tinyenha

[tinyenha]

thinking about prince!zayne who is regarded as the highest scholar of the academy, contributing miles and miles of favorable studies in the medical field of the kingdom despite being a mere student, insofar as mentors acknowledging his wisdom and graces.

except for you.

it was a known fact that when the two of you were placed in the same classroom together in the academy, debates would occur. the back and forth would last for hours, despite the protests from your fellow students. unfortunately for them, the mentors would find your arguments rather amusing and would even pose several questions to trigger even more dispute between the two of you.

however, for zayne, arguing with you felt too troublesome. your stubbornness allowed you to never concede nor recognize his opinions. while you, on the other hand, refuse to let him feel that he has the leverage over you.

due to the heated discussions being the talk of the academy, the news was delivered to the elder.

leading you to your current predicament.

"i demand that you sleep on the floor."

"i refuse. i will never let your royal status get in the way of my nightly comfort and rest," you scoff, crossing your arms against your chest and looking away.

the elder proposed a research over exotic plants in pairs, but the catch is she would be the one to assign the partners and the plants involved.

and you knew in that moment that she schemed to have you by pair with him.

"i did not use my royal status to have you sleep on the floor," zayne argued.

"you demanded," you replied.

"demanded is rather different from commanding you to do so. i assume you'd know the difference since you've buried your nose in books all day."

you gasp at him in outrage, "you overbearing prince!"

he rolls his eyes at you before plopping down at the queen-sized mattress, "should you change your mind about sleeping on the floor, then i'd be more than glad to serve you your pillows and the curtain as your blanket," he replies in his usual flat tone, and yet you could tell the sarcasm lacing his tongue.

zayne fluffs the pillow behind him with his one hand as the other places his glasses on the bedside table.

"as if i'd let you hog the comforts of the bed!" you cry, tossing yourself over the bed and forcefully pulling the blanket away from him to drape it over yourself.

zayne clicks his tongue in annoyance, tugging the other end of the blanket to him, "you are such a nuisance," he comments.

"why, i am grateful to receive such high praise from the prince. i could say the same thing to you," you shoot back with a forceful grip on the cloth.

"strange, i have never received that compliment before from other people," zayne replies, continuing his strong grasp.

"well perhaps, you should talk to other people apart from your servants," you proclaim. and those are the last words that tumble out of your mouth before zayne vigorously heaves the blanket and you to his side, effectively bringing your body to his corner of the bed with a yelp.

a beat of silence engulfed the room.

your chest drapes over his lap while your left hand remains on the cushion beside his thigh, propping yourself up and the right resting on his knee. you could feel your cheeks heating up and your heart picking up its pace.

suddenly, a whirlwind of emotions surges in you. you hastily removed yourself from his body to apologize, because after all, he is still a prince. but before you could turn to him and profusely explain, perhaps even blame him, the gleam from the moon trickling through the sheer curtains of the floor to ceiling windows caught your attention.

it's the full moon.

shit.

you'd be hearing your soulmate's thoughts in no time.

"i could still feel her heartbeat against my skin."

"oh dear heavens this prince is going to behead me!"

you both slowly fixate your gaze to each other.

"fuck."

mweheheh anyone down for an academic rivals to lovers, slow burn, soulmates and fantasy/royalty au prince!zayne? >:))

[tinyenha]

HIS BRIDE (Sylus x Reader)

Wordcount: 5.1k

Summary: you married King Sylus as a politcal ploy, only to never interact. But one dinner with the King of the Undersea is enough to unveil all that was held back...

Tags: smut, King!Sylus x reader, King!Rafael x reader, jealous!Sylus, Royal Court AU, arranged marriage trope,

Warning: 18+ content, MDNI

A/N: not edited or proof read! just wanted to write some Sylus smut and this is what I got lol hope you enjoy

It was barely dawn when the maids knocked on my door. 

‘Your Majesty, you need to get up or the water will grow cold.’ 

The grumble barely left my mouth, smothering my face further into the pillow. Maybe a few seconds would allow my sweet release of death. I inhale deeply, feeling the soft burn of my lungs as I find it difficult to breathe in further. So it has come to this, smothering myself in my pillow. Pitiful. 

The knocks continued, ‘Your Majesty?’ 

I huffed. This isn’t going to work. I ripped my face off the pillow, turning to the side to face the window. The stained glass rippled the light scattering amber coloured shards into the bedroom. I squinted as the sun barely peered through the clouds. The soft chattering of the palace grounds barely reached the window sill. Instead, the ‘privacy’ of solitude filled the air deafening me. The quietness got to me pounding through my mind. I was officially going insane. 

I feel over the cool linen as my hands run across the bed sheets. It was cold as always. Gods forbid Sylus’ would ever spend the night in bed. Not that it was part of the agreement. That much I can agree with. However it did not fail to annoy me that on the other side of that mahogany door, a few paces away down the hallway, stood another mahogany door that held Sylus’ own bedchamber. 

Was I that revolting? Could he really not share the same bed as his own wife? 

It was the third knock, a rather hurried incessant tempo, that brought me to my feet. 

I was fond of the maids. They were all young girls who never spoke too much or too little. Enough to entertain my boredom but drew the line whenever I bribed them to let me leave the palace grounds. And I have tried everything. Jewels, gowns, silk shoes. I even tried to trade my wedding gown for one of the maids' aprons in an attempt to disguise myself and run away through the underground kitchen. There was a backdoor hidden behind the old spice cabinet. I had found it one evening when Sylus’ had dismissed me from dinner to attend another ‘business meeting’. 

It was always business with him. Not that I expected anything less, afterall I was a business deal in itself. A marriage forged in alliances. An infinite supply of allies and weapons. A political ploy to strengthen two kingdoms. I was practically a gift wrapped in white lace and ribbons. 

The knocks grew louder. I frowned, not bothering to tie the black lace robe around my waist as I padded barefoot to the door. The whole floor was only accessible to maids and the royal couple. I had no fear of appearing bare. I reached for the doorknob and swung it open. ‘Lillibeth what is the matter that is so urgent–’ 

‘Good morning, Your Majesty.’ 

Sylus stood within the doorframe. To no surprise, he was already dressed at this hour in a dark red shirt and black pants. His hair is always perfectly styled. Not a strand of ivory out of place. My frown deepened even more at his chuckle. ‘No good morning kiss?’ 

