymore. her hands fall to her sides, but you stay still, your forehead hovering near hers, your breath mixing.

"i don't care about protocol," you whisper. "i care about you."

"stop," she says, softer than before. "you can't just say things like that and expect me to—"

"expect you to what?" your voice rises, sharp edges showing. "feel the same? you already do. you’re just scared. and i get it. i do. but don’t pretend this didn’t mean anything."

"i'm not pretending," she snaps, taking a step back, composure cracking. "i haven't stopped thinking about you either, okay? but that doesn’t change the fact that this—us—it’s impossible."

"why? because you wear a crown and i wear paint under my nails?"

"because my life isn’t mine!" she yells. "because everything i do is watched and calculated and twisted into something ugly. if they knew you were here—if they saw us like this—"

"then let them see," you say, helpless and stupid and in love. "i'll stand in front of every one of them and say it. i'll tell them how i look at you like the sun rises in your mouth and sets in your goddamn spine. i don't care."

"well, i care!" she shouts, her voice shaking now, full of fire and something just comparable to fear. "i can't afford to want things. not like you do. not recklessly. i don't get to choose who i love."

it's quiet.

"you need to leave."

you don’t move.

"if you don’t, i'll call the guards."

you flinch, and she notices. her jaw clenches. it takes everything in you not to beg.

“don’t make me do that,” she whispers. “please. just go.”

your throat is tight. you nod once.

you turn, heart heavy, the room blurring at the edges. when you open the door, yunjin is waiting, quiet and still in the corridor, like she knew this was how it’d end.

you don’t say a word as she walks beside you down the long hallway, past the grand ballroom, and out of the palace. she doesn’t push for information or ask about what happened. she just lets you stew in your thoughts, and you are grateful. when you get back to your apartment, you collapse onto the bed. you don’t cry—you never really did, even in high school, and now doesn't seem like a good time to start—but you come pretty fucking close.

you lie there for hours. maybe days. hard to tell. just you, your ceiling, and the hollow space behind your ribs where your heart used to sit before she carved it out with a single sentence and left like it didn’t matter.

you tell yourself it was stupid to fall for her. she’s a fucking princess. what were you expecting? that she’d run off with you into the sunset like a fairy tale? that she’d burn her whole world down just to be with someone who wears the same hoodie four days in a row and forgets to buy groceries until you’re eating plain rice and mustard?

but it still hurts.

the gallery night is yunjin’s idea. she throws a flyer at your chest and tells you to “get a grip and make rent.” you roll your eyes, but deep down you know she’s right. you need something to do with your hands, something to keep you from climbing the palace walls like some deranged romantic with a death wish.

you don’t expect anyone to show up, but people come. some friends. some strangers. a few art freaks who talk way too much about your “use of longing and space.” you just nod along, pretending you're three seconds away from yelling in their face.

everything is her. every painting. every messy, unblended brushstroke. every fucking streak of white paint on the canvas because she wore that blue dress when you first met, and now it’s like your brain can’t forget.

the last person leaves, some guy who said a lot of things you didn't understand, and you don't really remember the specifics of it, but you're pretty sure you shook hands, and maybe he wrote down your name and contact info? you don't remember. but there are no more guests. so you’re cleaning up. closing things. mentally debating whether or not you can drink paint thinner and survive.

the door creaks open behind you, and you don’t even look.

“sorry,” you call over your shoulder, wiping your hands on a rag. “we’re closed. private event's over.”

no response. just the sound of the door shutting. then —

“are you always this rude to royalty?”

you freeze.

slowly, slowly, you turn around. and she's standing there, in a white coat with her arms folded against her chest. there are shadows under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping either. it takes everything in you not to run to her. not to kiss her until she forgets all the reasons why she ran the first time. you settle for swallowing hard and clearing your throat.

“you could’ve just knocked."

“i did." she lifts her hand. “twice. and then i panicked and came in anyway.”

you stare. she fidgets.

she looks down at her shoes. looks back up again. looks back down again. like she doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she's here. finally, she takes a step forward. you take a step back. it's reflex at this point, some instinct to keep her from getting too close.

"i came to apologize," she starts, sounding unsure, which isn't like her at all. "for—everything."

karina runs a hand through her hair. your throat goes tight at the familiarity of the action, at how much she reminds you of that night, that stupid dress, and the way she kissed you, indicating that she didn’t care what came next.

you exhale.

"don’t apologize," you say, because the words feel heavy and foreign in your mouth, because she's been living a life you can't even begin to imagine, because none of that matters if she's here, looking at you like this, and you have to believe in something. "you didn't do anything wrong. and if anyone needs to apologize, it should be me. i shouldn't have—"

"you were right," she cuts in before you can finish.

it throws you. "what?"

she swallows hard, glancing down at the floor, at your shoes. then back up again, holding your gaze this time. "i don't know much about art, but i know what you meant…for someone to be your muse." her voice drops low. "and i think you're mine."

you blink. "oh."

a pause. her cheeks flush, eyes widening in panic.

"was that—did that make sense? i probably sound like a—"

"yeah."

you nod, trying not to smile as you watch her rambling, trying not to stare too obviously at how her whole face is blushing now.

you want to tell her everything. to show her everything.

you settle for, "i mean, it does make sense."

it does. it doesn’t. none of this does, not in a normal way. it's the kind of thing you tell your grandkids about someday. or maybe a therapist, if you can ever afford one. either way, it makes something flicker deep within your chest.

you pause.

"so what do you mean, exactly?"

her lips purse. her eyes are pleading now. she looks younger. more human. not so much a princess anymore as she does someone trying to figure out how to tell the world to screw off. you're struck, again, with how much you love her. it feels like a physical ache in your chest.

"i want this," she says quietly, gesturing between the two of you. "i want this so much it scares me."

you're not used to this, to feeling seen by someone who isn't yunjin, and it throws you off. you clear your throat again, shifting from one foot to the other. "i want this too."

a pause. you try not to stare too openly at her lips. you fail miserably.

"we'll figure it out," she says softly. "together. whatever that looks like."

"together."

the word hangs between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. and then—

you don’t even realize what's happening until she's already moving forward, pulling you down to her level. you can smell her perfume. you can see every single detail of her face as she stares back at you. your lips are a breath apart. she hesitates.

"tell me you don't want this," she murmurs. "and i'll go."

your chest constricts, throat tight. you want to tell her it'll never be easy, not when you're you, and not when she's her, not when this could be so much more complicated than either of you are prepared for. but you also want this, want her, want to know what her skin feels like against your palms and whether or not the words i love you sound good when spoken aloud. you swallow hard, hands tightening on her hips.

"i can't," you whisper. "i don't think i've ever wanted anything more."

a smile flickers over her face. it's gone too quickly. "good."

her lips are on yours, soft and gentle, and everything in your life shifts back into focus, into place.

there are things you can't explain. the way she feels pressed against your chest, warm and perfect and yours, for now at least. the way your hands shake when you brush your thumb over the curve of her cheek. the way she tastes like starlight.

and there are things you don't have to.

440 notes · View notes

natsaffection · 2 months ago

Text

Innocence. pt 1 | N.R

Older!Sargent!Natasha x Younger!Soldier! Reader

Warnings: None for now.

Word count: 5,1k

A/N: First of three parts is here! This one covers the very beginning, what we mostly go through during the first few days after leaving the comfort. The pacing might feel a bit slow while reading, but in person, it’s like you’ve already been there for weeks… and your body definitely isn’t thanking you.

The aircraft swayed just slightly with turbulence, but you barely noticed. You were sitting straight-backed in a seat along the right wall, harnessed in, hands resting atop your gear bag like you were afraid to let go of it. Your fingers itched with nerves, not the kind that made you panic, but the kind that made you wait. Watch. Think too much. You weren’t afraid. Not really. You were just…aware. Of everything.

The soldier across from you had his eyes closed, music bleeding faintly from one side of his headset, something with guitar, low and steady. Two others sat a few rows down, murmuring to each other over a bag of sunflower seeds, occasionally laughing too loud before catching themselves. One guy was bouncing his leg fast, his helmet tipped forward like a makeshift blindfold.

Everyone had a way to sit with their nerves. You just stayed still.

You watched the red glow of the overhead light paint everything in harsh shadow, hard edges on uniforms, tight lines across tense mouths. You could smell oil and canvas, gunmetal and worn leather. The air was dry, and warm. Somewhere far ahead, you knew the pilot was calling out distance markers. They were close.

And out there, already on the ground, already waiting..was her. Staff Sergeant Natasha Romanoff. Your new commanding officer. And the one woman you weren’t sure you knew how to impress…but desperately wanted to try.

Four Weeks Earlier

You stood stiffly at the desk, file in hand. The officer on the other side, some square-jawed sergeant you barely knew, was looking at you like he’d just broken bad news and didn’t want to say it twice.

“I’m sorry.” he said, “Aplha-One didn’t select you. High marks, yes. But they’ve got their own standards.”

You stared at the floor. Your mouth was dry. It wasn’t fair to cry, this was part of the game, you knew that..but still. You’d killed yourself for this unit. Two years of discipline, sweat, tests, sacrifices. Aloha-One was the goal.

“However…” he continued, sliding a second file toward you. “You scored extremely high in tactical reasoning and zero-error protocol under stress. Another team saw your data.”

You looked up slowly. “They want you in Echo 9. SSGT Romanoff’s division.”

Your fingers twitched on the edge of your folder. “Echo 9?”

“They don’t recruit often. But when they do, it’s for a reason. You caught someone’s attention.”

You hesitated. You’d heard the stories, Romanoff’s unit was covert, fast-moving, low profile. Their ops were real, and rarely spoken about.

Alpha-one had been the dream. But Echo 9? That was…something else. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and nodded. “I’ll take it.”

Back to Present

You rolled your shoulders gently. You kept looking at the door, the one that would open and spill you into dust, hot wind, and the start of whatever came next. You’d land near an isolated base camp in a desert region, you knew that much. Some recon op tied to sensitive cargo and possible extraction. High alert. Your first true deployment outside the wire.

Your chance to see her.

You’d only met twice, once during evaluation, and once during the fastest, coldest briefing you’d ever been through. Romanoff had scanned you like she already knew everything, your past, your stats, your tells. Like you’d already said enough by standing in front of her.

Two Weeks Ago

You were sitting cross-legged in the middle of your paper mess, balancing your tablet on one knee and typing with your thumb. A to-do list bloomed across the screen:

• Cancel lease

• Storage unit rental

• Forward mail to Mom

• Emergency contact

• Get tactical gloves (broken stitching)

• Sell old field jacket

Your fingers paused. You looked around the space, still half-lived in. Walls still had photos. Fridge still had magnets. The place didn’t feel like it was missing you yet. But you were already halfway gone.

A few hours later, your best friend Harlow came over to help you pack. You stuffed gear into crates and duffels, argued over which mugs to leave behind, and finally just collapsed onto the couch, still sweaty from lifting boxes.

“I can’t believe they picked you..” Harlow teased, nudging you.

You threw a pillow. “Screw off.”

“No, really. Romanoff? Echo 9? That’s wild. You’re gonna have stories.”

You smiled faintly. “If I come back with stories, it means I didn’t mess it up.”

Harlow looked at you. “You won’t mess it up. You’re meant for this.”

Back to Present

You let out a slow breath, fogging the air just slightly. Someone nearby tightened a strap; someone else cracked their knuckles.

Almost there. And somehow, in the middle of all this..the adrenaline, the altitude, the silence between heartbeats, you felt something else rise in your chest.

Pride.

With a sharp hiss, the hydraulic doors cracked open, and in the same instant, it hit you- The heat. It slammed into your face like a physical wall, dry, thick, pulsing with sun-baked intensity. Your breath caught for a moment, involuntarily. Not from shock, but from the weight of it. It wasn’t just hot, it was the kind of heat that crawled down the back of your neck, sat in your boots, and stole the moisture from your lungs.

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the brutal midday glare. The light was white. So bright the sand looked like it was glowing. A wasteland of tan and beige, mountains ghosting in the distance, like mirages wavering in the heat lines. Your boots clunked against the ramp as you followed the line of soldiers off the aircraft, dust already collecting around your ankles.

“Welcome to hell.” someone muttered behind you. You didn’t reply. You just kept walking, adrenaline mixing with sweat.

The group gathered in formation just beyond the landing zone, sweat already beginning to pool beneath gear not meant for this kind of sun. The tarmac shimmered. A breeze kicked up, hot and sharp with the scent of sand, diesel, and sweat. A tall man in a scorched tan uniform approached, clipboard in hand, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

“Listen up!” he barked. The chatter died instantly. “Today’s the twelfth. It’s 122 degrees out. That’s forty-nine Celsius for you metric-lovers. Hydrate, don’t pass out. You’re not heroes if you collapse on Day One.”

Someone coughed behind you. A few nods. The air was too hot for anything more. The man paused, then added with a dry smirk, “Romanoff’s waiting at Command. You’ll meet her shortly.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted, not from the sun this time, but from the name. Romanoff.

You felt a twinge in your chest. Sharp, curious, alert. “She really as hot as they say?” someone to your left whispered under his breath. His voice was low, but not low enough.

