#stapled notebook

[pirateauthor]

I really like how this ended up so i decided to share🙃

This is the notebook I've been writing the zero drafts of my stories for 1/2 days now. But the cover was ugly so i sacrificed half a page of my sketchbook and now one of my old drawings is my cover 😊

[gendzl]

I just made a shitty little punching cradle that will only be useful for pocket notebooks.

[keen-eye]

rewatching s13 after s11 & s12 kind of subdued dean’s antagonistic role (though you should be hyper aware that it’s still there if you’re watching correctly) that had been going strong for 7 seasons is….idk how to describe the feeling

dean absolutely had his moments in s11 & s12 that made me want to drop kick my laptop but s13 is back to bam bam bam he’s a villain!! i’m jerking off about it like always but i’m doing it tiredly. it’s maybe harder to watch bc s4-10 sam vs s13-15 sam is like he’s a piece of paper that has been slowly crinkled and crushed into a smaller and smaller ball that’s been kicked and thrown around and then small paper ball sam was dunked in water and squeezed really hard over and over again until his list of hopes and dreams that he wrote on himself were washed off and then for 2 seasons small soggy paper ball sam was left on the table to dry and he was knocked to the ground a few times and then you have a sam that is a hard tiny ball and there’s no unfolding him now he’s in that shape forever and he’s tossed into the trash because no one thinks that he’s fun to play with anymore

i think i blacked out for a minute there what the fuck am i saying is any of that legible

[wlw-cryptid]

You're making a modpack that sounds so cool! Please tell more!

kicking my feet and giggling

honestly the most intensive part is just that I'm trying to make a quest book where you can pick between a couple different progression paths for yourself depending on how you like to play

I split it up into (names not really settled):

tinkerer: for the factory builder, focused on using Create to make resources from nothing. I found a mod that locks waystone crafting behind create auto crafting so they at least need to be able to produce brass. I also found add-ons that let you make upgradable armor and I think creative flight within a certain radius (but I can't remember rn if that was working or if I had to remove it). They also join the push for the nether bc they need blaze burners

I want to make it a little more engaging beyond Create but I haven't really settled on what that should be

warrior: focused on dungeons and bosses killing and looting for resources. Optional Irons Spells, exploring many biomes for archeology artifacts, food made out of mob drops, & I'm going to make a few dungeons personally so I can put the End Remastered eyes as rewards. I also have a mod that complicates entering the nether and I imagine this path leading the push for that too

Wanderer: a more average minecraft experience, farming and building and less dungeon exploration. I can't decide if I'll have this one split into two paths for living in the over world and living in The Dimensions (tropicraft and then the under dark to start), if I'll just assume tropicraft start (bc I have a few friends I know really wanted that mod), or it I should try to make it generic enough it doesn't matter which dimension you start. I'll give them some more guidance towards diversified food production, archeology again, meeting the new mobs, and trying to integrate the mods into gameplay.

I added simply ships and a mod that makes you a mermaid in water, origins, mowzie mobs, and I plan for them to go through quite a few kat-made quests and eye dungeons too. I know a little about using commands and I can leverage that

+ the general progression chapters for getting started (a lot of basic info, storage mod, Tetra, info on quark additions), the nether, a chapter for Alex's Caves (since anyone can stumble into those), the end, and then Deeper and Darker

+ some optional gameplay suggestions that I usually do myself to spice things up like being vegetarian, or only eating foods with fish, or trying to Never Go Mining, or actually using potions (which I added Dave's potioneering for too), or just telling them to really lean into their origin's themeing. I can't actually enforce these so they're just check mark honor system quests but theyre there for fun

We did a mod pack like a year ago (no fancy quests, just vibes) that went well but it did make it so I wanted to avoid mods like twilight forest or bewitched or the ars magica suite . bc we all already played through all that . and nobody gaf about the aether which is sad but oh well

For the most part I don't think it would feel THAT HEAVILY like a super duper modded experience compared to other heftier mod packs unless you take the wanderer path to effectively jump in the many modded puddles. rn it runs clean w 4 rams and I'm proud of that

the most difficult part is that I Want to throw together a quick mod? datapack? just to add some recipes (for inter-mod compatibility, like making tropicraft fish cuttable on the farmers delight cutting board) and maybe maybe ideally make it so a certain iron's spells mob doesn't drop netherite scrap. but. I don't know how to code. I've been watching tutorials and I don't even know what program they're using to do it in or if methods that work in vanilla would work on modded features. worst case I try using that infamous MCCreator thing and hoping for the best. but I'm having a lot of fun

[attila-werther]

I like making up thematic motifs following an established allegorical pattern to it's narrative conclusion and then stumbling face first into a much more horrifying data set of like. lead deposits in the soil during the late roman republic/through the empire. which has given me inspiration to escalate what I was already doing, but also has the fun side effect of me opening up my notebook from feburary that has 'WHICH MINES MOTHERFUCKER' written and underlined

[imaginary-wanderer]

Prototype!

[rosesradio]

Speaking of writing action scenes, years ago when i was in like grade 3 or 4, i wrote some superhero fight scene for class, and for some reason, i thought, "superheros can take a lot" so instead of being like "He was punched 3 times" or whatever i put an insanely high number like "he was punched 5 thousand times" sometimes even more

lmaoo screaming, i very much did the same thing in my elementary school writings

[causenessus]

if you ever read anything in your life PLEASE read this it is literal perfection ❤

rot: h. iwaizumi

her neighbor knocks on her door, and asks her for a favor...

pairing: iwaizumi x f!reader

status: completed

warnings: language, angst, alcohol use, violence/blood, adult themes, angst, crimes, poverty, smoking, flawed characters, anger issues, mental health issues, bad fathers, mention of family member death, probably bad, general ooc-ness, overused tropes that i will be beating to death, set in 2006 for no good reason other than i felt like it; happy ending but will probably be upsetting

taglist: closed (50/50)

minors dni & other rules

iwa sketch drawn by the amazingly talented @wyrcan

chapter one -> a favor

chapter two -> a call

chapter three -> a visit

chapter four -> an incident

chapter five -> the move

chapter six -> a promise

if you end up enjoying, please leave a like, rb, comment or ask <3

moodboard by @causenessus

[a2-p3r-usu4l]

a trip to the office supply store could fix me

[shrimpkini]

I greatly adore the idea of teen Dazai being touch-starved and not having known many kids his age. Then a fiery redhead who speaks his mind, has strong morals even in dubious situations, and is so undeniably alive enters his life. He is an anomaly that Dazai immediately becomes obsessed with. Going out of his way to find any files on him, learning his code, constantly trying to find ways to grab his attention (or annoyance), and writing about him in weekly newsletters and in personal notebooks. He is enamored by this kid and the only way he knows how to express it is be a dick.

He even sticks around longer instead of drinking the elixir Mori was going to make for him.

I’d like to think that a sense of child-like possessiveness overtakes him a bit. That in cases when he learns Chuuya has experienced things without him he is frustrated. Because not only has Chuuya had the luxury to experience some childhood staples but he also experienced those things without Dazai. Chuuya is a first for Dazai, but Dazai is not a first for Chuuya. It’s one of the first heartbreaks I think a child experiences. Like when your best friend has another best friend. Or your best friend got their ears pierced first with other people. You were supposed to do that together and now you’re lagging behind.

Of course I think he’d grow out of this like most kids do. But it makes my heart ache to think of a jealous Dazai that sees Chuuya parading around with The Flags or having already had alcohol or his first kiss before Dazai has. They’re so competitive with one another.

I have a HC that in a scenario in which Chuuya claims to have had his first kiss, Dazai calls him a liar. He calls him a liar because he doesn’t believe him but also because he doesn’t want it to be true.

Kind of unrelated but I also deeply subscribe to the HC that teen Dazai is touch-starved and therefore finds excuses to touch Chuuya. Like they’re both picking a fight because they need a hug but are too proud to ask for it or touch each other in a remotely affectionate way. Very fun.

Anyway that’s been me overanalyzing and headcanoning the crap out of soukoku.

[orphicsun]

1 and 4 with Ellie?

warnings: ellie williams + ex girlfriend reader, sexual content (18+), angst.

-

After the break-up, you and Ellie said you'd keep it on 'good terms.'

Good terms, as in staying away from each other. The good terms you both agreed upon being the both of you wallowing in your own beds, you watching Gilmore Girls and snacking on only containers of caramel dip made for apple slices while Ellie turned to The Notebook and the biggest bag of Jalapeno Cheddar cheetos she could pick up from Family Dollar.