I scoff and his eyes drift down to my bare chest. The matching black lace nightgown suddenly grew tighter around me as my breaths quickened. I quickly pull the tie around my waist. ‘What do you want Sylus?’ 

His eyes were garnet in the low lighting of the hallway. I could stare into them for hours and not even feel the day go by. It was pathetic how attracted I was to him. To his ivory hair. To his golden skin. To his scent of oud and forest. I could even smell him from here and I fought every pull of my body not to bury my nose into his chest and take a whiff. Get a grip. He barely even looks at me. 

A smile tugs onto the corner of his lips. ‘The girls have your bath drawn,’ he explains. ‘Unless you intend on sleeping for the whole day I suggest you grant them mercy and let them bathe you.’ 

I chew on the inside of my cheek. ‘I am very capable of bathing myself.’ 

A flash of ruby crossed his eyes as the King’s eyes waved over me once more, ‘I have no doubt of that. But if you want them to get out of your hair you’ll need to let them do their job.’ 

I huffed, leaning against the door frame, ‘I’ll let them bathe me if I can go out into the forest today.’ 

The laugh that erupted from Sylus sent a chill down my spine. ‘We both know that can’t happen, Kitten,’ he explained, ‘Besides, if you went out today you’d be late for tonight’s affair.’ 

My eyes narrowed, ‘Affair?’ 

He wore a cool mask of indifference as he looked past my shoulder and into the bedroom. ‘Tonight the King of the Undersea will be joining us. He wants to discuss the trading of pearls and rare treasures through our merchants and trade roads.’ 

His eyes fell back onto me, ‘He also specifically requested you to join us.’ 

-

The King of the Undersea, Rafael, was undeniably beautiful. 

He was also making eyes at me every other minute. 

At first I thought I was hallucinating. After all, why would the King of a magnificent underwater kingdom take notice in me? But after a few looks and the lingering of his fingertips as he passed me my glass of wine– I knew he had taken some interest in me. The reason in which was still unknown. 

Sylus had taken note of this as well. I can see his eyes dancing between me across the long dark oak table and towards the violet haired King sitting beside him. I threw my head back as the sweet cherry wine lined my throat. Perhaps Sylus would allow Rafael to warm my bed this evening. I wouldn’t be surprised. It would be good political relations and all that other bullshit. 

Wincing at the bitter aftertaste, I rest the goblet down onto the emerald tablecloth. 

The King of the Undersea laughs and it sounds like a siren song casting its spell onto me. His cerulean gaze fixates on me with amusement. ‘You have such a stunning bride Sylus,’ he hums, drumming his fingertips along the stem of his goblet. He turned his head towards Sylus, ‘Such a shame I had missed the wedding.’ 

Sylus, wearing a bored look on his face, continued to cut into his dinner of steamed salmon and scallops. The palace cooks spared no expense in lining the table with hundreds of plates. An array of extravagant seafood lay across the tabletop in honor of our guest this evening. I feign a soft smile as I take a bite of my squid. ‘There was not much to miss Your Majesty,’ I assured as his eyes sparkled in delight of my attention, ‘It was a very small wedding.’ 

‘A small wedding?’ he asks incredulously. He must have been on his fourth glass of wine by this time. His hands splayed on the table as he leaned back in astonishment, clattering his plates. ‘If you were my bride,’ he says, bringing his hands to his chest, ‘I would have the entire ocean bear witness to such beauty marrying me.’ 

‘And please my beauty,’ he leans in, ‘Call me Rafael.’ 

The far space between us suddenly felt all too close as his sapphire eyes bore into mine. I couldn’t deny that he was also beautiful. Dressed in an ivory shirt with a velvet navy jacket. The lapels are adorned with various gemstones and pearls. His violet hair fell into waves across his forehead. He was a young King, younger than the one I had married sitting across from me. But his youthful charm had no doubt made me feel lighter than I ever did in the last six months of living in this castle. 

‘Thank you…’ I smile, ‘Rafael.’ 

His warm gaze was a breath of fresh air. No doubt the complete opposite of Sylus’ carnelian gazes of boredom, tease, and indifference gifted upon me. 

The walk to the ladies’ room was airy and warm as the cherry wine finally found its way to my head. I giggled and hiccuped as the diamond on my heels caught onto the red rug of the corridor. I had waved off numerous maids and waiters who tried to assist me through the castle floors. But I wore my serious face, my royal mask, and allowed them to let me walk through the dark corridors alone. 

Where was the bathroom again? 

Gods this dinner is so boring. Besides the flirty smiles and a few more lingering gazes, I grew tired of Rafael and Sylus’ discussions on trade and treasure. What’s a girl got to do for some entertainment around here? 

I huff and lean against the cool stone wall, my head cushioned by the ridiculous curls Lilibeth had set into it. My fingers found their way into the nest of hair, picking and pulling apart the numerous hair pins. I let them fall onto the floor, kicking them away under my gown. I sigh and pick at the endless billows of dark red fabric. I had let the maids poke and prod and squeeze and tightlace myself into this dress all afternoon. And I wanted nothing more than to rip it all into shreds and run away naked into the moonlit forest. 

‘That sounds very tempting.’ 

Rafael stood beside me, his side pressed against the stone wall with a wide grin on his face. Shit, did I say that out loud? 

‘Yes you did,’ he laughed, pushing himself off the wall as lilac tresses fell into his eyes, ‘And I would love nothing more than to accompany you.’ 

My hair fell onto my shoulders loosening out of its unnatural updo as I shook my head. Heat flushed my face as I covered my eyes, ‘Oh Gods I am so sorry Your Majesty I did not mean–’ 

Peonies and saltwater. That’s what he smelled like as large hands wrapped around my wrists. I stilled as Rafael stood close to me, peeling my hands away from my face. I avoid his gaze, finding a small patch of carpet more interesting than his lingering stare. My chest heaved. Gods I should not have had that last glass of wine. 

‘I told you to call me Rafael,’ he murmured barely above a whisper. 

There was no one else in the corridor save a scurrying waiter across the doorway. The sconces above us burned and crackled as its flames cast a glow.  ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he whispered, ‘I did not care for news of Slyus’ marriage.’ 

His fingers were cold as he reached for me, tipping my chin up with the curl of his hand. ‘But when I heard rumors of how beautiful his bride was,’ he let out an amused laugh, ‘I had to witness you for myself.’ 

‘And what is your judgement?’ I test. 