“Oh, she’s more than hot..” another guy replied, cracking a grin. “They say she can kill a man and give him a boner at the same time.”

Several soldiers chuckled, their laughter quick, dirty, laced with the kind of bravado that only came when they thought they were out of earshot. Your jaw tensed. You didn’t know Natasha well, yet..but something about the casual, sexual tone made your stomach twist. This wasn’t the kind of place you joked like that. Not about your people.

Then, a silence. It didn’t come slowly. It snapped into place like a rope pulled tight. You turned just slightly. There she was.

Natasha was walking toward you, slow and composed, each step measured, boots kicking up puffs of dust in her wake. Her uniform fit like it was cut for her alone, sleeves rolled up, tags tucked in, not a wrinkle on her. She carried no visible weapon, but no one needed proof.

She was the weapon.

Every soldier in the group straightened, even those who didn’t realize they were doing it. And her eyes, flat, cold, and controlled, landed directly on the man who’d made the joke.

“Name?” she asked, voice like ice under fire.

The guy swallowed. “Uh…Private Miles, ma’am.”

She walked up to him. Close. Too close. Their boots were almost touching. You couldn’t see her eyes anymore, but you saw his. They widened a fraction. His shoulders stiffened. The grin was gone.

“Private Miles..” Natasha said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “if I ever hear you speak about another soldier that way again, especially one in my command, I will personally make sure your transfer home includes a medical dishonorable discharge, and a broken jaw to explain it.”

The air around you didn’t move. Even the breeze seemed to stop. Miles stood like a statue. No response. No breath.

“And if you’re wondering whether I’m ‘as hot as they say,’” she added, stepping just slightly closer, her tone a thread away from venom, “I suggest you test your theory in a combat scenario. I’d love to see how long you last.”

Then she stepped back. “Eyes front.”

The entire group snapped to attention. You felt your pulse in your throat. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. It was like watching lightning strike just beside you. Romanoff turned to face everyone now, still calm, still unreadable.

“I’m Staff Sergeant Romanoff.” she said, tone level, eyes scanning the line. “You’re now part of Echo 9. That means your record matters less than your performance. You are responsible for each other. If you want to act like civilians, I suggest you turn back now.”

No one moved.

“Training begins tomorrow at 0500 (5:00am). Briefing starts at 0430 (4:30 am) sharp. You’ll receive bunks and assignments from base command in the next ten minutes. Hydrate. Unpack. Do not be late.” She paused. “Dismissed.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked back toward the base structure, heat swirling behind her in shimmering waves.

No one spoke for a long time. You swallowed, throat dry as bone. You couldn’t tell if your heartbeat was from the sun, or from her.

The base wasn’t much to look at, a sprawl of beige and metal, containers turned into housing, makeshift fences, worn banners catching the wind like tired flags. The ground was cracked and sun-bleached, the heat radiating off the concrete like an invisible second sun.

You followed the thin trail of other soldiers toward the housing row. A clipboard had been shoved into your hands moments after Romanoff’s departure, listing your bunk number and clearance ID. A container near the outer edge. Far enough from command to feel temporary. Close enough to hear the weight in every bootstep.

When you reached it, you paused. The container was basic, standard military housing. Matte green. Bolted shut with a manual handle. But it was yours. At least for now. You lifted the latch and stepped inside. Cooler air hit your face immediately, not cold, but not scalding either. A cheap mercy.

Inside, there were two narrow bunks, one metal locker each, a shared footlocker in the center, and a cracked mirror bolted above a dented sink. Sparse, lived-in, but clean. And someone was already unpacking on the left side.

She was bent over her duffel, sorting through rolls of gauze, small vials, medical wraps, her dark hair pulled into a messy low bun. She looked up when you entered and grinned.

“You must be Y/l/n.”

You blinked. “Yeah. That’s me.”

The girl stood, wiping a smudge off her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m Rae. Rae Bishop. You snore, you die.”

You laughed, tension bleeding out of your shoulders almost instantly. “Fair enough.”

You shook hands, firm, quick. That unspoken military rhythm already forming. You tossed your bag onto the right bunk and began peeling off your outer vest, already feeling a small pool of sweat at the base of your spine.

Rae slid a canteen across the small desk toward you. “You look cooked. Drink.”

You did. It was warm, but water was water. “You infantry?” Rae asked, hopping up to sit on her bunk, boots still on.

“Combat operations.” you replied, settling on your own bunk and unlacing one boot. “Support and recon for Exho 9. You?”

“Medic.” Rae said, tapping the red cross patch on her shoulder. “Second rotation. Got here three weeks ago.”

You raised a brow. “So you’ve already survived Romanoff?”

Rae grinned. “Barely. She’s not as scary when she’s not slicing you open with her eyes. But yeah..she’s the real deal.”

You nodded. You knew that already. The image of Natasha walking through the dust, silencing that joke with only a look and a sentence, it was burned into you.

“What made you volunteer?” Rae asked.

You hesitated for a second. “Wasn’t my first choice. But this unit…feels like it might be the right one after all.”

Rae smiled knowingly. “Same.”

A knock at the metal door broke the moment. Three short raps. You exchanged a quick glance.

Rae swung the door open. Three guys stood outside, dusty, still geared-up, grinning. You recognized two of them from the aircraft. The third held a dented pack of cards in one hand and a pack of instant ramen in the other.

“Y/l/n..” the tallest one said, “we’re playing cards in the rec tent. You in?”

Rae raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Wow, no invite for me?”

“You don’t lose gracefully.” one of them shot back.

You hesitated. The memory of that crude joke on the tarmac flashed in your head. Your mouth tightened slightly, and you crossed your arms, thoughtful.

“I don’t usually hang out with people who make sex jokes about our CO.”

The smiles wavered, just for a second. One of the guys, younger than the rest, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. That was Miles. He’s…well. He’s eating dinner alone tonight.”

The third guy nodded. “Look, no pressure. But you seemed chill. No one’s looking to mess around or anything. We’re just…unwinding.”

There was a beat of silence. The hot wind pushed dust across the open door. Inside, the cool air hummed. Then you sighed. “Alright. But if you deal me crap cards, I’m walking.”

Laughter broke out immediately, easy and welcome. Rae grinned and flopped back onto her bed. “Tell ‘em I taught you everything.”

The rec tent was barely lit, strings of mismatched bulbs hung along the corners, buzzing softly. Folding chairs surrounded a center table, already cluttered with cards, crumpled wrappers, and one old speaker playing lo-fi beats someone swore helped with morale.

You took a seat, your body still adjusting to the tempo of the place, the slight vibration of generators, the scent of old coffee, the shift in your nerves from edge to ease. You played three rounds. Lost one. Won two. Someone made fun of your poker face, or lack thereof, and you shot back with a sarcastic quip that made Rae snort water through her nose.

They didn’t talk about Romanoff again. They didn’t talk about war, or blood, or fear. Just music. Home. The taste of actual food. The way sand got everywhere. Laughter felt strange at first — awkward and too loud in the open air, but then it settled in like warmth.

Before you knew it, the sky outside the rec tent had turned from gold to steel blue. Then to black.

0500 Hours

The alarm pierced the air like a bullet. You flinched upright in your bunk, adrenaline kicking before your brain caught up. Your heart was hammering. For a second, you had no idea where you were.

The room was still dark, bathed in faint blue light from the small LED clock bolted to the wall. Your eyes tracked across the plain metal ceiling. The thin sheets twisted around your legs. The sound of Rae breathing across the room. Dust floating through a stream of early light filtering between the blinds.

Then, heat. That dry, ever-present warmth, already crawling in through the container’s thin insulation. The heavy scent of sand and sweat. The sound of footsteps, boots outside the wall. A voice barking out a name. A door slamming.

Camp.

Deployment.

It came back all at once. You exhaled and scrubbed a hand over your face. The ache in your spine was from the unforgiving bunk. The itch on your skin? Dust. Always dust.

You dressed quickly, muscle memory already forming after a single day. Tactical undershirt. Lightweight fatigues. Boots laced to regulation tightness. Canteen clipped, ID tags tucked, comm unit ready.

Rae stirred behind you. “Tell Romanoff I’m alive..” she muttered, voice rough with sleep.

You smirked. “No promises.”

You stepped out into the early dawn air. The sky was a hazy pink, sun just starting to rise over the distant ridges. Heat was already forming, like a warning curled around the horizon.

The training yard was a square of cracked earth and sandbags. Half the unit was already assembled, some stretching, others checking weapons or reviewing briefing notes on slim tablets. Conversations were low, sparse, and cautious.

You spotted Martinez, Johnson, a few others. Miles stood off to the side, arms crossed, avoiding everyone’s eyes. A knot of anticipation hung in the air.

Then.. “She’s here.”

Every head turned. Natasha walked across the yard with zero wasted movement. Black tactical vest over sun-bleached fatigues, combat boots spitting dust behind her. Hair tied back. Calm, controlled. Not out of breath. Not rushed. She stopped dead center.

“Morning.” she said. One word. It hit harder than any shout. Everyone straightened.

“You’ll be split between physical combat, strategy, survival theory, and behavior conditioning. Yes, it’s hot. Yes, it’s early. No, I don’t care. This unit doesn’t carry excuses.”

She turned toward a group of soldiers. “First pair-up. Hand-to-hand.” She scanned them once, then landed on her target.

“Miles.”

He stepped forward stiffly. She waited.

“…Ma’am?”

“I said combat sparring. Step up.”

He did. Hesitant. You felt the buzz ripple through the unit. Everyone knew exactly what this was about. Then Natasha looked at you.

“Y/l/n. You’re with him.”

Your stomach flipped, but not in fear. Your fingers twitched at your sides. Excitement, fire, something warm rising in your chest. You stepped forward, facing Miles.

He frowned. “We’re doing this for real?”

Natasha tilted her head, expression unreadable. “Unless you’d prefer to sit this out.”

He flinched, barely, but got into a ready stance. Defensive. Hesitant. His center of gravity too high. You didn’t wait. You stepped in, low and fast. A feint to the right, testing him. He flinched. His hands came up late.

Then he swept under, pivoted his foot..And stopped. He didn’t finish the strike.

But Natasha did. In a blink, she stepped in from the side, grabbed Miles by the collar with one hand, and drove her knee hard between his legs. The sound he made wasn’t even a word. He crumpled, knees buckling, face contorting in shocked pain as he hit the dirt.

A beat of silence. Natasha turned, looking directly at the rest of the men. Voice like ice melting on steel. “Women are underestimated in combat more often than I can count. Happens in the field. Happens in training. But do it in my unit, and you’ll learn the difference between cocky and unconscious.”

She didn’t smile. Not exactly. Just a slow, razor-edged smirk as she turned to you. “Well done. Switch partners.”

Training settled into a brutal rhythm. Mornings began with sparring and PT, climbing walls, crawling through obstacle courses, sprinting under the punishing heat. By midday, it was tactical theory. Sand-tables, holographic maps, mission simulations. Natasha drilled you on terrain advantage, split-second decisions, blind recon.

“Enemies don’t come at you clean.” she said once, pointer hovering over a digital battlefield. “They come when your boots are stuck in mud and your comms are down. Think beyond perfect conditions.”

Afternoons were dedicated to behavior conditioning. How to read a room. Spot a liar. Break a pattern. It wasn’t just about physical training, it was mental warfare.

One session was held in a metal container rigged with sound loops and flashing lights. Designed to simulate chaos. You had to complete logic tests under pressure.

You nearly failed the first time, until Natasha stood behind you and said, calmly, “Breathe slower. Find the rhythm. You control your mind, or the mission controls you.”

By the third day, you were keeping pace. Faster. Sharper. And more confident. The soldiers around you began to notice. Some nodded as they passed. Rae snuck you protein bars and coffee tablets. Even Martinez, cocky and sarcastic, offered to swap gear tips.

Miles? Still avoiding eye contact. You didn’t mind. Not when every sunrise started with that burst of nerves, and every night ended with sore muscles, heavy lungs, and the knowledge that you belonged here more than you ever did anywhere else.

DAY 6

The room was built to look like an alleyway. Cracked walls. Sandbags. Smoke machines filling the air with grit and haze. Speakers embedded in the ceiling blared distant gunfire and shouting, sirens wailing in timed bursts. The simulation chamber was used for high-stress ops training, strategy under pressure, team maneuvering, and live tactical decisions. Everything tracked. Every shot. Every step. Every second.

You crouched low, rifle to your shoulder, sweat soaking your collar. Your breath was fast, lungs burning. You moved with your unit through the mock-up street, Rae trailing you with med gear, Martinez and Johnson flanking either side.

Target: secure a civilian in the “hot zone” evacuate to the south extraction point. Simple, on paper. But nothing ever was.

You breached the second corner, cleared the breach, and..You froze.

Two silhouettes appeared behind a scrim of smoke. Civilian or hostile? You hesitated. Your fingers tensed on the trigger. Your brain tried to assess. The figures move-

And then everything went to hell. A simulated blast went off. Too close. Too loud. Martinez dropped, “wounded.” Rae got separated. A red strobe light flashed across the chamber, symbolic of a “critical failure” in evac timing.