But everyone surrounding you were extremely impatient, and you couldn't hide in your bedroom forever. Eventually, you changed out of your pajamas and let your friends drag you into some party. You didn't know whose, but you didn't care. You were there for the weed and a rebound. Classic break-up staples, of course.

It wasn't really a shocker that you had decided not to wear panties underneath your dress. It was extremely stupid. In the future, you'll rant on a tangent about the reasons you shouldn't have, but for now, all you can think about is being underneath someone. Feeling all over their back as they fuck you with a pretty toy. Keeping your lips shut tight so you don't moan Ellie's name instead of theirs.

But before you can even find a friend-of-a-friend who can deal to you, you're met with the sight of Ellie and some girl with your color hair, only her dress is significantly shorter.

There it is, the 'good terms.' You and Ellie had always been so closely intertwined, alike in the same tendencies and coping mechanisms that of course, if she wallows alongside you, she will also be someone else's for tonight. You can't be mad.

Your friends don't notice when you leave for the nearest bathroom, but someone else does. You open the door to Ellie, a look on her face entirely different than the one you had seen on her face with her lips plastered on a random girl's.

She shuts the door behind her, locking it shut.

You scoff. "Seriously, Ellie?" You say, voice strained with hurt and anger.

She raises her eyebrows in defense. "Seriously, what?" Before you can begin your emotion-induced rant, she cuts you off. "Don't start, okay? I'm sorry. I fucked up, I shouldn't have.."

"Of course you say that," you retort bitterly. "Of course you can apologize when I see it."

"We're broken up, okay? What am I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to come back!"

At that, she just stares at you, something forlorn in her gaze. She thinks deeply about it and takes a step closer.

"Is that what you wanted..?" She cups your face, her touch tentative. When you don't protest, she leans in. "Because I'll come back in a heartbeat. Just say it out loud, and I'll take you back right here."

You can't get the words out fast enough, and she immediately responds with a desperate kiss, her lips moving against yours with need. For a moment, it's perfect. Her taste is exactly how you had left it, the way she grasps your face like she had done in the past countless times, and her body meeting yours feels like coming back home after a trip that lasted far too long.

When you moan into the kiss, she breaks it to lavish attention all over the neck she remembers as sensitive. Her tongue is wet as it swirls against the delicate skin, making you gasp and lean further into her. It's not enough, though. You take her hand, tugging at it with an obvious request.

"Such a needy girl," she laughs, but Ellie doesn't hesitate, her hand moving up your dress. When she meets your bare, wet pussy, she pauses. Her eyes slightly widen out of shock.

"No underwear? Did you plan this?" She mumbles into your ear playfully, pulling back in hopes of seeing your flustered expression. Instead, she sees something more like guilt. "Babe..?"

"I came here planning on.. sleeping with someone else," you confess quietly, your heart sinking as Ellie's touch quickly leaves your body.

Now, she is the one to scoff, giving you a look of incredulity. "Really?"

"I'm s-"

"Don't fucking start," she cuts you off. You stay silent now. "You were all pissy at me for even kissing someone else, but you came to this party so sure you were gonna fuck someone else that you didn't bother wearing panties?"

You're quiet. It's telling.

"Yeah? That's what I thought."

Ellie wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and you hear the slam of the door closing as fast as you register she had opened it. You're back to walling now, only this time, with a twinge of guilt you can't rid yourself of.

taglist: @femme-tobe, @sulliefimmie, @klallx, @elliescoochieeater, @mytaping, @pryncess123, @therealhexstrap, @piercedome, @violetszn, @saturnhas82moons, @myfabulousnesshasarrived, @sawaagyapong, @prettyinpink69, @usuck, @s7nburn, @hellokittyfeenie, @ssijht, @starberr1, @ruevu, @ruelezz, @littlefallenangel111, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie, @human-cacti, @tphmnv, @hotpinkskitties, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @elliesngirl, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs, @vixxxen, @aceywaycy, @abbysbutch, @evoscancelled, @x0x0xkimara, @aviixol, @mysexy-anxiety, @rockstargfsblog, @maple-anon want to be tagged? click here!

[inkieun]

Word for Word — Oh Beom-Seok x F!Reader

“You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano. Suho and Sieun trade a glance—Suho half-hidden in his hoodie, Sieun boredly tearing at his sandwich. “That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says.

cw: dark!beomseok, noncon/dubcon, stalking, gaslighting, physical violence, choking, hairpulling and creampie.

i've been wanting to write a dark beom-seok since he gives loser vibes

You notice the first note tucked inside your essay.

It isn’t stapled. Isn’t typed. Just a small piece of paper folded once, the edges sharp like someone took real good care not to crumple it. You hesitate before opening it, like it might be a mistake. Like it’s not meant for you.

But it is.

You know your own name when you see it.

The handwriting is neat. Slanted and familiar. It reads like something you might’ve written in the middle of the night, in that floaty space between dreaming and waking.

“The walls blink when you aren’t looking. Your words are louder in silence than in air.”

You blink. It doesn’t make immediate sense, but it feels like it should. Like a line from a poem you don’t remember writing.

You look around the room. No one is watching you. 

You slide the note into your notebook and don’t mention it to anyone.

The second one is harder to ignore.

It’s written in your style. The commas fall the way you place them. The images are strange, soft, slightly bruised like a mirror of your own. Whoever wrote it has read your essays closely. Intimately.

“You carry grief in a glass jar. You pretend it’s perfume.”

That’s a line from something you almost submitted last week. You deleted it at the last second because it felt too raw, too revealing. You never turned it in. You never posted it.

You feel cold, suddenly, despite your sweater.

Someone is watching you.

You start checking the backs of your papers. Looking over your shoulder. Taking different routes between classes. The halls feel longer now. The lights overhead too white. The sound of your own name when it's called in roll, when it’s printed at the top of a page, it all feels like a target.

You try to shake it. Tell yourself it’s just some weird joke. Someone admiring your writing. Maybe a classmate. Maybe—No. You’ve seen how they all read each other's work. Half-glances. Skims. No one is reading you like this.

No one should be. And yet, someone is.

“I'm telling you, it’s not just some cute little poetry fan. It’s... weird,” you say, keeping your voice low but tight. “I think someone’s been reading my writing. Like, really reading it.”

Sieun sits across from you, stone-faced, tapping his pencil once, then again, then again against the side of his notebook. Suho’s beside him, legs jittering under the table, half-listening, half-scrolling on his phone.

“I mean, that’s... good, right?” Suho says, offering a smile too quick to be genuine. “Someone appreciating your stuff? Could be worse. Could be nobody's reading it.”

“They’re not.” You don’t budge. “They’re studying me.”

Suho shifts in his seat, visibly uncomfortable now. “Maybe you posted it somewhere and forgot? You know, like Tumblr or Instagram or one of those creepy anonymous poetry blogs you’re always reading?”

You shake your head. “No. I didn’t.”

Now Sieun looks up. His eyes are unreadable, steady. One of his fingers stills on the table. “You’re sure?” You nod once. “Positive.”

Suho makes a soft, awkward sound—somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Okay, well… maybe it’s a coincidence. People write similar stuff all the time, right? Like, unconscious… uh, what’s the word. Parallels.”

“I’m being watched,” you whisper, half to yourself. “I know I am.”

The words sit heavy between you. You glance down at your own notebook, the edge of the last note still peeking out from the side pocket. It feels radioactive now.

“You sound paranoid,” Suho says, the edge of his voice wobbling even as he tries to laugh. “Like, this is how it starts, right? Next thing you know you’re pinning strings to walls and muttering about CIA satellites in your toothbrush.”

“You think I’m making this up?”

“I think you’re spiraling.”

“Shhh!” the librarian hisses from somewhere behind the nearest shelf, sharp as a slap.

You all freeze. You mutter, “Sorry,” without turning. Suho gets up, fast, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. “I need caffeine or I’m gonna flat line.”

Sieun follows him, slow and quiet, like a shadow detaching from its host. Before he leaves, he looks back once. “Next time it happens,” he says, voice like ice poured into a glass, “don’t throw the note away.”

Then they’re gone.

The lights above buzz faintly. You stay seated, the silence pressing in on all sides. Now you are wondering if someone’s watching you right now.

Then came the text messages.

At first, it’s one. Just one. From an unknown number.

“You looked tired today. But the blue in your sweater suits your sadness.”