Mischief danced in Rafael’s sapphire eyes as he leaned in closer. I pressed myself further into the wall, the stone now warming into my skin. Bringing one arm on top of me, he braced himself against the wall and caged me in. ‘Tell me,’ he smiled, ‘Is it true that you have not slept in the same bed? Even after all this time?’ 

I bit my tongue. His sudden questions now sobering the cloud in my mind. 

The look on my face was his answer as his head drops and his shoulders shake. He was laughing hysterically. ‘Oh Gods he really is a war obsessed fool.’ Rafael shook his head as flames spread across my cheeks. The King of the Undersea sighed and leaned in closer. The tip of his nose brushed against mine and my breath hitched. 

‘If you were my bride, I’d have you every night.’ 

I swallowed. 

‘I’d have you in my bed every fucking night,’ he murmured, leaning into my side. ‘I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you.’ His lips skimmed the shell of my ear as he continued, ‘Sylus’ is a smart man hiding a treasure like you from me.’ 

I blinked away the hazy light as Rafael drew back to stare into me. My breaths have become shallow. My throat was dry. The cherry wine fully digested into my system. The corridor was silent but the faint pants of my staggered breath. I watched nervously as Rafael smirked, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

My fingernails clawed against the stone wall, clinging onto anything. Gods, when was the last time I had been kissed? 

Besides the wedding and a few stable boys from my Father’s estate, I never really had much experience. And even in the loneliest of nights, when I used myself as pleasure and company, my mind would often drift to that door. Just outside mine. Just across the hallway. 

Rafael leaned in and I braced myself. 

Only his lips had never met mine. Fluttering open my eyes, it took a few seconds to register the sight. Rafael on the floor holding his cheek. Sylus standing above him, shoulders shaking. 

‘My wife is off limits,’ his deep voice filled the air. 

My body froze. The King of the Undersea was merely tossed onto the floor and looked up in a fit of rage. ‘How dare you–’ 

The King standing sent him a look I could only describe as a silent promise of death as the shadows of the corridor grew darker. They crawled onto the floor, filling the space in darkness. Rafael held himself up, his hands gripping the floor. ‘It’s not my fault your wife wanted me,’ he spat, glancing at me, ‘Maybe if you fucked her good then she wouldn’t be giving looks all night–’ 

Sylus spared no thought at bringing his fist back down to the King’s cheek. The shadows quickly swallowed the floor and covered him whole and Rafael never finished his sentence. 

The last King standing turned towards me. My teeth were chattering at this point and I couldn’t keep still. Sylus’ power was no fable, that much I knew. And yet it never occurred to me just how powerful the man was. 

Sensing my fear, he took a cautious step towards me. I make note of his dishevelled top half untucked from his trousers. His previously styled hair ruffled as if he had been tugging onto them madly. 

His familiar scent filled me as he stood close. His arms remained still by his side. The shadows now dissipate and the candles flickering gold across his features. Even now, he hasn't touched me. 

His eyes were almost vermillion in the candle light. ‘Did he touch you?’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Did he touch you?’ he demands, his hands tense and wide like claws. 

My eyes fall down to my dress.

A dark shadow creeps from the stone wall, brushing against my arm. Fear never reached me. Instead, the dark embrace caressed my skin. My eyes peered up at him, ‘No.’ 

‘Good,’ Sylus said before slamming his lips onto mine. 

-

My bed was already made by the time Sylus’ pushed through the heavy wooden door. He wasted no time, no space as he pressed his lips into mine. His lips were soft and his tongue swept and caressed mine. He tasted of honey and mint, exploring every curve of my mouth. I couldn’t help the moan that escaped my lips as his large hands gripped either side of my waist pulling me flush against him. 

His large frame towered over me as he walks us through the room. Dark shadows pushed the door shut and a gust of wind fanned away the skirt of my dress. His mouth never leaves mine as I feel the bedframe hit the back of my legs. I pant with heavy breaths as I pull myself off him, hands placed against his large chest. I feel the hot muscle heave as his scarlet eyes stare down at me.

‘If I have you, there’s no going back,’ he says, hands running up and down my hips. I let out a soft gasp as one hand reaches back to the curve of my ass, giving it a firm squeeze. 

‘You had me,’ I counter, ‘Even when our doors were closed, you always had me.’ 

A low growl erupts from Sylus as he pulls me close, tracing his nose along my neck. My head falls back, the curls of my hair now loose and wild. He laps at a sensitive spot between my neck and shoulder, biting and nibbling. My hands cling to him tightly, my eyes closing to savour the feeling. 

‘That’s right,’ he hummed in agreement, ‘You were always mine.’ 

He continued to press wet kisses onto my searing skin. I needed him. Now. 

My fingers blindly search for the buttons of his shirt and he breaths a heady laugh. He pulls back before pushing me down onto the bed. I yelp out at the force before bracing myself up by the elbows. I watch as Sylus makes quick work of his shirt. The buttons slowly undoing and revealing his glorious golden skin. The corded muscles of his arms move and tease as he pulls his shirt off, discarding it into the dark corners of my room. 

Like a predator enticing his prey, Sylus makes his way over me. He pulls a pillow from above me, placing it under me before I lay down. He licks his lips before leaning down into me. 

‘What took you so long?’ I whispered. 

Sylus stilled. His brow furrows as he holds himself up above me. 

"We were married in the Summer,’ I whispered, fingers smoothing against the velvet sheets, ‘A season has passed until you finally noticed me…’ 

I willed tears not to fall onto the pillow as I blinked up at him. I needed to know. I needed to know if his kisses were because of Rafael. Or if his touch meant something more. 

The cool autumn night filled the room. The low light of the fireplace illuminating the contemplative stare above me. I watched nervously as he closed his eyes momentarily. His ivory lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he took in a deep breath. ‘You don’t know how often I thought about this,’ he began. 

‘I think of you all the time. From the day of our wedding. I have thought of you. How beautiful you are. How perfect you are. Your soft voice. Your caring eyes. I knew how much you hated this marriage, this alliance forged by our Kingdoms. I did not want you to think that you had to do anything for me because of this,’ he explained. 

‘I didn’t want to touch you and have you think this was some duty of mine. Or that you were obligated to spend your nights with me because of the band around your finger. You were always free to do what you wanted.’ 