It was over. Simulation terminated. The smoke cleared slowly, the lights steadying. Soldiers blinked in the false dawn of debrief lighting as the system powered down. You ripped your goggles off, chest heaving. Your hands were shaking. Not from fear.

From frustration. Natasha walked in, tablet in hand. Her expression unreadable. She let the silence linger. Then she looked up, eyes slicing through the group like scalpels.

“Everyone out.” she said flatly, not looking at anyone but you. “Except Y/l/n.”

The others filed out silently. Rae gave you a small glance. Not pity. Just understanding. When the door closed, Natasha walked closer. Not looming. Just…present. You stood straighter, trying to lock your jaw. Waiting.

“I want you to explain what happened.” Natasha said.

You hesitated. “I hesitated at the corner. I.. I didn’t want to misfire. The shapes weren’t clear-”

“They weren’t clear?” Natasha repeated, voice cold. “You’ve run that drill four times. You know the shape of that alley. You know what cover looks like from thirty meters. And you froze.”

You swallowed. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“Why?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “I.. didn’t trust myself.” you admitted. Quiet.

Natasha nodded once. A slow, deliberate motion. Then she stepped forward until you were almost eye to eye.

“If this had been real..” she said softly, “Martinez would have bled out before Rae could get to him. You would’ve lost your right leg to that blast. And your hesitation would’ve put your entire team in body bags.”

Every word was a scalpel. No yelling. No rage. Just cold truth. You didn’t speak.

“You don’t get to be unsure out there.” Natasha said. “Not when people are counting on you. Not when seconds mean survival. If you doubt yourself again, do it on your own time. Not mine.”

She turned away. Walked two steps. Then stopped. “But…”

You blinked.

“…you still identified the pattern before the system ended the sim. You saw the angle of the shooter. You started moving to block Rae’s exit. That means your instincts are right. You just didn’t trust them.”

Another long pause. “I want you in my class this afternoon. Behavioral split-second response training. Two hours.”

You nodded. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“And Y/l/n?”

“…Yes?”

“If you ever freeze like that again, I’ll personally send you back home with a thank-you card and a slap for wasting my time.”

Your mouth twitched. The sharpest edge of a grin. “Understood.”

DAY 11

The room buzzed with quiet suffering. The overhead lights flickered in that sickly yellow way that only military bulbs seemed to manage. Dust drifted lazily through the stale air. Everyone was slouched somewhere, against the walls, over the table, heads resting in hands, boots half unlaced beneath chairs. Not a single soul was upright by choice.

You sat near the end of the long table, chin propped in one hand, trying to pretend you weren’t blinking longer than you should.

Your thighs still burned from morning PT. Your knuckles were bruised from combat drills. Your brain was a fog of unfinished sleep and half-digested ration bars. Even your boots felt heavy. Like they’d been dipped in cement.

Rae, sitting next to you, looked dead-eyed at her half-full notebook. Johnson was using his own notepad as a pillow. Martinez had a cold pack wedged under his shirt, muttering something about “inhumane training laws” under his breath.

You were wrecked. And no one dared to say it out loud.

The door opened. And just like that, the room snapped into shape. Natasha walked in with a slow, unreadable expression. She didn’t bark a command. Didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her presence alone was a straight line drawn through chaos. Her expression unreadable, calm, but not soft. Alert. A storm in waiting. She walked past all of you without a word and hoisted herself up to sit on the table directly in front of the class , boots planted wide, elbows on knees.

The silence grew dense. Then, slowly, she looked at you. One by one. Not judging. Measuring. You sat straighter. Your heart, despite exhaustion, thudded once. Hard.

She reached for the remote and pressed a button. The screen behind her flickered to life. A drone shot filled the screen, a wide, aerial view of an arid landscape. Cracked land. A village reduced to fragments of stone and splinters. Roofs caved in. A single road, broken with impact craters, carved through what used to be homes.

Everything changed in the room. The fog of exhaustion evaporated. Spines straightened. Eyes locked forward. No one moved. Not even to breathe.

“This..” Natasha said, her voice low, “is the village of Qasira. Forty-seven clicks east of this base. Population, formerly nine hundred. Current? Unknown.”

She let that sit for a second before continuing. “Three days ago, an insurgent convoy passed through the area. They were hit mid-transit. Likely an airstrike from a local faction. Civilians were caught in the crossfire. Local med teams are moving in now. You’re going with them.”

The screen shifted to a satellite map. Pinpoints. Movement indicators. Roads. “This isn’t a combat op. It’s a secure-and-monitor. Your job is to escort, establish perimeter, and provide overwatch while the medics assist the injured and collect survivors.”

Her voice was firm, but there was something in her eyes , a warning, subtle but sharp. “You will be met with three types of people.” she continued. “Those who are glad to see you. Those who resent you. And those who hate you outright. All of them will be scared. Some will be armed. Some won’t.”

Rae swallowed softly next to you.

“You do not fire unless fired upon.” Natasha said. “You do not engage unless absolutely necessary. If someone spits at you, you walk. If someone screams at you, you listen. You are not here to escalate. You are here to protect the people doing their jobs.”

Another click. A street-level image filled the screen, caved-in houses, burnt-out windows, children standing in the rubble, watching the drone.

Your throat tightened.

“This is what real missions look like.” Natasha said, quieter now. “It’s not always bullets and body armor. Sometimes it’s holding a perimeter while someone bleeds out two feet away from you. Sometimes it’s walking past a woman crying over what used to be her kitchen.”

She looked at all of you. And this time, there was no cold edge. Just steel. Steady and unwavering.

“You need to be better than your instincts. You need to be professional, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

A pause. “We leave at 0700 (7am).”

With that, she stood, clicked off the screen, and stepped down. Then, she turned back.

“Gear up. No mistakes.”

The silence lingered after she left. It wasn’t fear. It was something sharper. Something real. You exhaled, slow, as if the weight of the next phase had finally landed on your chest.

Part 2

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader

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acid-ixx · 1 year ago

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why now? (again &. again chapter excerpt)

ft. yandere! damian wayne x kidnapped! reader

read until the end for an author's note. slight spoilers below.

"damian, tell me, why now?"

why now? you question that to yourself more often than you would want to. why now, instead of the past 13 and a half years when you were a nobody to the family? why now, when you had finally learned to love yourself and let go? why now, when you were finally out of their arms.

"huh...?"

your youngest brother snaps out of his focus on painting a canvas of you, body turning to your direction, curiousity peeping in his eyes. he acts like whatever you had said was bewildering, but you know he knows what your question meant, he doesn't need a repeat of your statement because damian is a no-bullshit brother— he simply wants to hear your voice.

his eyes used to look at you with contempt and disgust. you'd rather that than the current gaze of adoration from your brother, who now stares at your form seated on a papasan chair, now his muse for his current painting.

"why now, damian? why is it now that all of you guys are suddenly interested in me?" you repeat; exasperation, disdain, apprehension, all an amalgation of emotions in your tone. if he wants to play stupid, then fine, as long as you get what you want in the end.

you continued mumbling, voice echoing inside the room-turned-atelier. "last i checked, you were intent on murdering me just 'cause you hated me."

it was a quip, truly, a mere tease to his past actions. you didn't know just how much your statement offends him, eyebrowns furrowing as his gaze seems to harden.

it took him seconds to fully register what you had said. you wished you were quick enough to take those seconds to your advantage to bolt out of the room, to run away, but you can't.

"(name)," he sighs, standing up from his chair and easing his way to your seated form. you stand, too, not wanting to back out of what seems to be a forming argument.

he may be shorter than you by an inch or five, but you didn't want to admit just how much smaller he makes you feel.

"i have never told you i hated you." he says, as if it is a matter of fact, but you couldn't bring yourself to believe him, to believe what he wants you to hear. the wringing in your ears provides you the slightest bit of solace, but it wasn't enough to distract you from the words that come out of his mouth, words that contradict his past actions towards you.

"i may have injured you in multiple occasions, said hurtful things beyond redemption— for that i am deeply sorry for treating you, my older sibling, that way. but my intent to hurt you in the past never stemmed from hatred. i have never hated you, (name), and i do not have any reason to hate you."

you didn't know whether he was trying to convince you, or himself. you don't know how to feel, you don't want to feel anymore. fuck, you regret even talking to him in the first place. you feel so trapped, like you were in a dead end of a maze. you want to get out but you can't.

you didn't even know just how much you were heaving, tears welling in your eyes as you shiver; all the lies you had fed to yourself now biting you back in the ass.

you expected him to shift the conversation to something else, anything else, or even tell you to sit the fuck down so he could return to painting you.

what you didn't expect was, was his sudden turn of actions as his arms locked you in an embrace, his head nuzzling your chest as he pouts, head turning up, eyes gazing at you fondly like you meant the world. like he never once hurt you with his words and with his actions.

'push him away,' your mind tells you, but your heart clenches, beating erratically as if it was screaming at you to not let go.

you hate this. you hate that you feel conflicted, appalled at yourself for even fucking reciprocating his hug. it scorches you, you hate everything, you hate that you had always wanted this. you hate yourself for tearing up, hand shakily finding itself on his head, running through his hair.

you hate how warm you feel, how your chest aches at his affection, how both your grip on each other were strong as iron. how damian nuzzles deeper into the embrace, how he feels so vulnerable in your arms.

"why now, you ask? you always wanted this, right, (name)?" his words were muffled by your clothes, but you couldn't drown his voice out even if you want to. god, you wish you never asked him anything.

he continued, pretending as if you weren't choking on your own predicament, "dick was always the most experienced, tim the smartest even if i do not wish to admit it..."

he drawls on, listing every traits of your family, relishing in the thumps of your heart.

"—but you..." he stares at you deeply, fingers dig deep into your skin. but it doesn't scar you, not anymore.

"you are the most emotional... my older sibling, the one who got away. you're finally back..."

damian makes a show of tightening his grip, the space between the two of you near to nonexistent.

you had every strength to push him away, to send him tumbling to the floor unexpectedly. but he was always stronger than you, damian was always one step ahead of you. you're too tired to fight back, you want more. you need for him to let go but—

he has you in his arms.

you don't know how much time has passed.

"... i miss you and i love you, (name)."

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: 974 words. inspired by this panel. sorry for the delay for the new chapter so i'm giving you guys this erm, i was experiencing massive writer's block and mood swings (and a bit of imposter syndrome when it came to my writing). this is a drabble for a future chapter (not the next one) where they had already kidnapped you. damian is one manipulative fucker and writing contradicting feelings hurts my brain lmao !!

#🌷... yael's works #🧁... yael's misc.#series: again & again #yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere damian wayne #yandere damian wayne x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #platonic yandere #theres times where i cant write at all and times where i can write smth good enough 😭

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skyracha · 28 days ago

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SKZ Headcanons

Finding Your “Laundry” In Theirs

POV: The guys stumble upon some more intimate pieces of your wardrobe while doing their laundry.

A/N: this is about bras and lacy underwear and shit

Tags: @cowboylikemalika @encoredesires @my-neurodivergent-world @itvenorica124 @0sunshinecryptid0 @lov3rachan @synesthesia-fics @sunnybunnybabygirl

My Library HERE :)

Bangchan:

He would honestly be a bit confused as first, but once he realized WHAT is was, he knows its yours. He returns it in a neat folded pile on your bed with a note saying “pretty sure this wouldn’t fit me :)”. You try to apologize when you see him next but he waves it off as a good laugh.

“No don’t even stress. It gave me a good laugh when I found it. The note was an added humor for me.”

Lee Know:

I see him thinking for a minute on who it could belong to, but then he notices the brand of the bra and knows its yours. (Don’t ask me why, bro just pays attention to details) He finds you in your room and holds it up in a “missing this?” way. When you snatch it out of embarrassment and yell at him for having it, he nonchalantly blames you for him having it.

“Hey don’t be mad at me. I washed it for you and everything. You’re the one that somehow threw it in my laundry so, if I were you I’d keep better track of my bras.”

Changbin:

I feel like he’d be casual about this too depending on what he finds. Just a bra? No problem. Lacy lingerie or silk underwear? Definitely not ok. Because he’d wanna know why they were dirty in the first place. He’d be so concerned about if you had a guy over and what you two did that made you need to wash the delicate lacy stuff.

“Why is THIS dirty? And WHY did it need washed? Did you have someone over here? Did you sneak a guy in the dorms? Why else would you wear this? I need to know!!”

Hyunjin:

He’d be so chill about it I think? But he’d also probably ask to paint you? Like he finds the prettiest silk and lace piece of lingerie in his laundry, and he folds it and returns it to you no problem. But when you try to apologize for the mishap he stops you and just wants to see it. Little does he know mayyyybe he should pick one that doesn’t show your whole chest off.

“No I’m not worried about it. I just want to paint you in it if that’s okay? I feel like it’d be pretty and the color would be fun to paint on a canvas. Is that something you’d be comfortable with?”

Han:

He would be SHOCKED at finding a bra in his laundry. Like his first thought would be that one of the guys snuck a girl in and she left this here. He’d go around to all of them accusing them and when he turns up with no answers, decides to ask you. You’re apologetic of course, but can’t help laughing when he admits to his original thought.

“You would think the female living here would be my first thought when finding a bra, but no my mind went straight to the gutter. I went to every other guy in here before it occurred to me that you live here too.”