You freeze, phone glowing in your hand at 1:04 a.m., the silence in your room suddenly too quiet. You block the number. Obviously. Immediately. But another pops up two days later.

“The way you bite your nail during class… what are you trying to chew your way out of?”

You block that number, too. They just keep coming.

One after another. Different numbers every time. Always poetic. Always familiar. Always close enough to your thoughts it feels like whoever’s writing them is reading your mind—or something worse.

You stop reading them. You stop opening messages altogether. You change your number.

It’s humiliating, dragging yourself to the mobile store and muttering something vague about spam or exes. The guy behind the counter doesn’t ask questions. You leave with a new SIM card and shaking hands.

For a moment, there’s quiet. But it’s not peace. Now you’re waiting for the next thing. You’re halfway out the classroom, already zipping up your jacket, when Professor Kim’s voice calls after you.

“Can you stay back a moment?”

You pause mid-step, the low hum of students clearing out around you. Your body says go, but something in her tone clips your breath short. You nod slowly and return to your seat as the door clicks shut behind the last person.

She’s standing by her desk, looking at you like she’s trying to choose the gentlest way to say you’re slipping.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she says, carefully. “Your writing’s changed. It used to carry this... emotional clarity. You wrote like you had nothing to lose.” You sit rigid in the chair, staring down at your fingernails.

“I’m just tired,” you say. “It’s nothing serious.”

“You’re missing assignments. You’re distracted in class. I don’t think this is nothing.” You don’t answer. There’s no point.

She picks up a slip of paper from her desk. “I’d like you to meet with one of my TAs. Just a session or two. He’s new, but very insightful. He’s good at picking up patterns.” Something about the word patterns makes your skin prickle.

She moves to the door. Opens it. “He’s outside. I asked him to come by.”

You expect someone familiar. Another student from class. A face you’ve seen slumped behind a Mac Book in the library. But the guy who walks in isn’t familiar at all.

Tall. Hoodie, layered under a jacket. Black backpack. Hair slightly unkempt like he tried to fix it on the way in but gave up halfway with glasses that sit on his nose. He looks... ordinary. Not harmless. Not threatening. Just there. 

Professor Kim gestures between you. “This is Beom-seok,” she says. “He’ll be your writing tutor for the rest of the term.”

You nod politely, already anxious to leave.

Beom-seok steps forward and offers a half-smile. It twitches oddly at one side, as if it doesn’t quite belong to him. “Hey,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

His voice is too quiet. Too soft. There’s something in the way he says it—like he’s been waiting for this moment a little too long. You murmur a hello. Professor Kim smiles with finality, grabs her bag, and heads out. “You two get settled. I’ll check in next week.” The door closes behind her.

Silence.

He sits across from you, pulling his chair in close, too close. He rests his elbows on the desk, fingertips tapping rhythmically, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“I’ve read your stuff,” he says, not looking at you. “It’s really... intense. In a good way. Honest. I like that.” You tilt your head slightly. “Which one?”

“All of them,” he says too fast.

Then quieter: “I just think your writing is different from most people. Like you write with your heart.” The comment sits wrong. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the way he says it like a compliment he’s rehearsed in the mirror.

You shift in your seat. He notices.

His smile curls again, sheepish. “Sorry. I’m not great at, uh... people.” You want to ask how he ended up tutoring then, but you don’t. You just nod. He clears his throat. “Anyway. We can start next session, if you want. Or, you know, talk now. Whatever works for you.”

You glance at the clock. You want to leave. Every part of you wants to leave because you don’t want him to know how fast your heart is beating.

“Next session,” you say. “That’s fine.”

“Cool,” he says, like he didn’t just spend the last two minutes staring at you like he already knew you. He stands and watches you pack your things. You feel his eyes on your back as you walk to the door.

You don’t say goodbye. You don’t look back.

“You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano.

Suho and Sieun glance at each other across the table. Suho’s got his hood pulled halfway up and Sieun’s picking apart the corner of a sandwich like he was bored.

“That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says.

You nod. “Weird energy. He doesn’t blink enough. He kept saying stuff about my writing like—like he already knew it. He talks like he’s been thinking about me.” Suho chuckles. “Oh no. You got one of the creepy TAs. Did he offer to read your soul lines in the espresso foam?”

You don’t laugh.

You’re too busy remembering how still he was. Sieun catches your expression and leans forward. “Seriously?.”

“Yes." you say, voice low.

Your phone buzzes in your lap.

Unknown Number. Your chest tightens. You answer, slowly, eyes flicking to your friends. “Hello?” There’s a breath on the other end before the voice comes in. “Hey. It’s Beom-seok.”

You sit up straighter. “Hi…”

“I just wanted to confirm our session for tomorrow. Four o’clock. Library, upstairs back corner. Don’t be late.” His tone isn’t mean—but it’s too assumptive. Like you already belong to the schedule in his head.

“Yeah. Sure,” you say. “How did you get my number?”

“From Professor Kim,” he says quickly. “She gave it to me so we could coordinate.” You nod reflexively, like he can see it.

Then freeze. You didn’t give her your new number. You hang up shortly after, muttering some excuse. The second your screen goes dark, you look up at Suho and Sieun.

“He called me,” you say.

“Who?” Suho asks. “Beom-seok. He has my number. But I didn’t give it to Professor Kim. Not this number. I just changed it.”

Sieun frowns. “Are you sure you didn’t email it to her or something?”

You shake your head. “Positive.” You all sit in silence for a beat too long. And for the rest of the evening, no one brings it up again.

You find him already there in the back corner of the upstairs library, just like he said. He waves you over with that same off-kilter smile. There’s already a seat pulled out for you. A pen waiting on the table.

“Hey,” he says brightly. “You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

You sit down slowly. “It’s a tutoring session, not a date.” He laughs at that, though you weren’t trying to be funny. “You look really focused,” he says, watching you pull out your notebook. “Even the way you organize your notes feels... poetic. Like there’s rhythm in your margins.”

You glance up, uncertain. “Thanks?”

“I like that you don’t censor yourself when you write. It’s raw. Kind of haunting.”

There’s a pause.

“Like that line from the essay about the blackout,” he adds. “‘I wanted to flip the switch, but I was scared of what would still be there in the dark. That one killed me.”

You stared at him. You never turned that essay in. You remember writing it, yes but you saved it in a private folder. Never shared it. Not even with your friends.

Your stomach twists. “I—I don’t think I submitted that one.”

Beom-seok’s eyes go wide. Too wide. “Wait, really? No, I—I think Professor Kim might’ve shared it with the TAs in a sample packet. She sends us excerpts sometimes, for grading calibration. You know how she is.”

You nod slowly. That sounds true. You want it to be true.

You look down at your notebook. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Totally,” he says, already sliding your last essay across the table. “Anyway, let’s dive in. I’ve got a few thoughts.” And for the next hour, you try to focus. But it’s hard not to notice the way he watches you when you’re not speaking.

Like he already knows what you’re going to say. 

You left that tutoring session more unsettled than when you walked in. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why—he hadn’t said anything strange, hadn’t done anything wrong. But something about the way he watched you, the way his eyes lingered a little too long behind those plain glasses… it stuck with you.

It happens two days later at the campus café.

You’re not hiding, you tell yourself. The café is loud, packed with half-zombie students scrolling through notes, nursing espresso, their eyes glassy and gone from finals week burnout. You’re wedged into a corner table, earbuds in, phone off, pretending you don’t feel cracked open.

You haven’t told Suho or Sieun about the tutoring session. Not yet. You don’t know how to bring it up—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself it was nothing. Normal. Just awkward, maybe. That you imagined the way Beom-seok looked at you. That his comment about your essay was just strange timing. A fluke. A coincidence. Something you could explain if you tried hard enough.

But you haven’t tried. Not really. You’ve almost started to believe it.

Almost. Until now. Because now—you feel it. That prickle.

At the base of your neck. That low, electric hum beneath your skin that tells you something’s wrong before your mind catches up.

You glance up, slow and casual, like you're just stretching. Like your muscles are stiff and you're not wired with quiet panic.

And there he is. Beom-seok.

Three tables away. No laptop. No books. No notebook open in front of him. Just a single coffee cup. He’s not scrolling through his phone. He’s not pretending to study.

He’s looking at you. Not past you. Not near you. At you.

You drop your gaze like it burns. Turn back to your notebook, scrawl something just to keep your hands moving, to keep from shaking. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re convinced people can hear it. That it’s echoing off the café walls.