My eyes narrowed, ‘But I could not leave the palace grounds-’ 

His eyes opened, worry and concern in his eyes. ‘You are the wife of King Sylus. That automatically makes you a target.’ 

I swallow the lump in my throat. 

‘Being married to a man like me should not be the reason for your death.’ 

His eyes shut again, an inner conflict feuding within himself as he bites his tongue. ‘I told your Father that a marriage wouldn’t be necessary. That we could have peace between us regardless. But he insisted that I protect you.’ 

‘I wanted you from the moment I saw you walk through those doors.’ 

‘All you had to do was knock on my door,’ he confessed, ‘And I would be yours.’ 

I reached forward, clasping my hands around his neck to pull him down onto me. My lips parted eagerly as Sylus slotted his mouth against mine. It was warm and desperate. His kisses pushed me further into the mattress as his hands made way over my dress. 

I moaned as he haphazardly pulled down the corset, exposing my breasts. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered as his large hands began kneading my soft flesh. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he rasps before sinking down and covering my nipples with his mouth. I cry out, a wave of pleasure crashing into myself as I squirm under him. 

His tongue swirled around my nipples, his tongue leaving a trail of wetness as he laps between both breasts. His teeth tugged at the sensitive buds, my back arching for more. 

My hands reach and tug along his ivory hair, ‘That feels so good.’ 

Sylus chuckles and hums as his hands rip off the rest of my dress. I gasp at the sudden bite of cool air on my naked torso. His mouth releases from my breast and he pulls back to look at me. His shadows make quick work of removing the rest of our clothing before we’re both exposed. 

Sylus bends down to press a firm kiss on my lips, his hands holding himself up. My fingernails scrape against his sides causing him to shiver. ‘Kitten, you’re going to have to behave first.’ 

I bite down onto my lip before leaning up to chase his lips. ‘I’m tired of behaving.’ 

Sylus sucks at his teeth, ‘Then I’ll have to teach you.’ His long fingers slowly trail down my bare stomach, stopping right above that spot of need. My thighs clench in need as Sylus watches me squirm with amusement. He raises a brow, ‘Eager?’ 

I fail at trying to hide my desperation. My hips grinding against the mattress, bucking up trying to meet his fingers. Sylus lets out a teasing laugh and I whine in protest. ‘Sylus please- oh fuck.’ 

His fingers brush firmly against my clit, sliding against my slick before dipping into me. I gasp at the sudden fullness, his long fingers adding the perfect amount of pressure inside of me. He watches me with a satisfied grin, ‘You’re so wet just from my kisses,’ he praises as he pulls out his fingers just enough to slam them back in. I moan loudly, my hands quickly covering my mouth. 

He’s quick to pull my hands away, ‘No I need to hear you,’ he explains, moving his fingers in and out of my pussy at a steady pace. My wetness was practically pooling around his hands, the lewd noise of squelching filling the air as Sylus continues to finger me. ‘Does it feel good?’ he teases. 

My eyes are dancing around from his crimson gaze to the amber lit ceiling. The flames from the fireplace and the pleasure of his thick fingers inside of me made my body searing to the core. Fuck, he didn’t just feel good. He felt perfect. ‘Yes,’ I choke out, ‘please I need more.’ 

‘More?’ he asks, cocking his head to the side.

I huff, grinding my hips in an attempt for more, ‘Please Sylus I need more.’ I beg. 

I whine as he pulls his fingers out, my slick wetting his palm. He sits back on his knees above me, bringing his fingers to his mouth. I watch in a haze as he brings his fingertips to his lips, tasting my arousal. ‘Fucking delicious.’ 

Sylus is quick to suck on my bottom lip, kissing me hungrily. I sigh as my hard nipples graze against his warm chest, pressing up against him. ‘I need you now Sylus,’ my hands now palming at his groin. I try not to obsess with how big he feels in my hands. Gods, he’s massive. Sylus groans as I feel the base of his shaft around my fingers. The hard solid flesh hot beneath my skin. His tongue delves into my mouth, swirling against mine as my hand lazily strokes his hard cock. I feel the wet bead of precum at the tip of his head, spreading it around with the swipe of my thumb. 

‘I’m going to fuck you Kitten,’ he growls between hot kisses, ‘And you’re going to take everything I have to give you.’ 

I nod, unashamed at my eagerness for him. 

Pulling away from his kiss, Sylus swallows as he brings my thighs up and presses them into my chest in a mating press. His lips are red raw from our gnawing kisses and his eyes are clouded in an animalistic frenzy of lust. 

‘Oh Gods f-fuck Sylus!’ 

His hard cock pushes into me effortlessly, the slick wetness dripping out of my pussy giving him ample room to move in and out of me at brutal pace. He grunts, cursing under his breath as his hands push the backs of my thighs deeper into me. ‘Fuck you’re so tight Kitten,’ his hips snap into me, ‘So fucking tight just for me.’ 

I cry at the over consuming pleasure. Sylus' hard cock continues to pound into me as he holds me in place. My hands pull and grip onto the sheets as the dirty sounds of his hips slam into me fill between our staggered breaths. 

Sylus reaches down, latching onto one of my nipples. ‘You’re fucking tits looked so good in that dress,’ he nibbled into me, ‘It took all of me not to bend you over and fuck you hard at the dinner table.’ 

My hands reach up to hold his head close to me. His cock continuously plowing into me at a merciless pace. ‘You take me so well baby,’ he praised before moving onto my other breast, ‘Your body was fucking made for my cock.’

I moan at the filthy words, bringing his face close to mine and staring into his red eyes. ‘Give it all to me Sylus,’ I kiss his lips hungrily, ‘Show me how much you want me.’ 

A feral gaze clouds his eyes as he returns my kiss before pulling out of me. I whine at the sudden emptiness before yelping as Sylus pulls onto my hips, tossing and turning me over. He pulls at my waist, bringing me up onto all fours before lining himself up again at my entrance. ‘You’re so fucking needy Your Majesty,’ he teases, rubbing the head of his cock along my slit. I arch my back, trying to grind myself against him and he chuckles. 

Sylus brings a hand down my ass, his palm soothing the sting. ‘Who knew my wife would be such a cock slut,’ he hums before slamming his cock into my pussy. 

A deep groan emerges from within me as Sylus begins pounding me from behind. His hands grip onto my hips, pulling me onto him with firm force. ‘Fucking take it,’ he grunts as he pushes all the way in to the hilt. I moan in pure ecstasy as I feel his cock push right into the sweet heavenly spot. 