Felix:

He’d be a sweetie about the mishap. He’d find a pair of your underwear or something and just laugh to himself for a moment before folding them up and bringing them to you. He’d just explain that they somehow ended up in his laundry and act like it’s no big deal when youre embarassed. He’d try to calm you by making a joke.

“I found these in my laundry. I assume they’re yours but if not then I have questions for the other guys. I thought I’d bring them back to you before someone else saw them in my room.”

Seungmin:

He’d find a bra of yours in his laundry and retaliate by poorly putting it on himself and walking into your room like that. When you groan and complain, he makes you take it off him to get it back. He says it’s punishment for him having to find it.

“You don’t wanna see me in a bra again, then make sure you keep track of them. Otherwise I’ll make you take it off with one hand next time.”

I.N:

I feel like when he finds the pair of underwear, he’d fold it into one of his t-shirts or something so when he brings it to you, no one sees them. In his mind he doesn’t want people seeing your underwear, so when he comes in, he unfolds the shirt and lets you grab them before smiling and leaving like it was nothing.

“I folded them in my shirt in case I ran into someone in the hall. I figured you’d wanna keep what you wear private.”

#skz #skz x reader #stray kids #skz fanfic #skz fluff #skz imagines #skz memes #skz smau #stray kids fake texts #bang chan #lee know #seo changbin #hyunjin #han skz #felix yongbok #seungmin #i.n skz

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mellowwillowy · 2 years ago

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Yan! Lawyer Husband x GN Spouse Reader HCs

CW: mafia related stuffs

—𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓 - 𝑳𝑰𝒇𝑬 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕

Yan! Husband is a gentle soul to you, he can't and will never lay a finger with the meaning to hurt you! He just doesn't have the strength to do so, almost as though he was set to be so. It's another whole story when it comes to the others though, can you guess how many times he has pulled the trigger of a gun?

Yan! Husband who spoils you rotten with everything you could ever think of. Luxuries, reputations but never the forbodden knowledge he has tried so hard to keep away from you. No, he won't clip your wings. You are his songbird who gets to only fly inside the gilded cage but never in the outside world. He will create a stage of the outside world for you, but never the real deal.

Yan! Husband who paints a portrait of you whenever he's stressed over the cases he has to handle. To move the brush without any problem as your form starts to appear on the blank canvas, he has no trouble remembering you. Sculpting is no problem for him as well. He has spent all his lives honing his artistic skill just to eternalize you as pieces of art.

Yan! Husband loves you so much that he deems children as a burden and bothersome (adoptive too). He only needs you to build a family, he had no need for children to continue this lineage. His whole life revolves around you. If you pass away, he too, will pass away shortly after. That's how much he loves you to the point that death cannot separate you two.

Yan! Husband who might not look like he's able to do it but he is actually an S-rank gaslighter. He will trick you into believing that what he is suggesting is only to keep you safe! He doesn't really enjoy taking your autonomy directly unless it's needed (of course, in a way where you will not confront him about it).

Yan! Husband who will cover and remove all your bad track records (if you have any). He has the power and connection to erase any kind of dirt that is on you, you are his pristine pure lily-of-the-valley and you should not be defiled with those records. Live without any worry clouded in your mind dear, the laws will never tarnish your reputation when you have this lawyer backing you ^^

Yan! Husband who adores any sort of physical touch when it comes to you, yes, anything. Even if you hit him silly, he'd still love every moment your skin feels his. He loves hugging you the most, his face buried into the crook of your neck while taking a scent of you.

Yan! Husband who enjoys humming lullaby of yours to the point everyone's ears around him is bleeding from the repeating lullaby. Can this guy please hum something else for once?

Yan! Husband who will read for you whenever he has the time to sleep with you. He doesn't know what to say to you as his work is either foreign to your brain or a tad too shady. Childhood memories are not great too as he has long forgotten about everything the moment he pledges eternal vow to love you. He abandoned everything and lives only for you.

Yan! Husband who prioritizes you as his number one, even above his own well-being and career. He can still live even if he falls ill, his career would never fall out of track as he has the mafia under his grasp, but you can slip out of his grasp. And he doesn't want that to happen again.

Yan! Husband is without a doubt an infamous lawyer. Especially with how many times he has let the ringleader of that renowned mafia group slip out from the prosecutor and judge's grip? If you seriously think you'll be pronounced guilty of that murder, you better throw that thought out just like how he throws all the scapegoats and falsified evidence into the court. (Should I write a fic for this?)

Yan! Husband who will always make time for the two of you. While vacations are not as often as he wishes he could have, cuddles and tea parties sound nice enough for him to kill time with you.

Yan! Husband who has this cute journal that's filled with what you have been doing every day instead of his own daily stuff. Oh, your diary is almost his if you know how he reads it daily like a refreshment.

Yan! Husband who as much as he hates having to show you to the people at the official parties and events he has to attend, he just can't shake away the butterflies in his stomach as well! You are not just some trophy spouse, you are his beloved! A hand on your waist and a face that is seen whispering sweet nothings into your ear with a glass in his other hand. Oh, he looks so o-godly-handsome like a man who comes out from a romance novel!

Yan! Husband who is a man of greed, the embodiment of Mammon. Wealth is not something that he has never not possessed. So whatever the fuck you do, gambling or blowing it off somewhere in a dumb investment or stock, he won't make a fuss out of it. Instead, he'll teach you more about money management instead :/

"Do you want to learn how to invest? I know a way or two from my predecessor."

He will let you play all the money game you want and gives you the illusion of success despite all the trials and errors you made (he's the one who clean up all the mess lol)

I know that this is AFAB! oriented BUT Yan! Husband never wishes to impregnate you even once. No, he doesn't like the idea of you being in pain over a damn baby(ies) that could just take your life as well. He does enjoy fucking you without any protection on but that is after he tracks your safe day (man is literally fighting the fate of having you pregnant). He prefers you to not consume any birth control for just in case it causes harm rather than good to you. (Shots are a pass if you are scared of syringes)

He is A-OK with adopting if you are persistent enough about this matter and is B-OK if you want to get pregnant (AFAB). He just can't refuse and upset you...

So please don't imagine what would happen if darling dies during delivery :)

Yan! Husband who will always open his pocketwatch and kiss the picture of you in his pocket watch. How many times and lives had passed just for him to enjoy the solace of being your husband?

𝐀 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫.

Yulian de Alpheus is a man of ambition. While he does share the same look as his 'father', the ambition he has is the complete opposite of Castiel. Castiel created him to seek the truth of life, Adam existed to be the Genesis of Life, Alan existed to be someone he didn't recognize and Yulian existed to live beneath the shadow of his spouse.

𝐘𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Taglist: @vinivave @destructa1 @szde8-blog @luminous011 @ush0 @annbourbon @randomnl @cassanderasblog @maam-appreciator @lem-hhn @fanatic-fan @flesh-eating-ladybug

(send ask/message to be removed from taglist)

#yandere male #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere x you #yandere imagines #male yandere #yandere insert #yandere oc #yandere headcanons #yandere works #yandere writing #reader insert #x reader #oc #x gn reader #LIfE Project #yandere husband #Yulian the Corruption

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saintobio · 11 months ago

Text

the art of loving, feat. l&ds rafayel.

pairings. rafayel, fem!reader genre. fluff, smut, established relationship, 18+ tags. artist x muse, hints of abandonment issues, clingy bf!rafayel, allusions to nude paintings, fellatio, cum eating, protected sex, praise kink notes. my third l&ds boy :’) there’s a full blown sylus oneshot coming but for now, i have to write abt our cute fish! i’ll continue the jjk wips on the weekend bcos my l&ds hyperfixation is currently taking over 🤧

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who makes you the muse of his paintings. he loves how he can adore your face while turning his blank canvas into something as colorful as you. it all started when he used to sketch you when you’re not looking. and it’s a habit that he, time and time again, still does. whether you’re reading, sleeping, or simply lost in thought, he finds these moments precious and captures them in his sketchbook. he actually has a dedicated corner of you on his mo art studio, where it’s filled with paintings and sketches of his beautiful girlfriend.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who loves to paint with you. he’ll set up a canvas next to his and guide your hands, laughing together as you create something… unique. look, he’s not making fun of your painting. in fact, he’d say you’re actually very talented. “it’s not bad at all,” he’d claim, “it’s an exquisite art… if i close my eyes.” how mean! but honestly, if you were to sell your artwork, he would still be the first person to buy it.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who gets playful with paint. while you’re on the subject of ‘painting together’, you know how cheeky rafayel is, and when he dabs a bit of paint on your nose or cheeks, the light-hearted paint fight ends in messy, colorful kisses. one time, he even left a purple handprint on your bum, and giggles each time he sees it from behind.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who gets clingy when you’re busy. he’ll sulk if he feels you’re not paying enough attention to him, often wrapping his arms around you from behind and nuzzling into your neck to remind you he’s there. he can very grumpy, too. like a spoiled brat who he didn’t get what he wants. it’s just that he dislikes the feeling of being ignored and abandoned, so the last thing you knew not to do is make him wait too long on your dates or make him feel like your mind is occupied by anything else other than him. because he’d go as far as pretending to be in a helpless situation just so you’d drop everything and run off to him. how silly!

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who surprises you with personalized art gifts. from small sketches slipped into your bag to full portraits given on special occasions. it’s his way of expressing his love, because he’s very grateful of how supportive you are when he has art exhibits. your presence calms his nerves, and he always looks for you in the crowd to find strength in your encouraging smiles.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who likes to cuddle while discussing his latest ideas. he enjoys your input and loves bouncing ideas off you. his hands like to roam around your body as he keeps you in bed all day, whispering sweet nothings into you ear and making the atmosphere warm and intimate. “i can’t help it!”was his usual excuse whenever you’d call him out for being too touchy. “sometimes, my inspirations come in the form of physical intimacy, you know!”

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who can’t resist kissing you passionately when he’s inspired. he sketches you in intimate moments, letting you lie beautifully naked in bed and with only a blanket to cover the lower half of your body, like a vulnerable mermaid looking to be held by her prince. he’ll pull you close, hands covered in paint, leaving colorful fingerprints and delicate patterns on your skin as his lips capture yours in a heated kiss. he would peel the blanket off you slowly, taking his sweet time as if memorizing every dip and curve to later recreate in his art. his touch is both tender and electrifying. and his expressions, both raw and passionate as he eyes every inch of your body.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who whispers his deepest desires in your ear. his voice becomes husky with emotions, telling you exactly what he wants, and leaving you blushing and eager to feed him the attention he seeks. he’s very needy, indeed. but most especially in bed. he’d often grab your hand, allowing you to brush it against his toned chest and down to his… aching member. it’s begging to be released, you both know it. and so when he guides your head closer to his crotch, you already know what ‘job’ you had to do for him.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who whines a lot while you’re pleasing him, but in a cute way. he’s just very vocal about it. he’s incapable of keeping his little moans whenever he feels your tongue rolling around his tip, your lips leaving open-mouthed kisses along the sides of his length. it’s like suction when you fully take him into your mouth, the image of your head bobbing to suck his cock is extremely vivid in his head. “mhm~ don’t stop.” rafayel loses his mind over it. “my darling, lover girl. you’re so pretty, my baby.” and when you’d allow him to cum inside your mouth, he’s a weak man watching you swallow every single drop.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who respects your boundaries and doesn’t push you to try things in bed that you’re not comfortable with. when you told him he can’t do you raw, he willingly obliged. so, lo and behold the huge box of condoms on his nightstand. he believes in practicing safe sex because you both aren’t ready for that kind of responsibility yet. but that doesn’t lessen the frequency of your activities in bed. in fact, his beloved box of rubbers would easily run out after 2-3 weeks.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who likes to be praised when doing the deed with you. it’s just innate in him. you have to let him know if he’s doing good, have to let him hear how great he feels inside of you, how pretty he looks when you gaze down on him, and how amazing his hands are in finding your most sensitive places. “raf, you’re the best at this,” you’d moan into his mouth, the sound of skin-slapping echoing across his studio as you feel him racing through his climax, “s-so good, ngh~” he’s one to smile at your little whimpers. “yeah, you like where i’m hitting it, baby?” “haa—i do!” “thought so.”

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who wants to be displayed all over your social media accounts. it’s as straightforward as he is—he wants his face to take over your account. he wants to know that you’re proud of him and that you’re showing off your handsome boyfriend whenever you can. he also wants you to interact with his posts, leave comments, and hit the heart button. every. single. time. he gets easily sulky if sees you ignoring his cute posts about you. that’s just how he is, and it doesn’t frustrate you one bit, because he just loves being the center of your world in exchange for treating you the center of his. that was the art of loving rafayel.

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #lads x reader #lads x you #l&ds x reader #l&ds x you #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #lads rafayel #l&ds rafayel #rafayel smut #rafayel fluff #l&ds headcanons

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milfsloverblog · 7 months ago

Note

Hello author ! I have a request for Larrisa. Reader is a prostitute and Larissa goes to her to forget Morticia. May I ask for shifted cock ? Thank you keep up the good work 🥳

Unraveled Illusions (NSFW)

Larissa Weems x prostitute!reader

A/N: Slowly going through my request list. I loved this idea, wrote this tonight instead of preparing my lessons for next week (work can wait). I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your request!!

tw: shapeshifted cock

You thought when your latest client picked you, it was for your body. After all, that's what most people are paying for. They weren’t looking for conversation or connection—just the fantasy of intimacy.