Maybe he only just walked in. Maybe he didn’t see you here, didn’t come here for—But then. He smiles. That smile. Not warm. Not friendly. Something about it is wrong. Like it’s meant for someone else. Like he knows something you don’t.

You don’t think. You just move. Grab your bag, your coat, your half-filled coffee cup. You don’t look back. Don’t care how abrupt it is, how strange you must seem. You head straight for the side door and push out into the street, heart still hammering, breath tight in your chest.

You don’t look back.

You don’t want to know if he follows. Faster than you need to.

When you finally stop three buildings over behind the student center, half-hidden by a vending machine—you check your phone out of pure instinct. No texts. No calls. But your hands are still shaking.

You lean against the concrete wall, trying to catch your breath. You tell yourself to be rational. That it was public. That maybe he was there first. That maybe—Your phone buzzes. Unknown Number. You freeze. And then, against every instinct, you open it.

"You left in a rush. I hope I didn’t scare you. See you tomorrow."

You stare at the screen.

You never said yes to another session.

You go straight to Professor Kim’s office the next morning.

You don't email. You don’t wait for office hours. You knock at 8:02 a.m., fresh off a sleepless night and a sick knot in your chest that hasn’t let go since the café.

She opens the door, surprised. Coffee in hand. “You’re early.”

“I need to talk about my tutor,” you say.

That gets her attention.

She steps aside and lets you in. Her office smells like peppermint tea and old paper, the blinds still closed. You sit stiffly, clutching your backpack like it might hold your spine together.

“Is something wrong with Beom-seok?” she asks gently, lowering herself into her chair.

You hesitate. You want to say he’s stalking me, or he said something from an essay I never submitted, or he watched me at the café like a creep. But you don’t have proof.

So you lie.

“I just don’t think he’s a good fit,” you say, voice tight. “He makes me uncomfortable. I don’t feel like I can focus around him.”

She frowns slightly. “Uncomfortable how?”

You shrug. “Just... weird boundaries. He gets personal. I don’t know. It’s not working.” She watches you for a beat longer than necessary. Then nods.

“Okay. I’ll take care of it. You’ll work with another TA—Jun-tae. He’s quiet, but respectful. You’ll like him.” Relief floods your chest like breath after drowning. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says. “I’m glad you told me.”

After the meeting, you return to your dorm.

The halls are quiet. Your shoes thud softly against the laminate. Everything feels unnaturally calm. You slip your key into the lock, shoulder aching from all the stress.

You close the door behind you and drop your bag. Sit on the edge of your bed. For the first time in hours, you let your jaw unclench.

Your phone lights up. You didn’t want to answer it but something cold and stupid in your chest makes you do it anyway.

You press the screen to your ear.

“Why would you do that to me?” Beom-seok’s voice erupts through the speaker, hoarse and cracked, like it’s been building inside him all morning.

“You went to Professor Kim?” he hisses. “You told her you didn’t want me anymore?”

You can barely breathe. “Beom-seok—”

“No. No, don’t say my name like that. Like you don’t know what we are. I’ve read you, every word. I know you. I see you. You think some basic-ass TA named Jun-tae is gonna get it?”

He’s pacing. You can hear it in the way the air moves on the other side of the line. “You don’t get to disappear just because you’re scared,” he growls. “You don’t get to cut me out like I’m some side note.”

“I’m warning you,” you whisper. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

And before he can answer, you hang up. You sit there for half a second—heart pounding, ears ringing, body shaking and then you throw the phone again. Harder this time. It cracks against the wall and slides to the floor in a dull, useless heap.

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

Your body won’t stop listening for footsteps, for knocks, for anything that says he’s near.

And for the first time since it all began, you feel it settle fully into your bones:

This isn’t just creepy anymore. It’s dangerous.

The first post-it note is yellow.

Just a single square, stuck dead-center on your dorm door. The handwriting is small, slanted, too neat—like someone practiced it. Like someone wanted it to be noticed.

“It’s quiet here. I like that.”

You stare at it for a second too long. Then you tear it down without thinking, fingers tightening until the paper crumples between them. It lands in your trash can with a soft rustle, barely a sound, but your pulse is loud in your ears.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. A prank. A weird joke.

But your hand doesn’t stop shaking until long after the door clicks shut behind you. You don’t tell anyone.

The next one is pink.

"You looked tired today. I hope you’re resting. You should take care of yourself."

You throw that one away too.

They keep coming. Green. Blue. Orange. Each new note appears the same way—silent, perfectly placed, like a ritual. Always there when you return.

You don’t replace your phone. You can’t. Your bank account is down to single digits and the last thing you want is to borrow money from anyone and have to explain why. No phone means no new number. No apps. No distractions. But it also means no help. And you start seeing him more often now.

Leaving the campus store just as you’re entering. Sitting on a bench when you pass by the art building, his gaze fixed on something else—until you’re close enough that you feel it swing toward you. He never speaks. Never waves. Never follows. He just appears. And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re five minutes early to your tutoring session with Jun-tae, clutching a folder you haven’t even opened because your mind’s been too loud to study. You wait outside the seminar room, watching the door. Professor Kim emerges instead. She looks... frazzled. “Oh,” she says, seeing you. “I was just about to email—Jun-tae won’t be able to meet today.” You blink. “What?”

“He had a bad fall,” she explains. “Stairs behind the science hall. Broke his leg.” Your stomach knots. “Oh,” you say again, slower this time. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay, but won’t be able to tutor for at least a few weeks.” She frowns, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ll try to get someone else assigned to you soon, but with finals coming, the TA schedule is a mess.”

You nod numbly, trying to process her words while something cold slinks down your spine. Jun-tae was your safe option. Now he’s gone. You don’t remember walking back to your dorm. You don’t remember unlocking the door. But when you get inside, there’s another note waiting for you.

This one is written directly on your mirror, in a red marker.

"Told you, didn’t I? You can’t get rid of me." 

You can’t keep it inside anymore.

The moment you see Suho and Sieun at the dining hall. They were heads bent over a shared plate of greasy fries, laughing about something dumb—you sit down so fast your tray clatters. They both glance up. You don’t even say hello.

“I think Beom-seok pushed Jun-tae down the stairs.”

The words just come out, wild and raw, too fast, like you’ve been holding your breath for days. Suho blinks. “Uh. Come again?”

You lower your voice and lean in. “Jun-tae didn’t just fall. He was fine. He was normal. And then the moment he’s assigned to me, suddenly he’s out for the rest of the semester? Don’t you think that’s—off?” Sieun raises his eyebrows. “You think Beom-seok, what, attacked him? Because he was your new tutor?”

You nod. You know how it sounds.

“I’ve been seeing him everywhere,” you continue. “Outside my dorm. In the café. Watching me. And he’s been leaving post-it notes. Every day.” They exchange a look. Not a mean one. Just that slow, careful look people give when they’re trying not to say, You sound unhinged.

Sieun speaks first. “I mean… okay. That’s a little weird, but maybe he just really likes you? Like, in a sad poet kind of way. Some guys don’t know how to deal with feelings.” Suho shrugs. “Yeah, this sounds more like—what’s the word—infatuation? Harmless, maybe a little cringey, but not dangerous.”

“He wrote on my mirror,” you hiss. “Inside my room.” That lands harder. But not hard enough. Suho winces. “Okay, that’s crossing a line. Still…It doesn’t mean he hurt someone.”

Sieun adds, “And the notes? I mean… yeah, it's intense. But lovesick dudes do stupid shit all the time. He probably thinks this is romantic.”

You stare at them both. They’re trying to soothe you. Not one of them believed you. “I’m not overreacting,” you say, quieter now. “I know it’s him. He’s everywhere. He makes me to feel trapped.”

Suho picks at a fry. “Look, if you’re this freaked out, go to campus security. File a report. They can at least talk to him.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it.”

They don’t. You leave them without saying goodbye.

Their voices echo behind you as you walk away—half-concerned, half-curious, not really listening. You can feel their eyes on your back, can almost hear them already figuring out how to laugh it off later.

"She's just tired. She’s just being dramatic." It doesn’t even sting the way it should. It just sits there—quiet and cold and heavy—somewhere in your chest.

By the time you reach your dorm building, the sun’s nearly gone. The air smells like old leaves and someone’s burnt toast. You climb the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister like you need something real to hold onto.

You turn the corner. Your door is in view. And for the first time in days—There’s nothing on it. No post-it note. No message. No trace. You stop. You should feel relief.