He chuckles, running a hand down my spine. ‘You’re beautiful.’ 

His hips continue to thrust into me as he pulls me up. My back pressed against his hard muscle as I grind my ass into him. His cock fills every inch of me beyond imaginable and I could almost cry from the pleasure. Sylus brings a hand around, pushing his palm against my lower abdomen as he thrusts deeply. 

Fuck. 

‘You’re so fucking tight,’ he coos into my ear, ‘I can feel my cock right here.’ 

His hand cups my face, pushing it to the side as I turn and meet his kiss. Its feverish and needy, his tongue clashing against mine as he fucks into me from behind. I bring my arm up and clench a fistful of his hair, meeting his hips and pushing back into him. 

He growls and breaks the kiss, pushing me back down and beginning a hurried pace. I reach a hand in between my legs and draw circles around my swollen clit and sighed. I feel myself clench tightly around him and Sylus gasps, ‘Fuck me,’ his thrusts grew faster, ‘keep touching yourself like that Kitten.’ 

I nod and groan as my fingers continue making work of my wet lit, Sylus’ cock filling me in all ways imaginable. The raw friction of him inside of me has me squirming in the bed. It was all too much and building from inside of me. My hard nipples grazing and sliding against the bedsheets. My fingers drawing tight circles around my clit. Sylus’ thick cock filling and thrusting hard into me. The tension was pulsating through my body and reaching to a point. 

‘You need to come for me love,’ Sylus says with a bated breath, his hips stuttering and his thrusts becoming staggered. 

‘Come inside of me Sylus,’ I pleaded, eyes rolling back into my head as I continued playing with my pussy. 

Sylus almost comes at the words. His jaw tenses as his fingers dig deeper into my hips. ‘Fuck baby,’ he sighs, ‘I’ll fucking breed you until you can’t walk for the rest of the week,’ his hips slammed into me fucking me deeper into the mattress, ‘I’m going to fill your pussy up with my cum and you’re going to take it Kitten, okay?’

I could barely muffle a word, nodding as my cheek pressed against the pillow. ‘Yes please, please give it to me.’ 

‘You’re going to take all my cum and I’m going to fuck you again and again until there’s nothing left,’ Sylus leaned foreward and encircled his arms around my waist before continuing his hard deep thrusts. The wave of pleasure inside of me continued to grow and grow and reach its crescendo. 

‘Come for me, my love,’ he whispered into my ear. 

White hot pleasure filled me as I reached my high. Gripping onto the sheets I practically screamed into the pillow as Sylus’ cock drilled inside of me. My wetness clenched around him and Sylus moaned and stilled as his hot cum filled inside of me. My chest heaved and I moaned as Sylus continued to slowly pump his cock in and out of me, his cum continuing to fill me up. 

‘Fuck baby,’ he breathed as his cock slowly drew in and out of me, ‘Fuck you’re milking all of me.’ He pushed into me all the way one final time with a deep groan before pulling out of me. 

Sylus sat back and watched as his white cum seeped outside of me. I dropped into the mattress, my breath escaping me. He joined me, falling into my side and pulling a pillow under him. He cleared his throat, his garnet gaze pouring deep into mine. ‘You’re beautiful.’ 

My eyes were heavy, all my energy drained. The corner of his mouth tugged as he pulled the blanket over us. Bringing his hand forward, he brushed a strand of hair off my shoulder before bringing me closer and pressing his lips onto my bare skin.  I let out a long breath, my muscles relaxing in his arms. 

‘Who knew Your Majesty was the jealous type,’ I murmured, sleep overcoming me. 

Sylus chuckled, the rich deepness wafting over me. ‘When it comes to my wife, always.’ 

[tinyenha]

a closer look

synopsis: every time you try to take your relationship to the next level, you always shy away at the last second. lucky for you, dr. zayne has a solution!

tags: inexperienced reader & zayne, soft dom zayne, reader fears penetration at first, zayne sets up a surgical camera so she can watch him finger her, vaginal fingering (duh), “anatomy” “lesson,” praise, “good girl,” improper use of hospital assets  pairing: zayne x fem reader word count: 2.3k

a/n: this came to me in a dream. enjoy

“Have I given you reason to be afraid of me?” Zayne asks you softly, attentive gaze trailing down your stiff body.

“N-no!” you blurt, thrusting your hands out in mortification. “You haven’t, I swear you haven’t. This is just…new to me.”

“Me as well,” he retreats from above you, moving back on the sofa to give you breathing room.

Just moments ago, you’d been writhing under him needily, his tongue plunging into your eager mouth as you groped each other with abandon. Spurred on by your initial pleas, he’d dared to take it further this time—further than either of you had ever been. But as his hand had traveled down your body, dipping just the slightest bit inside your panties, you’d gone rigid. Zayne, ever aware of your reactions, had stopped his movements immediately, looking seekingly into your eyes for answers. Unfortunately for him, once that cautious hazel gaze had found yours, you’d squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment. 

“It’s nothing that you did, Zayne,” you sigh as you sit up, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I know you’d never hurt me. I’m just…scared.” 

“Of?” he asks softly, and the way his kind face is void of any judgment makes you want to extract your brain and beat it for denying you the chance to feel him. 

Another sigh escapes you as you gather your thoughts. “What if it hurts?” you wonder shyly, fiddling with your clammy hands. “I always imagined it’d hurt. And there’s never…been…anything there, outside of medical stuff. That’s the only thing I have to compare it to.”

Nodding along patiently, Zayne extends a hand to you, pulling you to him when you accept it gratefully. “I’m sorry that you’re frightened, but I understand your hesitation. I’m content to just hold you in my arms, if you’ll let me. As long as it takes, I’ll wait for you.”

“No, I-I want to. With you, soon. That’s the problem—I’ll think I’m ready, but then the second we get close, I freeze up. I just don’t know what to expect, and that scares me.” 

Humming contemplatively, Zayne laces your fingers together. “I think I can help with that.” 

The usually bustling corridors of Akso Hospital are eerily quiet at night. 

Hurrying through them as if a ghost will jump out at any second, you scour the door plaques for room 429. 

I’ll be finishing up early today. If you’re able, can you meet me at the hospital this evening? Room 429, Zayne had messaged you hours ago. And with no other plans and a lingering sense of guilt that you know he’d disapprove of, you’d agreed almost instantly.