Over the years, you’d learned to read them: the ones who worshipped breasts, ass, legs, as well as many other common—and uncommon—things. Larissa seemed like a hair woman, judging by the way her fingers twisted through your locks, keeping you bent over the bed.

She hadn’t touched you beyond that, though. One hand was locked around your hair, the other... Well, she was stroking herself, seemingly content to maintain the distance between your bodies. It was unusual. Clients usually tried to consume you, to use you until there was nothing left. But Larissa, this woman with her piercing gaze and sharp cheekbones, seemed more like a collector.

You could hear her laboured breathing behind you. But it wasn’t pleasure—at least not entirely. There was something raw in it. Frustration, maybe. Longing.

You turned your head, curious to catch her expression, but her grip tightened, and she guided your face back toward the headboard.

"Stay."

Her voice was low, almost commanding, but there was something fragile underneath it. Something you’d seen before in others: a woman who wasn’t really here with you.

It always came down to projection, didn’t it? You weren’t yourself in these moments—you were the canvas they painted on. Larissa, too, was searching for someone else.

"What's her name?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Larissa's movements faltered.

“Don’t talk.”

You didn’t listen.

“Her name,” you repeated, turning your face enough to glimpse her. "The one you’re thinking of."

She scoffed, shaking her head, but didn’t deny it.

“Not everything has to be spelt out,” she muttered, but the way her shoulders stiffened told you everything you needed to know.

This woman—this ghost—haunted her.

“You know you’ll feel better if you say it,” you pushed gently, straightening enough to sit back on your knees. Larissa stilled, her hand falling away.

She sat heavily on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of her nose. For a long moment, she didn’t speak, and you weren’t sure if she was trying to gather herself or find an escape. Finally, she muttered one word.

“Morticia.”

Her lips barely moved when she said it, like she was afraid of summoning something painful.

"Good." You let the name sit between you, an offering of sorts. “Now, was that so hard?”

Her icy blue eyes snapped to yours, narrowing.

“Do you always try to psychoanalyze your clients?”

“Only when they make it this easy.” You smiled, softening the edges of the dig.

For the first time since she’d walked into the room, Larissa smiled back. It wasn’t warm—not yet—but there was something wry in it, something almost playful.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“A little.”

She exhaled a short laugh, running a hand through her hair. The updo she’d tried to keep intact earlier was half undone now, strands curling rebelliously around her face. You thought she looked beautiful like this—dishevelled and human.

You didn’t often allow yourself to feel for clients. It was dangerous, after all. But something about Larissa's loneliness, the way it clung to her like a second skin, called to you.

“You miss her,” you said softly, not a question.

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t deny it.

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

“No.” The word was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. But the way her fingers trembled slightly as she worked to rebutton her blouse betrayed her.

She stood abruptly, reaching down for her pants that she quickly put back on.

“I should go,” she muttered.

“Larissa,” you said, her name falling from your lips without thought.

She froze, her hand on the door handle. Slowly, she turned, her eyes searching yours.

"Say that again," she murmured.

“Larissa.”

There was a flicker of something in her gaze, something raw and unguarded.

“You almost sound like her,” she said softly. Her voice wavered, but her expression was steel.

You crossed the room, closing the space between you, emboldened by her hesitation. When you reached her, you lifted a hand, letting your fingers hover near her temple. “Do you want me to be her?”

She swallowed hard. “You can’t.”

“No,” you agreed. “I can’t. Because in what world would she ever want to be with someone like you?”

The words were cruel, but you’d seen what women like her responded to. Pain. It was familiar to them. Comforting, even. You held your breath, waiting for her reaction.

Her eyes flared, something igniting in their depths.

She stepped forward, her presence filling the air between you, heavy and electric. It took everything you had not to retreat—not to give her the satisfaction of seeing you falter. She was close now, too close, her icy blue eyes locking onto yours, turbulent and searching. They flickered like a storm barely held in check, and you wondered if she was about to lash out or leave altogether.

Your heart raced, an unpredictable rhythm, and you weren’t sure if it was fear or desire that caused it. Maybe both. Then, before you could steel yourself, she closed the distance.

Her lips crashed against yours, a punishing press of mouth on mouth. It was rough and demanding, all sharp edges and no finesse, but you met her fervour head-on, refusing to let her dominate entirely. You pushed back, kissing her with just as much bite as she gave.

It was the right move. A low growl escaped her throat as her hands found your hips, gripping tightly. She pulled you against her, guiding you down onto the bed without breaking the kiss. The mattress dipped beneath your combined weight as she covered you, her lips relentless.

The kiss was messy, a heady mix of clashing teeth and lingering wine. Her perfume lingered faintly on her skin, a floral note beneath the heat of the moment. It was intoxicating, but not enough to distract you.

Your hands worked quickly, curling around the collar of her blouse and tugging her closer. The buttons she had so meticulously fastened earlier came undone with ease under your fingers, and when you finally managed to peel the fabric off her shoulders, she hovered above you, breathless and dishevelled.

“You’re an idiot,” she growled, and you knew she wasn’t talking to you but rather herself.

“You’re a cunt,” you shot back, breathless but smiling.

She pulled back just far enough to smirk, the expression sharp and self-assured. “You are what you eat,” she quipped before diving back in.

A laugh bubbled out of you, unexpected but genuine. The sound didn’t seem to bother her; if anything, it spurred her on. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if trying to anchor herself.

Her weight pressed down on you, solid and comforting in its intensity. Your hands roamed to her biceps, gripping them, feeling the tension in her muscles as they shifted and flexed beneath your touch. She moved with purpose, her hands sliding over your body, down to your hips, then lower still.

Your legs moved instinctively, wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer. The fabric of her pants rubbed against your skin, and when her hardened length brushed against your core through the layers, you couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped you.

She hummed softly, rolling her hips against yours.

"Larissa, please," you begged, the words tumbling out more earnestly than you'd intended.

Her movement stilled. Rising to her feet, she left you sprawled on the bed as you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as she reached for the zipper of her pants. Hooking her thumbs into the waistband, she slid them and her panties down in one fluid motion. Your eyes stayed locked on her face, unblinking, even as she stepped out of the fabric and crawled back toward you, her movements deliberate.

Your arms stretched toward her as she closed the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you reached into your discarded purse beside you, your fingers quickly finding a condom and tearing it open with practised ease.

The other hand drifted down her body, brushing over the curve of her breasts, the smooth line of her navel, and lower. When you felt the soft hair below her belly button, your fingers ventured further, wrapping around her cock, heavy and hot in your palm.

The first experimental tug earned you a soft groan. The second, a deeper growl. By the third, her forehead came to rest against yours, her breathing laboured as you carefully rolled the condom over her length. Satisfied, you lifted your eyes to hers, offering a small nod of readiness.

She crushed her lips to yours in a fierce kiss, pushing you back onto the bed. The kiss was rough, more teeth than softness, and you moaned against her mouth, your breath hitching when her fingers finally found you. They slipped through your folds with practised precision, circling your clit with just the right pressure to make you gasp. Her teeth nipped at your bottom lip, her control maddeningly exact.

Sweat slicked your skin as your breaths mingled, and more than once, she brought you right to the edge of release only to pull back, leaving you teetering on the brink. By the third time, you shot her an exasperated glare.

“I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry in the slightest,” she said, her grin equal parts smug and infuriating.

Your response caught in your throat when she finally positioned herself at your entrance. With a deliberate push of her hips, she filled you, the stretch overwhelming in the best way. You whimpered, unable—or unwilling—to hold back the sound.

"Larissa," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

She buried her face against your neck, her breath hot against your skin as she groaned. It almost sounded like a name—Morticia, perhaps—but before you could linger on the thought, she thrust again, hitting a spot deep inside you that made you cry out.

Your arms wrapped around her shoulders as her pace quickened, each movement precise and powerful. Her hands roamed your body, squeezing, gripping, and claiming. For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe she wanted you—not whoever haunted her mind. But you quickly dismissed the thought. This was just a transaction, nothing more.

Her pace grew erratic, her body trembling as she neared her climax. To your surprise, you felt your own release building, an unfamiliar sensation creeping over you. You rarely let yourself enjoy these moments with clients, but something about Larissa’s focus, the weight of her presence, unravelled you.

The wave of pleasure hit suddenly, your cry sharp and unrestrained. At almost the same moment, Larissa thrust deep one final time, her body going taut as she groaned through her release. The condom dulled the sensation, but you swore you could still feel the faint pulse of her inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the room filled only with the sound of your ragged breaths. Then, with a grunt, she pulled away, disposing of the condom in the bin before beginning to redress in silence.

“Dinner?” she asked casually, buttoning her blouse without looking at you.

You laughed, reaching back to zip up your dress. “I don’t have dinner with clients.”

Sliding onto a nearby stool, you bent down to clasp your heels.

“Even if they pay you?” she asked from the doorway, her tone light but curious.

Looking up, you caught her gaze, noticing the brief flick of her eyes to your cleavage before they returned to your face. A smirk tugged at your lips, mirrored instantly by hers.

“Good night, Larissa,” you said, your voice soft but firm.

She chuckled, a low sound that lingered even as she turned to leave.

“Good night.”

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @azu-zu , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary , @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr , @winterfireblond , @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissaoftarthweems @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

#gwendoline christie #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #larissa weems x y/n #no beta we die like larissa

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seospicybin · 2 months ago

Text

CAM.

FINAL CHAPTER

Hyunjin x reader. (s,a)

CAM MASTERLIST

Synopsis: Struggling to make ends meet as an art student, Hyunjin never expected his quiet neighbor to change everything. Rumored to be an adult content creator, you offer him a deal—help you with your content, and you’ll help with his financial troubles. What starts as a simple arrangement soon blurs into something more, pulling Hyunjin into a world he never imagined. (9,7k words)

Author's note: I want to thank you for following Cam series. It's been fun. Hope you enjoy this one too ♡

Hyunjin shuts the door behind him and doesn’t look back. Each step away from your apartment echoes louder in his head than the last. His chest feels tight, like he’s holding something back—like maybe he should’ve said more. Maybe he should’ve said anything else. But instead, he chose silence and walked away.

He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. That this is better. That he needs the space. That things were getting too tangled, too fast.

It’s just work, he reminds himself. You were helping me. I was helping you. That’s all it was supposed to be.

But the memory of your smile when you offered him lunch creeps in anyway. So does the look in your eyes when you asked if he was okay—genuine, soft, concerned. Too concerned. He could’ve told you the truth. That it wasn’t just about the job anymore. That he was starting to feel something he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved to begin with. Maybe he should’ve just focused on his art like he always planned. Still… he feels like he’s walking away from more than just work and that’s what scares him most.

Hyunjin spends the rest of the afternoon staring at the canvas. The brush is in his hand, the colors are ready, but the strokes come out hesitant. Disjointed. Aimless. He tells himself to focus—just paint, Hyunjin. Paint anything. And so, he does.

Slowly, shapes begin to form. A curve here. A slant there. He fills in the shadows, soft and warm, and before he realizes what he's doing, he’s painting you. Your eyes, the exact shade he remembers under the afternoon sun. Your lips, curled in a smile he can’t quite forget. Your skin, the way it glowed under the yellow light in the hallway when you said his name like it meant something. He doesn’t stop until your face is there, staring back at him and he hates it.

Not the painting. The painting is beautiful. But the fact that you’re still in his head—still under his skin.

That night, he lies in bed, restless. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside his window. When he finally drifts off, you’re there again. In his dream, you're laughing. You're reaching for him. You're so close that he swears he can smell your perfume, feel the warmth of your fingertips tracing his wrist.

And when he wakes up, breath caught in his throat, the ghost of your touch still lingers on his skin.

You try to move on. You tell yourself it’s fine—that people quit all the time. That maybe he just got busy, overwhelmed, maybe school is catching up to him. You try to reason with yourself, even smile at the thought of him doing well without needing you. But the truth is, none of that makes you feel any better.

You can accept that Hyunjin doesn’t want to work with you anymore. What you can’t accept—what keeps tugging at your chest like a thread being pulled loose—is that he didn’t even give you a reason why.

No conversation. No explanation. Just that look on his face, distant and closed off, and the way he walked away like everything between you didn’t mean a thing.

You think about how his voice used to sound when he laughed at your stupid jokes. You think about his fingers—paint-stained and warm—fixing the lighting for your shoot like he actually cared. You think about the way his eyes used to linger on you, like he wanted to say something but never did.

Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe you wanted to believe he cared more than he actually did. You spiral—hard. The thoughts come in fast and loud. Of course he didn’t want to stay. Who would?

You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone like it holds the answers. But there are no new messages. No calls. No missed anything. Just silence.

You tell yourself to move on. To focus. To film something. Edit. Call someone else to help. But none of it feels right. None of it feels like him. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Not that he left, but that he left you not knowing why.