But instead, something colder slides into you—deeper than fear. Like the silence is a trick. Like the absence is worse than the presence. The blank door suddenly looks too clean, like a wiped slate, or an invitation.

He knows you're scared.

You step inside quickly, locking the door behind you. Twice. Then dragging your desk chair under the handle for good measure. Your hands are shaking, but your face feels numb.

You don’t turn on music. You don’t open your laptop.

You just move through the motions like a ghost of yourself��changing into sweats, brushing your teeth, folding yourself into your sheets. You lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling. You plan.

Tomorrow, first thing, you’ll go to campus security. You’ll file a report. You’ll do it.

Because no one else is going to. But for now, all you have is the quiet hum of your dorm, the creak of your bed as you shift under the blankets, and that gnawing feeling in your stomach—

That somewhere, he’s watching this too.

You shut your eyes. You tell yourself to sleep. The kind of sleep that feels more like escape, like shutting down.

And maybe you do sleep, for a little while. You’re not sure.

Because the next thing you feel—before your eyes even open—is the weight.

A presence. Not a noise. Not a creak. Not the wind. Just that unmistakable awareness of someone else in the room. Thick and suffocating. So close you can taste their breath in the air.

You open your eyes. And someone’s there. Standing over you.

You don’t even have time to scream. A hand slams down over your mouth, fast and hard, pinning your head to the pillow with a quiet thud.

Your legs thrash, the sheets tangle, and your brain is screaming this isn’t real, this isn’t real, but then—He speaks. Low. Calm. Intimate. Like you’re sharing a secret.

“No, baby. None of that.”

Your blood turns to ice.

Because you know that voice. Beom-seok. He’s smiling. Not wide. Not wild. Just small. Gentle. Like this is all very reasonable.

“Shh,” he breathes, stroking your hair with his free hand like you’re a frightened animal. “You looked so peaceful. I almost didn’t want to wake you.”

You make a strangled noise under his palm.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, his knee sinking into the edge of the bed. His eyes roam your face like he’s studying a painting he’s seen before but never quite understood. 

“I didn’t like the way you talked about me today,” he murmurs, the edge creeping in now. “To them. Suho and Sieun. You told them lies.” You shake your head, or try to, but his hand presses harder, turning denial into a muffled whimper.

“I don’t like when people lie about me,” he whispers. “You know that.”

His hand lifts—just enough to let you breathe. You suck in air, raw and shaking, your voice catching in your throat. But he sees it And faster than you can scream...

His hand clamps around your throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just holding.

His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in. “You were doing so well,” he murmurs. “The notes. The mirror. Our little cat-and-mouse game.” His grip tightens slightly—not enough to cut off air, but enough to remind you he’s in control.

“You were supposed to understand what this meant.”

Your chest rises and falls too fast. You want to move. Scream. Fight.

But it was like a out of body experience and your voice is gone.

He tilts his head, studying you like something broken he doesn’t know how to fix. “I was patient. I waited. But you let foolish thoughts get into your head. And now you’re scared of me?” His lips brush your ear. 

“That hurts.”

A soft, cracked sound escapes you—more instinct than speech. A broken plea.

He watches. The kind of watch that empties the air from the room. Then he moves. Straddles your waist, knees digging into the mattress, pinning you down. You can feel the weight of him pressing you into the bed.

One hand stays wrapped around your throat. Firm. Controlling. The other tangles into your hair, tightening until your scalp stings. He leans in, face inches from yours, breath laced with mint and menace. The glint in his eyes is sharp and empty. Calculating. Cold.

That smile on his lips—it never fades. But it isn’t human. It’s the smile of something that enjoys the fear. “Now, now,” he whispers, low and coaxing, “let’s not make this harder than it has to be.” His hand in your hair tugs harder. “I’ve been watching you sleep. You looked so peaceful. So... touchable.” Your heart slams against your ribs, desperate and wild.

Every nerve screams at you to move to run but his weight on you is making it difficult to move.

Then his thumb brushes your lower lip—slow, mocking. “I know you’re scared, baby. I can feel you trembling,” he says softly. His hand is still at your throat, not squeezing, not yet.

But the threat is there, sharp and clear. If he wanted to, he could end it right now and you both know it.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Not if you do as I say." His face dips closer, until you can feel the whisper of his breath on your cheek. "I just want to play a little game. A game that I think you're going to enjoy." He chuckles softly, a dark and sinister sound.

His hand slides lower, over your collarbone, your breastbone, until it rests just above your navel. You can feel the heat of his palm bleeding through the thin fabric of your nightshirt.

Something inside you snaps.

Your fist flies up on instinct and connects with his face with a sickening crunch, you feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Seizing the momentary advantage, you push against his chest with all your might, throwing him off balance. He tumbles backwards, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Without hesitation, you leap out of the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. Your heart pounds as you bolt towards the door, desperate to escape. Just as your fingers brush the doorknob, you feel a rough hand grab your ankle, yanking you backwards with brutal force. You cry out in pain and surprise as you're pulled off balance, falling hard onto the ground.

Beom-seok looms over you, his face contorted in rage, a trickle of blood running down his chin from where you struck him. "Bitch!" he snarls, grabbing both your ankles now and dragging you back towards him. You kick and struggle, trying to break free, but his grip is unyielding.

You scrabble at the floor, your nails raking against the carpet, searching for something, anything to anchor yourself with. Your hand closes around a heavy, metal object from the bedside table, Your weights. Without a second thought, you swing it at Beom-seok's head with all your strength.

He roars in pain and fury as the metal connects with his temple, splitting the skin and drawing a gash of blood. But he doesn't let go. If anything, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. You feel his hand grab at your throat, squeezing, choking.

You gasp and choke, your lungs burning for air, as you continue to struggle wildly, thrashing and flailing. You manage to land a few more blows with the weights, feeling it crash against his arms, his ribs, his head. The room is filled with the sounds of grunts.

He grabs your hand thats holding the weight and takes it out of your hand and throws it across the room and backhands you and then flips you around on your stomach.

Without hesitation, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants and yanks them down, exposing your ass to the cool air. 

Rising up on his knees, Beom-seok takes a moment to admire the sight of you laid out before him, your panties the only scrap of fabric between your thighs. He leans down and places a tender kiss on the small of your back.

"Beautiful," Beom-seok murmurs, his voice low and tinged with reverence. "I've been dreaming of this moment, saving myself for you. To feel your soft skin, to claim you as mine..."  You could feel Beom-seok’s breath as he hovered just above, his body trembling with a reverence that bordered on obsession. “Every night I imagined this,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, thick with heat and restraint. “You laid out for me like this… waiting.”

His hand slid down your thigh, fingers trailing like silk, lingering, mapping every inch as if it were sacred ground. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling in sync with the tension building in the room. He aligned himself with agonizing slowness, his movements deliberate, worshipful.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed against your neck, lips grazing skin with featherlight reverence. “No more dreams. Just you. Just this.”

And then—he pressed forward, slow and unrelenting, claiming you inch by inch. His breath shuddered out in a broken gasp, his hand gripping your hip as if to ground himself in the reality of this moment. Every muscle in his body tensed with the intensity of it, of finally being inside you, of the culmination of desire long denied.

“Fuck... you're so goddamn tight," he pants, voice dripping with lust, glasses fogging up with each harsh thrust. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply as he growls filthy things in that sickeningly sweet voice. "You don’t even realize how much I want to wreck you... slowly, carefully, until all you can think about is me." 

You twist beneath him, your wrists straining against his grip, body bucking in defiance even as it betrays you with heat and need. "No—" you gasp, the word breaking on a moan you can’t hold back.

But he doesn’t stop. He’s relentless, driving into you with ruthless precision, every thrust forcing another helpless sound from your throat. The room fills with the obscene slick sounds of your body reacting, no matter how hard you try to resist.

Your thighs push against his hips, trying to shift him off balance, but he only tightens his hold, catching your chin in one hand to force your eyes back to his.

"You're fighting me," he murmurs, voice dark with something wicked and possessive. "But listen to yourself. Feel yourself. You want this."

A fresh wave of embarrassment crashes over you as your body clenches around him, pulsing with every punishing thrust. You shake your head, biting back a sob, but you’re trembling now for all the wrong reasons, lost in the terrifying, electric edge of surrender.

"Please... please Beom-seok!" you cry out, every movement shatters what little strength you have left, every second stretching into something unbearable. You try to pull away, to twist from his grip, but it's futile. He's relentless. You’re nothing but raw nerves and shaking limbs now, reduced to the desperate, broken shape of someone who just wants it to end. 