Combating pangs of confusion—he never asked you here at night, outside of official events—you don’t realize you’ve scurried past the door until the room numbers grow too high. Backtracking briskly, you tap the wood with two soft knocks before a calm “Come in!” beckons you inside. 

Room 429 is a standard hospital room—a large examination table, a sink and cabinets, and two simple chairs. At the small table near the back of the room—much humbler than the sleek standing desk in his office, you note perplexedly—Zayne sits, pen in hand, leafing through an endless stack of paperwork. Why did he move his office here for the night? 

“Great, you’re here,” he says, setting his pen atop a thick packet. “Take a seat.” 

“Um, okay,” you mumble obediently, heading toward one of the navy guest chairs. 

“Not there,” he calls. 

Turning to face him, you catch the way his eyes shift to the examination table. “Is this some kind of impromptu appointment?” you ask, his secrecy filling you with stubbornness. 

Zayne rises from the rolling chair that’s too small for him, crossing the room in measured strides. “Not a sanctioned one.” 

Before you can ask what he means, his hands are wrapping around your waist, lifting you up to deposit you on the soft table padding. 

“Hey!” you squeak, surprised but not fighting him. “What is all this? I had my annual checkup a couple weeks ago, I’ll have you know. And I won’t be your guinea pig, either.”

Zayne tsks with amusement. As he presses a button, a large black mount lowers from the ceiling, its sturdy hooks securing a small silver device. Another button, and the device’s tiny red light flicks on. 

And suddenly, your reflection stares back at you from a monitor on the opposite wall. 

Anticipating your interrogation, Zayne speaks before you can. “This is a high-definition surgical instrument. It’s used to help us see the body during minor procedures.”

You blink at him quizzically. “So…a camera?” 

“Yes. A camera. Repurposed for…recreational matters,” he quips with a slight upturn of his lips.

“You should know your own body,” he continues gently. “Exploring yourself—whether with or without me—is your right. And after last night, I figured…perhaps being able to see my actions as they happen would assuage some of your fears.” 

“You…when did you have time to…?” you trail off, staring up at him in wonder. 

“I believe I told you I finished my work early today. This was the reason,” he reveals. Even with you perched on the examination table, Zayne’s imposing height exceeds yours. His assurance is a warm blanket as he stands beside you, resting a large palm on your bent knee. “I’d like to help you explore yourself now. Will you allow me to?”

With a heavy gulp—more from anticipation than nerves, you realize—you nod your consent meekly.

“I don’t know what that means, darling. Can you give me words?”

“Yes,” you exhale shakily. “Help me. Please.”

Smiling softly, pride flashing across his face, he leans in to kiss you sweetly. Then, reaching up to bring the camera closer, he angles it toward your lower body. On the far wall, the feed is dangerously close to revealing what lies beneath your skirt. 

“I’ll raise this,” he says, lifting the fabric with care. “And these…will need to come off,” he eyes you, gesturing to your thin cotton panties. 

For a moment, you debate removing them yourself. But if this was about overcoming fears….

“Can you do it, Dr. Zayne? I wouldn’t want to get in the way,” you whisper coyly. 

His eyes widen as he pauses. Then, collecting himself, he inches his hands forward to tug at the sides of your panties, sliding them down with precision. “Of course,” he says softly. “I’ll take care of you.” 

As he sets his eyes on your naked cunt for the first time, Zayne shows admirable restraint, looking away after only a few tense seconds. Some hypocritical, eager-to-please part of you would almost be offended, if not for his tells: his quickened blinks, heavy breaths, and fidgeting fingers. 

“I’ll get started now,” he exhales, voice husky with veiled desire. “You’re free to stop me at any time.”

And as you gaze at him with trust and only a little bit of fear, Zayne begins. 

“This is your pelvic bone,” he gestures slowly. “It supports your body weight.” 

The warmth of someone else’s hand on your bare hip is a foreign feeling. Foreign, but not bad, you decide, relaxing under his touch. 

“The mons pubis,” he continues, hands ghosting over the mound beneath your belly. 

“And this,” he murmurs, spreading your folds carefully, “is your pretty little pussy.” 

The word—in here, from him, in reference to you—is so scandalous it makes you gasp. You try desperately to avoid his gaze, eyes flitting across the room in panicked arousal, but you don’t find the reprieve you’re looking for. 

Because on that far wall, looking back at you tauntingly, is the velvety skin of your most private part, glistening with your growing desire. 

Snapping you out of your staring contest, Zayne taps the flesh of your thigh twice. “Open, please. Wider.” 

Swallowing thickly, you oblige.  

“Good,” he praises, tracing your exposed entrance with an elongated index finger. “This is where I’ll touch you. Is that alright?”

Through heavy drags of air, you forget his earlier instructions, nodding quickly as your answer. When all he does is lift a brow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips, you hazily remember his request. “Yes,” you whimper apologetically. “It’s alright.”

“Well, then. Suck,” he orders simply, holding his finger to your mouth. 

The command startles you at first. But as you look between the man beside you and the far wall, recalling how frustrated you’d been with your fears last night, you part your lips slightly. Just enough for him to enter. 

Timidly, you circle your tongue around him, coating his finger in your saliva. Once he deems it wet enough, he taps your thigh again, and you release him with a soft pop. 

With half-lidded eyes, Zayne hums his approval, pushing closer to you to angle the digit at your entrance. “Hold onto me if you need to,” he whispers, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder.

And then, his finger sinks inside you. 

It’s one thing to feel the tension. To clench as a light, unfamiliar pressure pushes firmly inside your heat, claiming the untraversed territory with every inch. 

But as the discomfort subsides and you open your eyes, seeing it unfold is something else entirely. 

On the large screen, Zayne’s slender finger pumps in and out of you slowly, impactfully. With every exit, your pulsing pink walls hug his retreating digit, begging him to stay. And when he grants their request, every thrust back inside has them clamping around his finger, as if barring him from leaving them lonely. 

Watching with rapt attention, Zayne splits his focus between the monitor and you, gauging your expression for signs of discomfort.

But as your body melts with newfound pleasure, you sigh softly along to the rhythm of his pumps, eyeing the way he breaches your wetness with wanton intrigue. 

The way he disappears inside you, giving his body to yours…you want to kiss him. You need to kiss him. But the moment you lift your gaze to his lips, licking your own as you lean in, Zayne moves his face just out of reach.