Now you can’t stop thinking that maybe it’s not about work at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want anything to do with you. And maybe... he's right to feel that way.

The curtains are drawn, casting a muted gray over your apartment. You’ve been lying on the sofa for hours, curled up in the same position, the blanket barely clinging to your body as your phone keeps chiming over and over. You know what it is. You don’t even have to look.

Eventually, with a sigh, you reach over and swipe it off the table, the screen lighting up with a flood of notifications—all of them from Lustre.

You open the app. Your inbox is filled with flirty, suggestive messages. Compliments on your last post. Requests. Heart emojis. Tips. Offers. You scroll through them with your thumb, barely registering the words. Just eyes glazed over, searching, hoping—waiting—for one name to appear.

But it doesn’t. He’s not there. Not even a silent like. Not even a ghost view.

Your shoulders drop, a quiet, bitter laugh escaping your lips before you toss your phone aside. It lands on the cushion with a soft thud, screen dimming back to black. You drag yourself up, feet cold against the floor as you wander aimlessly around your apartment. It’s too quiet. Too still. And your mind feels just as noisy as it is empty.

As you walk past the makeshift studio, you pause. Something catches your eye. You lean against the doorway, arms crossed as you stare at it—the massive painting that takes up nearly half the back wall. The one you did with Hyunjin. The colors, bold and chaotic. Your brush strokes and his—blended, layered, messy. Your bodies had moved in sync, hands stained with paint, clothes ruined, laughter echoing as you danced around the canvas like kids. Then, the shoot after—bare skin streaked with color, flashes of camera light, his hand warm against your hip as he adjusted the lens.

You remember how proud he was of that piece. The way you both collapsed on the floor after, cracking open cold drinks, toasting with paint-smeared fingers. The initials you both scrawled in the corner, still visible beneath a smudge of deep blue. It was the first of many. A beginning. And now it just feels like an echo of something that’s already ended.

Your heart aches—sharp and sudden, like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You step closer, fingers brushing the dry surface of the canvas, as if touching it might bring some part of him back even though you know it doesn’t and you’re left there in the silence, missing someone who might’ve already let you go.

Squatting down, your eyes catch the initials in the corner: S.H.

You trail your fingers over them, gently outlining the letters. Your voice barely makes a sound as you murmur, “Sam Hwang.”

The name feels strange in your mouth—familiar, but distant, like something you've read in passing but never truly paid attention to.

Sam Hwang…

You say it again, this time letting it roll slower off your tongue. And then you freeze. You straighten up slowly, eyes widening as your mind starts connecting the pieces.

Sam Hwang.

You scramble for your phone, heart thudding as you fumble to unlock it. Your fingers are unsteady as you tap open the Lustre app and pull up the messages from that one user you had grown fond of—the one who always left sweet, thoughtful notes beneath your content. Never crude. Always kind.

You scroll back through the messages. The way they referenced things you never shared online—small details, like the time you wore your hair differently, or when you used a different song in your clips. It felt like they knew you. Like they saw you.

And then your brain syncs it all at once. The flowers.

Those purple tulips Hyunjin brought you, for no reason at all—just because. You thought it was sweet, random and you were too busy to notice it. But then you remember that it's the flowers on his profile picture. You stare at the screen, your pulse racing.

Mag.Shawn.

Sam Hwang.

It's an anagram. It’s him. It’s been him all along. You cover your mouth with your hand, a shaky breath slipping past your fingers as you try to steady yourself. Every message flashes through your mind now, suddenly reframed in Hyunjin’s voice. The compliments. The support. The gentle teasing. The way he never crossed a line.

Your knees give slightly, and you sit back on the floor with your phone still clutched in your hand, your heart pounding as if you just uncovered a secret love letter that was never meant to be found. Now that you know… everything feels different because it was never just about work. Not really. It was always something more.

Hyunjin is tired. Not the kind of tired that paint-stained fingers and aching shoulders bring—but the kind that seeps into the space behind his ribs, hollowing out something he’s not sure he’ll find again.

The school studio had been silent all day except for the low hum of music and the scratch of brushes against canvas. He painted aimlessly, moving through motions that didn’t bring the kind of release they once did. He should’ve felt accomplished. But instead, he just felt... alone.

When he finally makes his way back to the apartment building, the sky is a deep shade of navy. He climbs the familiar stairs slowly, dragging his feet, thoughts tangled like loose threads in his mind.

It’s when he rounds the corner, about to take the next flight up, that he sees you. Sitting on the steps, elbows on your knees, fingers nervously fidgeting. And when you look up—eyes locking with his like magnets clicking into place—Hyunjin stops breathing for a second. He knows that look. It's the same one he saw on that night you first talked to him. You’ve been waiting for him.

You rise slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid you might scare him off. But your voice is steady when you ask, “Can we talk?”

Hyunjin clenches his jaw. His heart hammers against his ribs, screaming yes, yes, let her in—but his head tries to keep control.

“There’s nothing left to talk about,” he says flatly. He doesn’t even look at you when he moves past, doesn’t dare. If he does, he knows he’ll unravel.

You don’t give up. Your footsteps echo behind him, too close, too persistent, and your voice comes again, more urgent this time. “I’m not mad that you quit, Hyunjin. I just need to know why.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The words stay lodged somewhere in his throat, too complicated, too heavy to give voice to. His fingers tighten around the doorknob as he unlocks it. He finally turns to face you, his body angled half into the apartment, half still in retreat.

“Can we not do this now?” he mutters. “Just… not tonight.”

He starts to step inside but then you’re pushing forward—determined, fierce—and before he can stop you, you’re inside his apartment. The door clicks shut behind you, and the air between you both thickens.

“I’m not leaving,” you say quietly, “not until we talk.”

And just like that, he knows—there’s no more hiding.

You stand in the middle of the room like it’s a battlefield. You’ve crossed your arms in front of you, trying to brace yourself, trying not to fold. Your voice cuts through the heavy silence.

“Why?”

Hyunjin avoids your eyes. He turns slightly away, jaw tense. “I’m just tired,” he mutters. “I need to focus on school.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You just stand there, the weight of his answer settling between you. Then, quietly, you say, “That’s not the real reason.”

Your voice begins to build, unraveling with everything you’ve been holding back. “These past few days I’ve been going over everything in my head, over and over again. I needed to know why, Hyunjin. Why you left like that, without saying a word. I thought maybe I did something wrong, maybe I made you uncomfortable, or maybe…”

Your voice cracks as frustration begins to break through. “Is it because of that night at Sienna’s party? Was it about Felix? Was it... me?”

Hyunjin flinches, hands tightening into fists at his sides. Your words sting in places he doesn’t want to admit. “It’s because I know you don’t want me,” he blurts, louder than he means to. You stare at him, eyes narrowing, confused. He takes a shaky breath, and his voice comes again, rawer this time. “Why haven’t you posted the content we made together? Is it because you didn’t want to do it with me? Because you don’t want me in it? Or is it… is it because you’re ashamed?”

You’re quiet now. The question hangs in the air like smoke. Then you breathe in, shaky and small, and your voice is almost a whisper when you speak. “I didn’t post it because I don’t want this life for you.”

Your arms uncross, and your gaze drops to the floor. “You’re a real artist, Hyunjin. You’re talented. You deserve to be known for your work—not as some guy who makes content with me.”

Your voice is trembling now, your words fragile. “I don’t want to be the reason you get looked at differently. Judged. You’re better than this.”

Hyunjin’s chest tightens. He almost snaps again, but he holds it in. Instead, he takes a step forward, voice low and steady. “Better than what, huh?”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, lips parting like you might speak—but nothing comes out. Another tear escapes, and without thinking, he reaches for you, gently placing his hands on your elbows.

“Do you even know what I want?” he asks, softer now.

You blink, your breath catching, and you shake your head. “No,” you say quietly. “But I know you’re better than this. I know you deserve more.”

His thumb catches the tear that rolls down your cheek.

“What if this—” he whispers, voice shaking just a little, “what if you are what I want?”

Hyunjin leans in slightly, the words right there, barely held back. “I want you,” He says, breathing through the emotion swelling in his chest. “And whatever comes with you.”

The second those words leave his mouth—“I want you. And whatever comes with you.”—you break.

It’s not graceful or quiet. It’s a sudden rush of breath you didn’t know you were holding, and then your face crumples as the tears fall fast and hot. You cover your face with both hands, like that could somehow muffle the sound of your sob, but it doesn’t work.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen with alarm, as if he hadn’t expected that reaction. As if he doesn’t understand why it hurts you so much to hear something so kind.

“You shouldn’t,” you croak between your fingers, voice thick and breaking. “You shouldn’t want me.”

That’s the part that cracks him open too. He doesn’t ask you why. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong. He just steps forward and wraps his arms around you like he means to hold every shattered piece of you together. His warmth surrounds you instantly—his arms firm around your back, one hand on the back of your head, gently cradling you as you cry into his shoulder.

“I do,” he whispers, voice close to your ear. “I want you. I only want you.”

You cling to him, your hands fisting into the back of his shirt as if letting go would undo everything. The weight of everything—the confusion, the distance, the aching loneliness—pours out of you all at once, and still, Hyunjin holds you tighter.

You breathe in slowly, trying to steady the trembling in your chest. The worst of your tears have passed, but your throat still burns and your hands are still curled in the fabric of his hoodie, like you’re afraid to let go.

When you finally lift your head, your eyes meet his—deep, warm, unwavering. And it’s there again. That quiet devotion. That stubborn tenderness he always gives you without asking for anything in return.

“I do want you,” you rasp, voice barely above a whisper. “But I just… I know you deserve better.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his thumb brushes softly across your lips, silencing the words before they can cut deeper into the space between you. He looks at you with something like heartbreak and fierce affection wrapped into one.

“You’re the only one I want,” he says, voice low and sure, as if daring you to challenge him again and then he leans in.

His lips find yours in a kiss that’s tender at first, then deepens with something heavier—something full of things he’s been holding back for far too long. It’s not rushed, not messy. It’s slow, consuming, full of warmth and ache and all the unsaid things that have been living between your hearts.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to cup your face with both hands, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath mixing with yours.

“You’re all I want in this world,” he whispers.

And before you can say anything else, he kisses you again—like a vow, like a promise, like he’s sealing every word he just said with the press of his lips against yours.

You pull away just enough to catch your breath, your forehead still resting against his. Your lips are tingling, heart pounding, and there's something new blooming in your chest—hope, maybe. Or something dangerously close to it.

You swallow, eyes flicking down to his lips before finding his gaze again. “Do you… want to continue?” you ask softly. “Pick up where we left off that night?”

For a moment, Hyunjin just blinks at you—like the question caught him off guard. But then a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, warm and crooked and so undeniably him. He lets out a breathy laugh, voice laced with fond disbelief. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”

Hyunjin kisses you again—deeper this time, with more urgency. Like something in both of you has snapped free and there's no turning back now. His hands slide down to your thighs, and in one swift motion, he hoists you up. You gasp softly, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms looping around his shoulders as you press yourself closer. Your bodies fit together like they remember how it felt—how right it was.

The kiss grows heated, the air between you humming with everything unsaid and everything still to come. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, it feels like the weight on your chest has lifted, like you're exactly where you're supposed to be—held tightly in his arms, kissed like you're the only thing he sees.

Hyunjin carries you down the short hallway with a kind of quiet certainty, his arms secure around you, his breath steady near your ear. Your heart flutters with every step—part anticipation, part disbelief that you're here, that this is happening again but different, deeper.

You glance over your shoulder, peeking into the dimly lit room as the two of you enter. It's the first time you’ve seen his bedroom, and the sight makes your lips twitch. The bed—mattress on the floor, slightly rumpled sheets, a couple of sketchbooks stacked on the nightstand—is exactly what you expected, yet still makes you grin.

You turn your head back to him, raising an eyebrow. “No bedframe, huh?”

Hyunjin just smirks, unbothered. “Didn’t realize I needed one to impress you.”

Your laughter is soft, breathy against his neck, and before you can fire back a reply, he’s already kneeling to lower you onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against your skin, but the warmth in his eyes keeps you steady. He leans over you, his fingers brushing your cheek, and for a second, he just looks at you like he's taking you in all over again, like you're his favorite work of art.

You feel it—that pull in your chest, that ache in your throat—as Hyunjin hovers above you, his eyes locked onto yours. There’s something intense in his gaze, something unspoken yet so loud it fills the room. His stare burns through the quiet, says everything he hasn’t said yet and everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

When he kisses you again, his body settles gently over yours, and you instinctively welcome the weight of him, the warmth, the way his presence wraps around you like a second skin. There’s nothing frantic about the way he touches you—his hands glide over your body like he’s relearning every inch. But even within that gentleness, there’s a sense of urgency. His fingers trail down your arm, brushing the side of your waist, and you can feel how much he wants you—how much he’s been wanting you. Still, there’s something soft in his every movement. Like even when he’s aching for you, he’s still being careful with your heart.

You don’t know what gets into you—but the moment your eyes meet his, wide and expectant beneath you, something shifts. A boldness, maybe. A need to let him feel what you've been holding back. You roll over, catching him off guard, and suddenly it's him beneath you. His back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and his breath catches as your legs settle on either side of his hips. His hands instinctively find your waist, grounding himself in your touch.