He just chuckles darkly, gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises as he slams into you even harder. "There you go, sweetheart. Take it all. Let go for me—let me give you exactly what you’ve been aching for." 

His other hand comes up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back as he hilts inside you, grinding his pelvis against your ass. "I’ll cum so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow, just the way I know your body craves it." 

You sob tears slipping down your cheeks unchecked as the pressure builds, unbearable and hot, curling in your core like a storm you can’t outrun.

The cold ground scrapes at your skin, but you barely register it. The only thing you feel is him is the weight, the pace, the overwhelming heat of being taken.

He watches you fall apart beneath him, eyes sharp and unreadable, breath hot against your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, a wicked edge in his voice. “You’re begging without a word.”

You choke on a sob, the sound dissolving into a moan as pleasure crashes over you, brutal and consuming.

There’s no room left for thought, no space for resistance and just sensation. Just the way he fucks you mercilessly into the cold, unforgiving ground, until you forget where you end and he begins. You feel him ground your hips harshly and flips you over onto your back with a sudden, rough motion. Before you can catch your breath, he's on top of you again, looming above, eyes burning with feral lust behind the steamed up glasses. He hooks your knees over his elbows, nearly bending you in half as he drives back into your abused pussy with a guttural moan.

“Fuck… the way you hold me—so warm, so tight—I swear you were made just for me.” His voice is low, rough with cruel satisfaction, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he drives into you with punishing precision.

The lenses catch the low light, reflecting just enough to mask his eyes, but you can still feel them—locked on your face, watching every tear, every flicker of surrender.

He sets a merciless rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, stretching you around him until you're gasping, seeing stars. You’re pinned beneath him, your body overwhelmed and trembling, reduced to sensation and sound—slick, wet, and ragged cries echoing off the walls.

And he still watches you through those damn glasses...fogged at the edges, a little crooked and like you’re something precious he intends to ruin slowly. 

"That’s my girl… make those sounds for me. Let the whole world know who’s fucking you like this." Beom-seok growls, sweat dripping from his chin onto your heaving tits. "You're mine now. Every sound you make, every time your body opens for me—it’s all mine." 

He leans down, biting at your neck hard enough to leave a mark. The mix of pain and pleasure is dizzying, your mind short-circuiting with the intensity of it all.

"Beom-seok!" you wail, fingernails scrabbling at his back. You're so close, teetering on the edge, your pussy clenching wildly around him. But he just fucks you harder, chase his own release, determined to make you fall apart completely.

You could feel it. You feel the way Beom-seok’s breath hitched, the way his grip tightened just slightly, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to anchor himself. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, a sharp stutter that made your own body brace, tension coiling tight. His glasses on his nose, fogged at the edges, crooked from how hard he’d been moving. You caught a glimpse of his eyes behind the lenses—heavy-lidded, unfocused, undone.

Then his head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering shut, a raw, breathless moan breaking from his throat. With a final, brutal thrust, Beom-seok drives in deep buried to the hilt and goes still.

A guttural sound tears from him as his cock twitches inside you, each pulse drawing a soft cry from your lips. You feel the heat of him, spilling in thick, hot waves as your own body clenches around him, milking every last drop.

And through it all, those fogged-up glasses stay on his face—crooked, slipping, catching the light as he shudders against you, lost in the high of it.

“Fuck… take it all, baby. Just like that.” he growls, grinding against your cervix, making sure every last drop of his cum paints your insides. You can feel the warmth of it, the obscene amount of it, flooding your walls.

Panting, he finally pulls out, his breath still ragged as he watches you. You lie there trembling, legs slack, your body caught between exhaustion and afterglow. His eyes track the slow drip of him leaking from you, your inner thighs sticky and glistening. It slides out in lazy pulses, leaving no doubt who you belong to.

He adjusts his glasses with one hand, slow and deliberate, then leans back on his thighs, eyes raking over you like you’re something obscene and beautiful all at once. The faint glint of his lenses catches the low light, masking the hunger in his gaze but you feel it, sharp and possessive.

He exhales, a low, satisfied sound. “Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fucking perfect like this.” The heat in his stare scorches you, more searing than his touch ever could. He leans in, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours like he wants to brand the moment into your bones.

“Remember this,” he says, voice low and rough, “every inch… every breath.” His hand drifts between your thighs, fingers gathering the slick evidence of what he’s done to you. You shiver as he gently presses two fingers back inside, slow and unyielding, pushing his claim deeper into you.

“The way I filled you,” he breathes, watching your face as his fingers begin to move in a lazy rhythm, “left myself buried so deep, your body’s going to ache with the memory.”

Each thrust is deliberate—more intimate than rough—drawing soft, helpless sounds from you as he curls his fingers just right. You clench around him, your breath hitching, and that only makes him smile.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “Always were.”

He slows, then pulls his fingers out with a deliberate, gentle slide. Your body still trembling from the sensation, he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—warm and slick with sweat.

His lips hold the kiss for a moment, grounding, almost tender amidst the heat and chaos. You can feel the steady beat of his breath against your skin as his eyes meet yours again, quieter now, but no less intense. He then scoops you into his arms, his grip firm even in its care. Your body, boneless and trembling from everything and melts against his chest, not out of trust… but because you’re too spent to resist. He carries you back to the bed without a word, the silence louder than it should be.

When he lays you on the sheets, they feel cold against your flushed skin. His fingers brush the damp strands of hair from your face—gentle, yes, but it’s a studied gentleness. The kind you know could vanish in an instant.

“There now,” he murmurs, voice gravelly but controlled. “That was just what you needed, wasn’t it, sweetheart?”

There’s something in the way he says it—like he’s not really asking. Like your need is something he gets to define.

"A reminder of who you belong to."

The words settle over you like a weight. Your stomach tightens. He tucks the blanket around your naked body—marked, bruised, his. The act should be comforting, but instead it feels like being wrapped in a cage you can’t quite see. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft but possessive, lingering just a moment too long. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

"I expect you to be a good girl now, understand?” His voice dips lower. “No more of this bratty behavior."

His fingers drift across your cheek—slow, almost affectionate—but it only makes your heart pound faster.

“I want you focused on being good for me,” he says, like a warning disguised as care. “Behave yourself, sweet thing. I’ll be watching."

And you believe him.

When he rises, he dresses slowly, methodically. Shirt buttoned, belt fastened, everything smoothed into place like nothing happened. You lie still, skin cooling, muscles sore. The silence he leaves behind is heavier than before, thick with the scent of sex… and something colder. Your body still trembles, not just from the aftermath, but from the growing sense that he isn’t finished with you.

And you’re starting to understand that in Beom-seok’s world…belonging isn’t a choice.

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[gyuswhore]

clockwork

It all began when you noticed tiny things disappearing from your bag; notebooks, charging cables, staplers. You'd get your answer soon enough, but it seems the world enjoys watching you run around in circles.

wc: ~1.4k | contains: Jeonghan x reader, fluff, Jeonghan being a menace in multiple ways

for the @camandemstudios 'a very seventeen christmas' Secret Santa collab!

[a/n]: ring ring, @shuaflix, it's your Secret Santa calling!!! I hope you have fun reading this Alice and I can't wait to hear your thots hehe 🤍 big ty to @highvern for beta-ing and to @amourcheol for coming in clutch with vocabulary when I couldn't think of the phrase for "in full swing" KJNSFKJGNS

masterlist

Five days a week, like clockwork, you kiss your boyfriend as he sleeps in the early hours of the morning, packed and ready to leave for the library to get your work done. 

Five days a week, like clockwork, Jeonghan would emerge bleary eyed from the bedroom to the doorway where you’re slipping on your shoes, hugging you for the last time before you have to leave for the day. 

Five days a week, like clockwork, you get to the library to set up your things at your desk by the window, with just the right amount of sunlight, not right under the vent, and certainly not by the busy library entrance. 

Five days a week, like clockwork, you always seem to neglect to pack a minor need in your bag before leaving, insignificant things like an eraser or a specific charging cable, but annoying just the same. 

It didn’t take long before the sneaking suspicion of it all began to creep at your thoughts, but not a single suspect in sight or mind. 

You began to pack your bags the night before instead, double checking and leaving it beside the door before retiring for the night. The next day, you shuffle through your bag one more time, at the door right where you left it, before you’re out the door for the day. The mental checklist is all ticked and sorted, and you’re determined you’ve left nothing behind. 