“No,” he murmurs his denial, stroking your walls with added vigor as he turns your face back toward the screen. “Don’t get distracted.”

Grumbling your disappointment, you allow his hypnotic movements to recapture your attention. But before long, you’re curling into his touch. “Can you…m-more?” you pant, risking a longing glance up at him. 

“More?” Zayne repeats, slowing his pace to a deep probe that makes you writhe in impatience. “Is that something you can handle?” 

“Yes,” you cry, clutching his pristine lab coat. “Can handle it, if it’s you.” 

He hums contentedly. And a split second later, another long finger joins the first. 

Eyes glued to the screen, you see the intrusion before you feel it: his thick, united digits headed straight for your core. As he prods at the small opening, advances met with quivering resistance, you almost think you’ve asked for more than you can take. But as slick dribbles out of your squelching hole to welcome him, the fluid dulls the stretching sensation, and your fluttering cunt sucks him in greedily.

A loud, lewd moan has you arching erratically, and Zayne wraps a strong arm around your lower back to support you. 

“How does it feel?” he murmurs between steady pumps. “Are you still frightened?” 

“No,” you mewl ardently. “It’s good. You’re good. But I…” you pause, racking your fuzzy brain for the right words. 

“You what, my love?” 

“I can’t…I don’t think I can…like this…” you trail off with an embarrassed whine, hoping he understands your babbling. 

“Mm,” he nods sympathetically. “It’s natural that you can’t come from this alone. What a good girl you are for telling me.” 

With his free hand, Zayne leans forward to adjust the camera, centering it over your glistening cunt. Once satisfied, he flexes his thumb to rest gently on the twitching bundle above your entrance. “You know what this is, don’t you, darling?”

“Clit,” you breathe, the word leaving you in a garbled gasp thanks to the shocks of his feather-light touch. 

“That’s right,” he praises, kissing your temple while his fingers scissor lazily inside you. “This is how you’ll finish.” 

As your voices fade, room filling with the wet sploshes of your tightening walls, the force of his thumb grows heavier on your clit. You almost squeal as the pressure increases, instinctively lifting your hips out of the camera frame—to which Zayne firmly pushes you back down. 

“Watch,” he commands sternly. “So you’ll know how to do the same when I’m away.” 

Curling his other fingers inside you, Zayne rolls his thumb in devastating circles, grinding so deeply against your nub that it greets you with spasmic, greedy twitches on the monitor. For a moment, his movements are mesmerizing, his thumb drawing patterns on your clit in time with his measured pumps. But as he slips out his index finger to pinch your aching bud, the gushing slick heralding your release is the last thing you see before your eyes screw shut from ecstasy. 

As you writhe against him with thankful sobs, Zayne’s movements slow before stopping altogether. “It’s alright,” he shushes you. “Let it take you. You look beautiful like this.” 

And in the comfort of his reassurance, those sobs turn into quiet, blissful moans. 

You’re not sure how he does it—the sink and paper towels are on the other side of the room—but when you open your eyes, Zayne’s hands are clean. 

“I’m very proud of you,” he says gently, wiping a stray tear from your eye. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” you mumble, nuzzling into his palm. “You were right. Seeing it, knowing what you were doing…it did help,” you finish shyly.

“I’m glad. And in that case,” he adds, tapping the camera appreciatively, “I’ll ask around about the cost of installation in my home office.”

[tinyenha]

BALLAD OF A HOMESCHOOLED GIRL (l. heeseung)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

includes: virgin! reader, oral (male receiving), slight exhibitionism, unprotected sex, degrading, fuckton of pet names, creampie, stuffing mouth with panties, praising, reader is wearing make up and a skirt

word count: 3.4k

synopsis: 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘪���𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘧 a 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦

guts event masterlist ⋆♱✮♱⋆ main masterlist

"Here?"

"Yeah, will do."

Heeseung locks the door of the tiny bathroom behind the two of you and sends you a lazy smile. His eyebrow twitches up at your awkward stance, hands fiddling with the edges of your short skirt and eyes turned downwards as you bite on your bottom lip. He chuckles.

"Why so nervous, baby?" He asks teasingly as he approaches you and places his hands on your hips. "It's just me."

You want to scoff at his words and this stupid smirk on his handsome face but you try to stay cool and keep your eyes steady on his. He's talking as if he's not the biggest fuck boy in your campus and doesn't have a humble score of sleeping with nearly every single girl from your year.

You've been homeschooled for the bigger part of your life.

You never go to parties.

You don't drink.

And most definitely you don't make out with strangers in your friend's microscopic bathroom.

So it's a wonder, really, how you – probably the most socially awkward girl in this country, ended up right there with Lee Heeseung's saliva on your lips.

"That's exactly why I'm nervous," you reply calmly, raising your chin up and clearing your throat. Fuck, why is it so hot in here?

"Don't worry." His thumbs trace circles on your sides. "I'll make you feel good, pretty girl."

Steady hands caress your hips before swiftly lifting you up and sitting you at the edge of an empty bathtub. With a thumb stroking your cheek, he leans down and captures your lips with his. He nibbles and sucks on the kiss-bruised plush, the heavenly feeling easing you almost immediately and making you putty in his calloused hands.

You let out half a yelp when you feel him moving your tight skirt up, resting it on your waist. His long fingers run up your thighs and inch higher and higher. Breaking the kiss, you can feel your breath hitching when he finally takes the next step and cups your clothed heat, fingertips brushing over the lacy fabric.

"Is this okay?" He mumbles into your lips as he sucks on them again.

Your face is already burning at the new sensation, never before feeling a male hand in such intimate place, and you look at him like dear caught in headlights. Cute, Heeseung thinks.

"Y-Yeah," you stutter out breathily, hands reaching forward and shyly clutching on his black t-shirt. Your mind spins as he kisses you without giving you a speaking break. "Yeah, it's just-" A small whimper makes its way out of your lips when he pushes his fingers a little more firmly, thumb pressing down on your clit. "I'm a virgin," you whisper into his mouth, looking at him with slight dread in your wide eyes and waiting for his reaction.

But he only smiles and traces your wet bottom lip with his tongue. "Yeah, figured that much. I'll take care of you, baby. Just relax."

He pecks you sweetly when you nod your head, then lets his hand slip underneath the cute lace. If the feeling of your warm and so soft cunt didn't make his dick twitch in his pants, the small whine you let out definitely did the job. Keeping his eyes on you to watch your reaction, Heeseung slowly runs two of his fingers through your folds and smiles as he notices how wet you already are.