For a moment, you just take him in. The way his dark hair falls into his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls a little quicker now. You can’t help but trace the shape of him with your eyes, then with your hands—slowly, deliberately. Fingers skimming down his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric.

You start unbuttoning his shirt, one at a time. His muscles tense beneath your touch, his breath hitching when your palm brushes bare skin. When the shirt parts open, your hand slides over the contours of his chest—smooth skin, defined lines, the flutter of his heartbeat under your fingertips.

And then your lips follow. You press gentle kisses against his skin, soft and slow, tasting the warmth of him, the way he shivers with every touch. As your kisses trail lower, his breath grows more uneven. You pause just at the edge of his waistband, the tension between you humming like a live wire. You lift your head just enough to look at him, his lips parted, eyes dark with anticipation, and the faintest tremble in his breath. You smirk.

Then you lean in and kiss him—hard. His lips mold to yours instantly, his hands gripping your waist tighter, pulling you closer, like he needs you there, needs this. And between the kisses, your voice dips low, teasing against his mouth.

“Why are you so nervous?” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “It’s not like this is the first time we’re doing this.”

You feel the subtle hitch in his breath, the way his fingers flex against your skin. Still, he doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, he surges up, kissing you again. Deeper this time. Hungrier. Like that was all the encouragement he needed.

You melt into it, into him, your body pressed flush against his, his warmth grounding you in ways nothing else ever could. His hands roam—up your back, over your spine, holding you close and you stay there, tangled in him, lips moving together in quiet desperation, slow but insistent, a rhythm you both fall into with ease.

You breathe him in, every kiss tasting like something familiar but new again. And wrapped in his arms, with the weight of his affection holding you steady, the ache in your chest softens.

For now, it’s just the two of you. No doubts, no questions—just this moment, and the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing he wants.

Hyunjin feels every second of your kiss like it’s being etched into his memory—every soft press of your lips, every shift of your body melting against his. You fit against him so perfectly, like your body was molded to match his. And god, he could stay like this forever.

Even with his mouth busy, his heart races as he feels your hand glide lower, fingers trailing the edge of his jeans. He catches your wrist gently, right before you can slip your hand beneath the waistband. You pull back slightly, gasping in surprise, and the look on your face—wide-eyed and slightly mischievous—makes his chest ache in the sweetest way.

You’re straddling him still, your legs snug around his hips, and he props himself up on one elbow, gazing at you. Your lips turn into an adorable pout. “But we’ve been waiting so long for this.”

He knows you’re right. He knows the urgency, the ache in your voice—it’s the same one he feels burning through him.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice low as he reaches up, brushing a few strands of your hair away from your face. He lets his fingertips trail along your jaw before settling just beneath it, holding you gently.

He leans in and kisses you. Slowly. Purposefully. Like he’s telling you everything he can’t quite put into words. When he pulls back, barely an inch from your lips, he rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “But let's make this lasts.”

You let out a quiet breath, your lips curling into a soft smile, and he swipes his thumb gently across your bottom lip, marveling at the way you look at him like he’s worth something, like he matters. And then he kisses you again, capturing that smile with his lips, holding it there between the both of you—this tender, perfect moment that feels like it could stretch into forever.

His hands find the hem of your blouse, fingers brushing warm skin as he gently tugs the fabric upward and over your head. You let him, your arms rising instinctively, eyes never leaving his. He trails his fingers down the length of your arms afterward, slow and reverent, like you’re something sacred, something to be worshiped.

When he reaches behind you, his fingers find the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with ease. You let the straps slide down your shoulders, and he watches as you shrug it off completely, tossing it somewhere forgotten. His breath catches when he sees you—bare, soft, and beautiful in the dim light.

He reaches out, fingertips tracing the slope of your collarbone before moving lower. He touches your chest with care at first, almost in awe, and rests his hand flat on your sternum, feeling the rapid thud of your heart beneath his palm. Slowly, he glides it down until it finds home on your ribcage, holding you steady as he leans in.

His mouth follows next—kisses pressed along your jaw, trailing to the curve of your neck, each one lingering longer than the last. He kisses your chest, hands rising to cup your breasts with a kind of reverence, but also urgency. His palms are warm, fingers pressing in gently, fondling and kneading. When he takes your nipple into his mouth, your breath stutters into a soft moan, and that sound alone drives him wild.

He lavishes attention on you, switching sides, leaving behind faint wet marks on your skin—his own quiet claim. He moves higher, up your chest, his tongue smoothing along your skin before he suckles the hollow between your neck and shoulder, and he feels you shiver beneath him.

Hyunjin breathes you in as he buries his face against your sternum, his lips resting just above your heartbeat. It drums steadily against him, louder somehow now that everything else has quieted — the world, his thoughts, the tension that had built between the two of you over the past days. All of it fades as he listens to the rhythm of your heart, like it’s telling him something he already knows deep down.

Your hands come up gently, arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him close. Your fingers slide into his hair and he sighs into your skin — the sound barely audible but full of meaning. You don’t speak. Neither of you needs to. It’s not about words right now.

The warmth of your embrace, the bare skin against his, the rise and fall of your chest under his cheek — it feels like a thread, invisible and delicate, tugging the two of you closer until there’s nothing between you. Nothing but the ache of longing finally answered. He presses a soft kiss to your chest, right over your heart, and stays there, still, quiet, content.

For the first time in a long while, Hyunjin feels whole — like he isn’t running from anything anymore. Like maybe this… is exactly where he’s meant to be.

After a long moment, he lifts his head from your chest, his breath warm against your skin as his gaze finds yours — intense and unreadable. Then, without a word, he shifts his weight and catches you off guard, pushing you gently down onto the bed, reversing your positions once more. You let out a soft gasp, eyes wide as you land against the mattress, your hair fanned out beneath you.

His hands frame your face as he leans down and kisses you again — slow, deep, claiming. You can feel the change in him, in the air. It’s not rushed. It’s not just need. It’s more than that now.

As his lips part from yours, his hands begin to explore you again, moving down your sides in a slow, reverent motion. Every brush of his fingers leaves a trail of goosebumps in their wake. When they reach your hips, they linger for a heartbeat before he tugs gently at the waistband of your shorts.

His gaze lifts to meet yours again, seeking permission without speaking, and when you give the slightest nod, he inhales quietly and then continues — slowly peeling them down your legs, your underwear along with them. The air feels cooler against your skin as you’re exposed to him fully, but the way he looks at you makes you feel anything but vulnerable.

He kneels there at the edge of the bed, unmoving for a moment, just looking at you. Not in lust — though there’s desire in his eyes — but in awe, like he’s looking at a painting he doesn’t dare touch, like he wants to memorize every curve of you, every detail, as if you were art in motion. And to him, you are.

His hands are steady as he leans in again, his lips brushing over yours in a soft, lingering kiss before moving lower. He places gentle, fluttering kisses along your collarbone, then down to your ribcage — slow, unhurried. His mouth grazes your navel, then your left hip, each press of his lips last longer than then previous.

You gasp softly when he slips his hand under the back of your thigh and lifts it, his lips finding the soft skin of your inner thigh. He lingers there for a breath, the warmth of his mouth sending ripples through your entire body. Then he trails lower, his lips brushing down your calf, and finally landing on the sole of your foot. The unexpected kiss makes you giggle, the sound breaking through the quiet like sunlight through clouds.

After giving your foot a quick massage, he gently sets your leg down and looks up at you, his expression shifting — no longer teasing or playful, but full of something much deeper. He sighs, almost shakily, and brings his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheek.

“I should be the one asking if I deserve all this,” he murmurs, his voice low and earnest. “If I really deserve every beautiful part of you… to touch you, kiss you, hold you.”

You don’t say anything — the way you look at him already says enough.

Hyunjin reaches for your hand, holding it tenderly in both of his. He brings your wrist to his lips first, placing a kiss there like he’s sealing a vow, then presses one to your open palm. Then he shifts forward, lowering himself over you slowly. His body presses gently into yours, his skin warm, his heartbeat strong and steady against your chest.

This time, he’s not just close. He’s with you — completely, quietly, and fully present. Molding into you, like the final brushstroke that completes a painting.

Just when you’re completely wrapped in him, he suddenly pulls away, sitting up on the bed with a breathless laugh, eyes flickering with something unspoken. You watch him as he impatiently pushes his jeans down his hips, shedding the last barrier between you. His sigh of relief is audible, and the way his chest rises and falls is enough to make your breath catch.

Hyunjin doesn’t waste time to wrap his hand around his swollen length with evident veins coiling around it, pulsating with need. He glances at you through heavy lashes, his hand begins stroking it up and down, then he murmurs, “Do you want to?”

You don’t answer with words—just a slow, sure nod. He reaches for your hand, guiding it gently, curling your fingers around his hot, hard cock.

The moment your hand wraps around him, his jaw tightens, his eyes fluttering half shut. Together, you find a rhythm—pumping his cock at a slow, steady pace, the tension thick between you as your eyes stay locked, every breath shared and every movement deliberate. There's no rush, just this quiet moment of closeness, of trust and want, unfolding between the two of you.

Hyunjin’s breath hitches as your hand continues its slow movements, the tension in his body unraveling under your touch. His eyes stay on you, dark and intense, until they flicker downward. With one hand still wrapped around yours, guiding the rhythm, his other hand trails down your thigh—light, teasing, reverent.

When his fingers slip between your legs, dipping into your wetness. His touch is gentle at first, exploratory, but it doesn't take long before he’s pressing two digits into you, finding the spot that makes you shift and gasp. His lips part as he watches your reaction, his own breathing getting heavier.

“So wet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, “so ready for me.” There’s awe in the way he says it, almost like he can’t believe this is real—that you're here, letting him touch you like this.

The sensation of his fingers working you open while your hand still pumping his cock pulls a shiver from deep inside. It’s a push and pull, each of you responding to the other in quiet desperation, building the tension between you. His forehead presses to yours for a second, grounding both of you, his eyes closed like he’s trying to savor every second and when he opens them again, there’s no mistaking the hunger swimming there—an ache mirrored in your own heart.

You barely have time to react before Hyunjin grabs both of your wrists and pins them gently above your head, his fingers firm but careful around your wrists. His eyes meet yours, hooded and dark with want, and for a moment, all you can hear is your breathing—intertwined and uneven.

Then his free hand slips between your bodies, guiding himself down until the thick heat of his cock presses right against where you need him most. He doesn’t enter—only drags his length along your soaked core, slow and maddening, your essence coating his shaft for every time it sides between your folds. The friction makes your back arch, your body instinctively chasing more, needing more. But Hyunjin just smirks, watching the way you react to him as the tip of his cock pressing right on your clit.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice gravelly, lips brushing against your cheek as his hips roll forward again, grinding against you in a way that makes your whole body tense and tremble. “This is how much I want you…”

You whimper beneath him, wrists still caught in his hold, entirely at his mercy. Each slow stroke of his hips is deliberate, calculated to tease, and it works—you're writhing, eyes fluttering shut, your legs falling open for him without a second thought.

Hyunjin leans down and kisses your jaw, your neck, then your lips, swallowing every sound you make as he keeps moving, driving you to the edge without even taking you there yet.

Despite the desperate, breathless moans you let out, he doesn’t ease up. If anything, his teasing only grows more deliberate, each slow roll of his hips keeping you right on the edge, never enough to satisfy the ache building in your core. You squirm beneath him, your breaths coming out shaky, helpless—your body begging for what your lips still struggle to say.

“Please,” you whisper. Then again, more desperate. “Please… please…”

Hyunjin lowers his head, brushing his lips against your temple. “Please what?” he murmurs, voice rough with control, eyes glinting with mischief.

You can’t answer—not with words. Instead, you keep whispering his name between each breathless plea, your hands clutching at his arms, your hips lifting, chasing him. A slow, almost smug smile forms on his lips.

And then finally, you manage a broken, “I want you.”

He pauses to look down between your bodies where your need for him is obvious—undeniable. He can see it from how drenched you are, from the way your essence gets all over his thick shaft.

“Yeah?” he says, low and teasing, brushing the crest of his cock against you, slipping just barely in. “I can see that.”

You let out a choked whimper, nodding frantically, pleading again without shame. “Please. I need you.”

Hyunjin releases your wrists, only to grip your hip with one hand and steady himself with the other. Slowly, achingly slow, he pushes into you—just an inch or two—then stops. The pressure is there, intense and lingering, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. He looks down at you, lips parted, eyes dark and focused entirely on the way you react to him.

“You want more?” he asks, breath hitching as he holds himself still inside you, teasing you with just enough to drive you wild.

Your back arches, fingers digging into the sheets. “Yes,” you gasp. “More. Please…”

Hyunjin leans in, kissing your neck before murmuring against your skin, “Then hold on to me.”

Despite his words, he doesn’t grant your plea just yet. Instead, he moves with intention—slow, shallow thrusts that never go deeper than your entrance, but it’s more than enough. Each time he rocks into you, it sends a ripple of heat through your body, igniting something that builds faster than you expect. He watches you carefully, his hand gripping your hip tighter each time you clench around him.