Halfway through closing the front door behind you, you hear a distinct call. “Wait!” 

Jeonghan opens the door, still half asleep. One of the legs of pyjama pants have ridden up to his knees, the other side, the waistband is dropping below his underwear. Safe to say, he’s frazzled. 

He meets you at the threshold, gesturing you to let him hug you before you leave. You speak into his ear as he squeezes you tight. “You don’t have to do this everyday, Han. I promise I’ve never forgotten your good morning kisses, no matter how loud you’re snoring.”

“Hmm,” he hums but it’s more like a whine. “But you’re gonna be gone aaall daaay.”

“You big baby.”

“Kiss,” he demands as he pulls away slightly. You tiptoe and press a kiss onto his lips. He remembers to behave and keep his mouth closed; he knows how much you hate morning breath.

Just as the elevator is about to close, you hear a distinctly sleepy yell of, “And I don’t snore!”

By the time you get to the library, the good mood you’re in is largely unaffected, setting up your things in your usual spot. The hours pass in relative uneventfulness, and you’re glad about it as you return to your desk with a hole punched stack of papers. 

Sticking a hand into your bag you attempt to find the box of large binder clips you keep to tie together larger stacks of papers. Your fingers grapple onto everything but what you need, even when you quite literally empty your entire bag onto the table. 

Your seatmate, who seems to be in the deep trenches of something mathematical, is not amused. 

The tiny blue box is nowhere to be found. 

Exhaling heavily, you realise you have to deal with your predicament as it is. The idea of dealing with loose papers is not appealing, but you cannot physically staple the thick pile. 

You could’ve sworn you saw the string during your checks the night before, even this morning, right next to your pencil case on the right side of your bag. There’s no holes in your bag, nor have you left your seat to anywhere you couldn’t see it on the desk. 

But even as you deal with the loose stack of papers on the desk, attempting to refocus, there’s only one logical explanation left. It’s hard not to scoff. 

It’s been a week since you’ve been to the library, the holiday season now in full swing as you retire for the semester. 

Christmas mornings with Jeonghan usually turn into Christmas afternoons, taking full advantage of the errand-less day. By the time you do emerge from the den that is your bedroom, the sun is high in the sky, and Jeonghan is in the process of ordering takeout. 

There’re boxes under the tree, beside which the both of you seat yourselves as you wait for your food. 

You hand him his present, which is flat for the most part. He unwraps the paper and opens the box, only to find a large envelope inside. 

Jeonghan laughs, “Does handing me an envelope need to be this elaborate?”

“I can’t wrap an envelope,” you pout. 

“Right. Because it’s already wrapped,” he chortles. He rips it open to find yet another piece of paper. 

“Medieval dining experience?” Jeonghan reads off the reservation. 

“Brick walls, candle lights and everything. Knights with swords too.” His eyes light up as he registers the swords. 

When he hands you your present, you note that he has three separate packages next to him. 

It’s a polaroid camera, one that you’ve been wanting for a while. However, it looks like it’s already been opened as you take out the camera. He hardly lets you look at it and thank him properly before he’s shoving another box in your direction.

Unwrapping it reveals a scrapbook. Of polaroids. Of Jeonghan’s face. Full of Jeonghan’s face. It’s almost like he ran an entire reel of film dry with the amount of photos in the book. 

“Gently used,” Jeonghan provides. “By me.”

It earns him a big fat kiss, so you suppose he succeeded. 

But there’s one package left, a slightly bigger box that notably rattles as Jeonghan slides it over to you. “Unofficial present.”

You look justifiably confused. Undoing the wrapping paper, all you hear is things rattling around in the box, and you wonder what it could possibly be. 

The box is…a shoebox? The Nike logo glares back at you as you stare. But you don’t recall a pair of shoes ever being this noisy. 

Opening it reveals everything. Quite literally, everything. 

There’s a white stapler with purple flowers on it, a number of white, hardly used erasers, the distinct coil of a charging cable, and…a tiny blue box. Amongst other things. 

Everything that’s mysteriously disappeared from your bag these past months, lies in the shoebox. 

“Sorry,” Jeonghan says, but the smile on his face proposes that he’s far from it. 

You look at the contents of the box, and then back up at him. This repeats for a few minutes as you gape at the situation. 

“W–Why?” You can’t help but release a laugh at the ridiculousness of the ordeal. 

Jeonghan shrugs. “I hoped you’d miss your stuff enough to come back home. Or just start studying at home entirely.”

You stare at him as he picks at the tufts of rug beneath him. “You were gone all day. I just missed you.”

He looks up at you, hint of a smile on his face. “I know I said I was sorry, but I’m not really.”

Surging forward, your arms find his neck as you push yourself onto his lap, holding him tight. “Kinda figured you weren’t. It’s okay.”

Letting go, you bring your lips up to his to kiss him, properly. He pulls you closer, his hands firm on your hip and back. His mouth moves against your own, engulfing you in ways beyond just physical touch. 

Pulling away for a moment, you mumble against his lips, “Just say you miss me next time.”

Jeonghan smiles against your mouth, “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

It was a strange way to communicate, to let you know to take it easy, to spend more time within his vicinity, because he considered your mere presence near him as spending time with you. Jeonghan didn’t ask for much, as opposed to his nature as it sounded. He was a simple man, who simply wanted time with you. 

However, even after the semester resumes, and you leave the house for significantly less stretches of time than before, there are times where your bag suddenly ceases to carry things you’re positive you packed. 

But this time, all it evokes is a smile, and a mellow reminder that there’s a warmth of someone’s arms waiting for you. 

[brainddeadd]

Chapter 3

I was gonna make y'all wait but I'm too enamoured with him to wait

masterlist

It was just past midnight when the lights flickered.

The Pitt ran 24/7—no sleep, no mercy, just a rotating door of trauma. Jack was halfway through stapling a gash in someone’s thigh when the pager on his hip buzzed violently. He didn’t flinch. He never did.

“Code Gray – Pediatric Trauma Inbound. ETA 3 minutes.”

His blood ran cold. Pediatric trauma. She’d be there.

He finished the last staple, ripped his gloves off, and jogged toward the bay. Yn was already inside Trauma 3, tying her hair back with a bright green scrunchie that clashed hideously with her pink scrub top. She looked like a rainbow after a storm.

“Five-year-old. Blunt force trauma. Possible internal bleeding,” she rattled off, eyes scanning the monitor, hands already moving to prep equipment.

Jack moved beside her without a word. They worked in tandem—her touch gentle, his precise. The EMTs burst in seconds later with the patient: a tiny body on a backboard, barely conscious, face pale.

Yn's smile dropped. Gone was the sunshine.

Jack watched her change gears—fast, sharp, focused. Her hand hovered briefly over the boy’s forehead, a featherlight comfort that made Jack’s chest ache in a way he didn’t understand.

“She’s good with them,” a nurse murmured at his side. “Like magic.”

Jack didn’t reply. He knew. He saw it.

They lost track of time. IVs, vitals, scans, blood work. The kid was stable—for now—but needed surgery. Yn leaned against the wall when it was all over, hands trembling, eyes wet.

“He reminded me of my nephew,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

Jack stared at her. Normally, he would’ve walked away. Left her to process it on her own, because that’s what he did. People were messy. Feelings were worse.

But Yn Ln had walked into his life with cinnamon coffee and glitter shoes and carved out a space he didn’t realise was empty.

So he walked over. And for once, said nothing.

Just stood beside her, close enough for her arm to brush his. Close enough to hear her breathe.

“I keep a notebook,” she said suddenly. “For all the names. Of the ones who make it. And the ones who don’t.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “That’s heavy.”

Yn looked up at him. “Yeah. But I think someone should remember them.”

He watched her, really watched her. There were smudges under her eyes. Her bun was slipping. Her heart was too big for this place.

“You’ll burn out,” he said quietly.

She smiled, tired and soft. “Not if someone keeps handing me coffee.”

Jack reached into his jacket, pulled out a cup he’d picked up hours ago and forgot to drink. Still warm.

She blinked. “For me?”

He shrugged. “You said I looked like I forgot how to laugh. You look like you forgot how to sit down.”

She laughed—just a little. Quiet, exhausted, real.

And Jack Abbott, trauma god, felt something crack open.

Maybe sunshine didn’t belong in The Pitt.

But maybe he didn’t want to chase it out anymore.