You’re unraveling beneath him, your breath catching, moans spilling from your lips in broken, rasping fragments. And he can feel it—how close you are, how your body trembles under the weight of your need.

“You’re close,” he whispers, voice husky as he leans closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You nod, unable to form words, completely lost in the feeling. Then it hits. Your back arches, fingers twisting into the sheets as your release rushes through you in waves, pleasure so intense it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

Your body pulses around him, and you’re still gasping for breath when Hyunjin finally moves again. He exhales shakily—almost a groan—and slowly sinks all the way in, filling you completely in one smooth, careful push. He's giving you what you want when you least expect it.

You gasp, overwhelmed, your body still sensitive from the climax. The sensation of him, so hard, so deep and still inside you, makes your whole body shiver. You can feel his heart pounding against yours, his breath brushing over your lips as he hovers above you.

He stills, just holding you, letting you feel every inch of him as your body adjusts—pulsing, vibrating gently around him. “You feel… unreal,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his voice raw with awe.

Hyunjin feels like everything.

Inside you, around you—He is all you can feel, all you can see. And for the first time, it truly feels like the two of you have become one. Every breath he takes, you feel it in your lungs. Every beat of his heart echoes in your own.

You wrap your arms tightly around him, pulling him closer, needing to feel his weight, his warmth, his reality. Your lips find his, and he kisses you like he’s been holding back an ocean of longing—eager, deep, like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth.

You pull away just a little, breath caught, lips still brushing his as you whisper, “Hyunjin…”

The second his eyes meet yours, you know he’s listening—really listening. Like your voice is the only sound in the world.

“Take me,” you say, voice low and trembling. “Make me... Claim me.”

His brows draw together, jaw twitching like he’s trying to hold something back. You reach up and brush the hair that’s fallen over his face, tucking it behind his ear, your thumb gliding gently across his temple.

“Come inside me,” you breathe.

That’s when you feel it—something in him shifts, snaps, cracks wide open. His restraint melts away, and suddenly his mouth is on yours again, desperate, aching. He starts to move, slow at first, but there’s something different now. Every thrust is more than just movement—it’s a vow, a promise, a confession.

There’s no bedframe beneath you, just the mattress pressed against the floor, and for a fleeting second, you’re oddly thankful—because with the way he’s moving, rough and hungry, anything else would’ve fallen apart beneath the weight of it all.

His gaze never leaves you. It darkens when he sees your hands slide up to your chest, fingers teasing over your erected nipples, doubling the pleasure sparking through your body. You squeeze and cup yourself, breath hitching, and when you bring your breasts together for him, he takes them in his mouth in an instant. His tongue swirls, flicks, sucks on your nipples and on the flesh of your mounds, drawing shameless moans from your throat that echo off the bare walls.

Then he grabs your hands gently, pulling them away and placing them around his shoulders like an unspoken message—hold on to me. And you do.

Hyunjin picks up the pace, his breath turning ragged against your skin, and all you can do is cling to him, gasping, moaning, unraveling as his body claims yours with everything he has. There’s no space between you anymore, only heat, only movement, only the rush of him building toward the edge.

And when he finally lets go—when he gives you all of him, coming inside you and fill you full of him just like you asked—it feels like a vow, wordless and sacred. A promise sealed with every part of him. He collapses into you, your bodies tangled, breath shared. In that moment, he is wholly, completely yours. And you are his.

The bed is cold when you wake up.

The first thing you notice is the emptiness beside you—no warmth, no steady heartbeat to lull you back into sleep. Just rumpled sheets and the faint imprint of where he lay last night.

You blink against the light, slowly sitting up, the duvet clutched to your chest. It smells like him—something between fresh paint and fabric softener—and you breathe it in like it’ll bring him back. It only makes your heart ache a little more.

“Hyunjin?” you call out softly, voice rough from sleep and get no reply.

Your gaze lands on his sweater, half-draped at the edge of the bed. You reach for it, pulling it over your head, letting the sleeves hang long past your hands. It’s warm. It’s him. And somehow, it helps.

You slide out of the bed and walk through the apartment barefoot, your steps quiet. “Hyunjin?” you call again, a little louder this time and still no answer.

The silence makes the apartment feel unfamiliar like it doesn’t quite belong to either of you without him in it. You wander through the space, and your eyes land on the canvas—that one. The one covered by a white cloth. The one he said was a failure. You hesitate for only a second before stepping closer. Your fingers grip the edge of the fabric, and with one careful tug, you lift it. The breath catches in your throat. It’s… you.

A portrait. A figure rendered in soft colors and tender strokes. The way he’s painted you—it’s intimate, it’s raw. It’s real. Not just your features, but the way he sees you. The way he feels you. And he called this a failure?

Your fingertips trail lightly along the edge of the painting, your chest swelling with something deep and warm. He lied. Not because the painting wasn’t good, but because it meant too much to show. And the fact that he created this—that he thought of you like this—makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way.

Then you hear it—the click of a lock turning, the quiet creak of the front door opening. You turn just as Hyunjin steps inside, balancing two takeaway coffee cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other. His sweater hangs a little loose, and his hair is messy from the breeze outside. His eyes land on you in surprise.

“Hey—!”

You run to him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso, and he gasps as he tries to keep the coffee from spilling. His laugh is muffled against your hair as he shifts the cups to one hand.

“Careful,” he says through a breathless chuckle. “Or I have to go and buy coffee again.”

“You left me,” you say with a dramatic pout, burying your face into the soft fabric of his hoodie. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“I didn’t think I’d be long,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You were still asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze—and then you kiss him. A soft, sleepy kiss, full of affection. When you pull away, there’s a smile playing at your lips. “Good morning.”

His own smile softens as he leans in again, placing a longer kiss on your lips, like he missed you in the hour he was gone. “Good morning,” he echoes. “Let’s have breakfast, mmh?”

And just like that, the day starts with him again. Just the way you like it.

You and Hyunjin settle onto the sofa, breakfast in your laps and a lazy, quiet comfort hanging in the air between you. The sun filters in through the windows, casting a soft glow over everything. He sits beside you, legs spread just enough for you to slide in closer. After finishing your pastry, you cradle your coffee cup between your hands, still warm and fragrant.

Without a word, you scoot closer to him, draping your legs over his lap and letting them rest comfortably between his. He glances at you, smiling softly, and you return it with one of your own.

“So,” you start, sipping your coffee slowly before turning to face him fully, “I saw the painting.”

His brows lift, amused, and a little sheepish. “You did?”

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “You lied to me.”

Hyunjin huffs out a laugh. “I did say it was a failure.”

You jab a finger into his chest and grin. “It’s me.”

He tilts his head, playing along. “Do you like it?”

You set your coffee cup down on the table, then fold your arms and pout at him. “I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“I love it,” you say with a wide grin. “So much.”

He chuckles and shifts slightly to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close. “It’s not finished yet.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “When are you going to finish it then?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You pout again, exaggerated and dramatic. “Why not?”

He looks down at you, eyes soft and full of something you can’t quite name—something tender, something warm. “Why should I finish it,” he murmurs, “when I have the real one right here?”

You groan out loud, burying your face against his chest. “Ugh, you’re so cheesy.”

He laughs, a full, unguarded sound—and you can’t help but join him, laughing like everything in the world is just a little lighter when you’re together and maybe it is.

You set your coffee cup aside on the table, shifting on the couch so you can climb onto Hyunjin’s lap. He doesn’t protest—in fact, he opens his arms right away, welcoming you into them. You nestle into him, your knees framing his hips, and he takes a long sip of his coffee before placing his cup down as well. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours.

You tilt your head and kiss his jaw, then press another soft one to his cheek. He turns to look at you, amused and already smiling when you gently grab his chin and turn his face toward you for a quick peck on the lips. Then you settle back into him, your head resting comfortably in the crook of his neck. His warmth surrounds you, his scent familiar, and when you glance up at him, something in your chest flutters.

“We should go on a date,” you murmur.

His thumb brushes along your cheek, soft and sweet. “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

You hum as you think. “Uhm... To your favorite place?”

He smirks, his hand playfully hovering on your inner thigh, intentionally brushing his knuckles against your clothed core. “My favorite place is right here.”

You gasp, laughing as you lightly slap his chest. “Hyunjin!”

He laughs too, that bright, boyish sound filling the room. “Just being honest here,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender.

You nod, your expression softening. “You know... somewhere that feels personal to you.”

Hyunjin leans in and places an affectionate kiss on your lips, lingering for a second before pulling back just enough to whisper, “I know a place.”

Hyunjin pats down the pockets of his jacket, doing a quick mental check—phone, wallet, keys and that thing in the inner pocket of his jacket. All good. He smooths down the front of his shirt and glances once at the mirror near the door, fixing his hair with his fingers before finally stepping out of his apartment.

He walks over to your door, heart thudding just a little faster than usual. It’s strange how it still feels like this with you—like he’s a teenager picking up his crush, not someone who spent the night tangled up in you.

Hyunjin knocks and when the door swings open, He blinks—once, then twice. You’re standing there, looking… breathtaking.

He lets out a soft, stunned laugh, eyes sweeping over your outfit. “Wow,” he says, leaning a shoulder against your doorframe. He says nothing else but his eyes endlessly admiring you.

You laugh, a little sheepish but so proud. “It’s our first date,” you simply point out.

Something tugs at Hyunjin’s chest at that. The honesty in your voice, the way you’re looking at him—it’s soft, real, and he’s suddenly so glad he gets to have this with you.

He grins, stepping closer. “You’re beautiful,” he says, meaning every word. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, “Maybe we should just cancel the whole plan.”

He nudges you playfully, pushing you back a step into your apartment, and you both burst into laughter. But before either of you can say more, he grabs your hand, warm and certain.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go make it a good first date.”

The quiet hush of the gallery wraps around you both like a blanket, softening the sounds of passing footsteps and hushed conversations. Hyunjin walks beside you with his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze darting to you now and then—your curious eyes, the way you lean in just a little to read the small plaques beside the paintings. He’s not sure why his heart won’t stop doing these little flips, but he doesn’t want it to stop either.

Eventually, he stops in front of a painting. It’s large, vivid, a swirling composition of shadows and light that seem to breathe if you look long enough.

You pause with him, sensing something different in his stance, the way he exhales slowly. “This one?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin steps closer, moving behind you and gently resting his hands on your waist. He nods. “Yeah… this one.”

You both stand there in silence for a moment, staring at the canvas. And then, in that quiet space, he begins to speak.

“There was a time I used to come here almost every week,” he says softly. “I'd just stand here and look at it. For hours, sometimes. I didn’t even understand everything about it—I still don’t. But something about it made me feel… seen. Like it understood what I was going through even when I couldn’t say it out loud.”

You listen, still and patient, your fingers brushing lightly over his where they rest on your waist.

“When I couldn’t eat, when I was too tired to sleep, when I was too overwhelmed to paint… I came here. I used this painting to hold myself together.” His voice falters for a second. “But now when I look at it, all I feel is everything I tried to suppress. Exhaustion. Pressure. Loneliness.”

He pauses. You can feel the weight of the memories in his breath.

“I want to change that.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out something small. A glint of silver and a soft charm catches the light as he holds it up—it’s the bracelet you once tried on absentmindedly at that jewelry shop weeks ago. You’d joked about him buying him for you and he hadn’t said anything then, just smiled.

Now, without a word, he gently slips it around your wrist and fastens the clasp.

“From now on,” he murmurs, “when I look at this painting, I’ll remember this moment instead. You. Us.”

You turn your head slightly to look at him, your eyes glistening with emotions you can’t quite name. Happiness. Sadness. Love. Grief. Hope. All tangled up into one beautiful ache.

“Thank you,” your voice breaking at the end of the sentence.

You kiss him, just a brush of lips—but it’s enough to make his breath catch. Then you take his hands and wrap them fully around your waist, holding them there like a promise.

“You’re not alone anymore,” you say gently. “I’m here. You have me now.”

Hyunjin looks at you like you’ve just handed him the sun and then he leans in and kisses you—not in a rush, not in desperation, but with everything he’s been carrying in his heart. Quiet gratitude. Relief. Love. It’s a kiss that says, I see you. I feel you. I’m yours.

And in that gallery, under the gaze of a painting that once held all his pain, he lets it all go—and chooses to remember this instead.

The kiss lingers long after it ends, warmth spreading through Hyunjin’s chest like a sunrise. He stays there for a beat longer, arms wrapped around you, your head resting against his shoulder as the painting stands silently before you—no longer a mirror of pain, but now a witness to something new.

Eventually, you both pull away, your fingers still tangled in his, your bracelet catching the light with every little movement.

Hyunjin glances down at it and smiles softly. “Ready to go?” he asks, brushing a thumb across your knuckles.

You nod. “Where to next?”

He pretends to think, lips twitching. “Somewhere with less staring eyes and more delicious food?”

You laugh, and the sound echoes faintly through the quiet halls of the gallery.

Hand in hand, you walk out together. The doors open, and sunlight spills across the marble floors, welcoming you into the rest of the day.

And as the two of you step into the light—your shoulders brushing, your smiles easy, your hearts just a little fuller than before—it feels like the beginning of something beautiful, something real and it's just getting started.

✨ A bonus chapter to Cam is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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