[melancholicstation]

GOD BLESS AMERICA AND ALL THE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN IT —HUSBAND!JACK SCHLOSSBERG COMFORT HEADCANONS 𓍼 𓇢𓆸

jack schlossberg fan fiction is for the lovers

WIFE!READER returns and is the orion carloto archetype, who balances modelling and writing, and i imagine her making tiktoks in the same vain of alanabananaxox (she's been my no.1 tiktoker since 2021) and sotce on tiktok.

taglist: @candyneckl6ce @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @chemicalw0rld @remotewatch @starsprangledgirl

no matter the stressor husband!jack literally treats it as a top-priority emergency

immediately goes to start a bath for you in your gorgeous copper bathtub (cause of course you have a copper bathtub ... duh) with some suzzane kaufman bath salt's that he picked up down in greenwich after a meeting with vogue's magazine department.

husband!jack is a freak for baths and it's rubbed off on you ... seriously like that man takes baths multiple times a week, on top of daily showers

if he had to be out on a day you were particularly anxious for whatever reason he would come home with a laundry bag of new tasteful yet cute stuffed animals from loewe and never tell you the prices cause he knows you'd crash out

is great at being a body pillow and has no shame just laying in silence together for hours

would try to make you feel better by getting the overpriced (not in your opinion) criterion subscription just so you could watch vintage halloween movies without running a risk of getting hacked on some third-party sketchy website

would 100% let you live in his clothes while he was out of the house so you could feel comforted even if he wasn't physically near

would absolutely try to distract you with light comedy, despite his cockiness he is indeed a funny guy so it helps slightly

husband!jack would be such a proponent of a healthy mind is a healthy body so he'd make you go do jump rope with him (cause why does jump roping have to be so humiliating) or even worse takes you out to paddle board, like imagine your knee-deep in that melancholic state where you only read plath novels and listen to unreleased lana and your boyfriend drags you out to go paddle boarding???? like cmon now

you do feel better afterwards but you would never tell him that

if you guys owned any pets together he would without a doubt tell you he's going to be out for a couple of hours and come back with one of those portrait paintings of house-pets to cheer you up (editors note: vang olsen mimi does the most delightful pet paintings if your in greenwich!)

he would absolutely NOT be above trying to self-medicate your problems (within reason) by smoking w*ed with you or sharing a cigar being the chicest couple ever!

would 100% smother you in delightfully soft cashmere blankets in the pattern of gorgeous tapestries

would earnestly read poems (robert frost, emily dickinson, and shakespeare) to you to get you to sleep on the especially hard days

is a devout optimist and routinely talks you out of your doom scrolling

always holds space for whatever emotions you are feeling but always wants to provide solutions to your problems

and when he encounters a problem he can't so easily fix he invests time into getting your mind off it and plans steps you can take to lessen the hold whatever your stressing about has on you

writes mini impromptu love letters/pep talks on the empty spaces in your agenda notebook (wife!reader would totally own more than 1 of these louise carmen organisers in an apropos shade of autumn scarlet )

encourages you to do self-care rituals with your staple skincare products by letting you do the exact same steps on him

while husband!jack cooks for you both you read him your favourite chapters of "democracy" by joan didion in the kitchen every night and it remains a pillar in your routine despite the tumult

during your hard times jack is serving peak husbandry doing the washing, cooking and cleaning

when he's on his lunch break at the office you get text messages like this:

always makes sure that you take your medication (if you take any) at the exact times its supposed to be at and has little alarms on his phone

husband!jack would increase his acts of service to 1000% like that man would be taking your row boots into the cobbler for a new sole

would bring home flowers without a special occasion, just cause

would without a doubt bring out those STELLAR accents just to see you smile

disclaimer: this is all obviously fiction and i do not know this man nor how he calms anyone down, this is all for some fun distraction in these trying times.

to anyone struggling with the results and its ramifications (same here) i would really encourage you to read this beautiful (free) essay from alanabanaxox on patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/i-miss-dancing-115580140?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_fan&utm_content=web_share

[ashthesalamipiece]

hello!! i hope you're doing well!!

idk if this is going to make sense but,, i request a katsuki x reader; the reader got hit by a quirk that makes her tell the truth about what she thinks of anyone she sees/hears for a whole day, so the entire time she's spilling nice yet harshly honest thoughts about the others in class 1-a whenever she sees them or hears their voices, and when it's katsuki's turn she very obviously hints on having a crush on him despite how hot-headed he is, which makes katsuki veryy proud (since he lowkey has a crush on her too) and he claims that they are dating now - the next day, y/n literally doesn't remember what happened the day before, but she isnt complaining now that katsuki and her are dating..

“No Takebacks”

It started with a bang—literally.

During a joint training exercise with a support course student who hadn’t quite nailed down their quirk yet, you were caught in a flash of bright pink smoke and instantly dropped to your knees, blinking wildly.

“(Y/N)?!” Uraraka rushed over. “Are you okay?”

“I can taste colors,” you mumbled, then squinted at her. “You’re… way too nice. Like suspiciously nice. You’re either a secret serial killer or a Disney princess.”

Uraraka blinked. “...What.”

And that’s when Aizawa groaned and muttered, “Oh god. She’s been hit with Veritas. The truth-spill quirk. She’s gonna be like this for a while.”

---

Hour 1.

You were walking back into the dorms, flanked by Kirishima and Kaminari, when you said cheerfully:

“Kirishima, you’re so sweet I want to punch you. Your energy is like cinnamon buns and gym socks. You should stop wearing that cologne, though. It smells like ‘middle school locker room.’”

He laughed nervously. “Thanks? Wait, what?”

Kaminari opened his mouth but didn’t even get a word out.

“You flirt too much and your Spotify playlists suck.”

“HEY—!”

---

Hour 3.

You walked past Todoroki in the common room and said, completely deadpan, “You’re the most attractive emotionally unavailable person I’ve ever seen.”

Midoriya waved at you next. “Hey, (Y/N)—feeling okay?”

You looked him in the eye. “I love you like a brother, but if you don’t stop overanalyzing every battle move, I’m going to staple your All Might notebooks shut.”

Midoriya paled.

Bakugo had been half-listening from the couch, arms crossed, eyebrow twitching as he watched you cut through the class like a smiling little truth bomb.

He kept waiting for you to say something to him. But you never did.

Which, somehow, pissed him off more.

---

Hour 6.

Finally, during dinner, Bakugo slammed his tray down across from you.

“Alright, spill it. Say whatever dumb truth you’re hiding about me. Let’s go.”

You blinked. Chewed your rice. Then tilted your head.

“Katsuki Bakugo,” you said seriously. “You are hot-headed, loud, and 97% of the time I want to shove a sock in your mouth.”

The class collectively froze.

You kept going.

“But you’re also really strong. And smart. And I like the way you fight. You’re kind of… weirdly hot when you’re focused. I think you’re kinda amazing.”

Bakugo’s eye twitched.

“And I have a really big crush on you,” you said with a shrug. “But you’re also annoying, so it balances out.”

The silence was deafening.

Someone dropped a fork.

Bakugo, smug grin now spreading slow and wide across his face, stood up from his chair and announced, “Cool. We’re dating now.”

“What—?” Kaminari choked.

“She literally just—”

Bakugo shrugged. “She said it. Can’t take it back. Quirk rules.”

You gave a happy little hum. “I would date you.”

“There. See?” He threw an arm around your shoulder and smirked at the room. “Mine now.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

---

The Next Morning.

You woke up in your dorm bed with a pounding headache and a foggy memory.

You trudged into the kitchen wearing your oversized hoodie and blinked sleepily when Bakugo handed you a mug of hot tea.

You took it. “Thanks…?”

He smirked and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

“Morning, girlfriend.”

You froze. “...What.”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“What happened yesterday?”

“You told everyone the truth for twelve hours.”

You paled. “...Oh no. What did I say?”

Bakugo shrugged. “Called Deku annoying. Said Todoroki’s hot but emotionally dead. Told me you had a thing for me.”

Your eyes went wide. “I—WHAT?!”

Bakugo leaned on the counter, cocky grin in full force. “Too late, babe. You said you’d date me. I claimed you. You can’t unsay it.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but then paused.

He looked so damn pleased with himself.

“…You’re not wrong,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Thought so.”

---

Bonus:

You later found a list in your notes app titled “Quirk Day Chaos” that you apparently started, featuring:

Kaminari: “Spotify war criminal.”

Iida: “Talks like Microsoft Word reads aloud.”

Bakugo: “Infuriatingly hot. Unfair.”

You smiled down at it.

Okay… maybe truth quirks weren’t so bad after all.