You tilt your head backwards as he slowly starts rubbing your clit with his thumb. None of your quiet sighs go past his ears, so he does all of his best to enhance the sounds gradually into small whimpers and moans. His fingers work on your wet pussy and he finally lets his thumb drop to circle around your soaked hole.

It's only when you whimper again that he slides his slender finger between your folds and watches carefully as your eyebrows furrow up and lips part slightly. Your hips jerk into his touch and you finally give him a longer whine. Heeseung slowly moves the finger in and out, shallowly at first, then pace growing faster as you relax your body and lean forward until your forehead is resting on his stomach.

"You doin' okay?" He asks, casting a glance down at you slouched over him, hair bouncing as you nod your head. "Use your words, baby."

"It feels so good," you choke out, words barely coherent because of the way your mouth is smushed in the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah? That's good," he coos slightly as one of his hands reaches up to caress your hair.

Soon, he's adding his middle finger into this sinful commotion and you can feel the knot in your stomach becoming tighter. He smiles slightly at the feeling of your walls clenching around him so greedily.

Your face pushes even further into into his toned stomach, his hand holding you firmly by the back of your neck as he resumes plunging his long digits in and out of your pussy. He's already learnt just how exactly to crook his fingers to earn this sweet little moan out of you, so he keeps on doing that and smirks when your nails dig into the muscles on his lower back.

He stretches you out so well, you let go of all of your senses and rely on his touch only.

"I-I'm, mmph, I'm so close."

Heeseung hums. "Oh, yeah? Then cum for me, pretty girl."

And you do. Your thighs close rapidly and squeeze his relentless hand in between them as the blissful high flows down your body. You whine and pant with your nails digging even further into his skin, but he doesn't mind – sweet praises leaving his lips as he helps you ride out your orgasm.

Once you've stopped spasming around him, Heeseung slips his fingers out of you and takes a step back, admiring your bashful face and wild eyes. You grasp the cool edge of the bathtub instead, fingers itching to reach out for him again. His hand moves up to your face and wipes the smudged lipstick from your chin before leaning down and sealing your lips with yet another kiss.

There was something about him that made you want him to do absolutely everything to you.

"C-Can you teach me how to do that?" You ask sheepishly, pulling away from him slightly.

He raises his eyebrows slightly. "Do what?"

You flush and tighten your fingers on the tub. Looking down, you clear your throat, then mumble, "You know what."

You watch as his face confronts with a crooked smile.

"Aw, baby, you wanna suck me off?"

You've only known him for the past hour but you're already so damn weak for this man, you don't even need to think twice before nodding your head. Eyes, so big and shiny, looking up at him with such innocence – Heeseung would be a very stupid man to reject this offer.

"You sure?" He asks and you nod again. "Alright, if you want to," he says, a grin plastered on his face when he starts unbuckling the belt on his hips. "I'm a sucker for pretty faces, you know. So you've never done that before?"

You shake your head silently, eyes watching his every move carefully. He lets his pants drop down to his knees, then does the same with his boxers. You swallow harshly, feeling yourself growing wet again as his semi-hard, thick cock falls between his thighs. Pretty and pink and your eyes glaze over with lust, one you've never felt before.

As if hypnotized, you watch as Heeseung's ring adorned fingers wrap around his length and he gives himself couple strokes. You're intimidated, sure, but the throbbing between your thighs pushes the feeling aside and makes you slip down the bathtub, knees hitting the tiled floor.

"Good girl," he praises with a large smile before stepping closer to you until your face is leveled with his stroked dick. "Alright, give me your hand."

You do as he says and reach your hand up, trying not to pay attention to how much smaller it looks compared to his. You do your best not to flinch when he spits on your open palm. Using his fingers, he spreads yours and wraps them at the bottom of his shaft, just where he held it half a minute ago. He's warm and veiny where you grasp him and you look up for the next instructions. He runs your intertwined hands up and down his dick, moisturizing it by spitting on your palm few more times.

"Open your mouth, baby. Tongue out," he tells you and you oblige. Once you're prepared, Heeseung lays the pink head on your tongue and gently tugs your chin a little more down. "There you go. Now, try sucking the tip, hm?"

You keep your eyes at him for a second before enclosing your lips and taking in the warm end of his dick in your mouth. You suck on it gently and look up at his reaction. Heeseung's hand slowly runs down your hair and he smiles down at you.

"Yeah, just like that, sweet thing. You can use your hand a little too, just like we did before," he encourages you, so you grow a little more comfortable and confident with your movements.

You keep it up for a moment, stroking his hardening length simultaneously. He jerks his hips suddenly with a loud groan when your tongue swirls and the tip of it and makes contact with the underside of his cock head. You instantly let go of him, worried that you did something wrong.

"No, no, baby, keep going, It was good," he says and you nod slightly before capturing his dick back in your mouth. "Try taking a little more for me, doll."

The wetness between your thighs becomes more prominent as the sound of Heeseung's grunts and huffs increases and you shift slightly. You move your head, imitating shallow thrusts as your face flushes with every next second. The act itself is so new to you, the lewdest thing you've ever done, and you whine softly at how much you're actually enjoying it.

The sound vibrates through Heeseung's now fully erected length, making him close his eyes and groan quietly in return.

His breath grows heavier. "Fuck, baby, can I try something?"

You let your hand off of his cock and rest it on his thigh instead. Your face is flushed, teary eyes looking up at him so fucking prettily, looking like a damn angel at his feet, and he can't help himself from bucking his hips into your mouth a little further than he originally planned. You gasp in surprise and gag around his dick, not expecting to feel it shoved so far deep.

You hum in agreement, making him twitch once again and before you know, he pushes a stranded lock behind your ear then grabs your head by both sides gently. Listening to his open a little wider, your eyes widen when he slides even more of his dick into your warmth mouth. His groans are so sinfully attractive that you can't find a single bone in your body that wants to back down now.

"Fuck, sorry! Sorry," he apologizes instantly and soothes you by caressing your hair. "Easy."

There are streaks of tears running down your cheeks now and you're sure that the make up you've been working on for so long is completely ruined now. Heeseung pulls back slightly and resumes his previous pace. You try to keep up and lap your tongue around his cock to the best of your ability, which earns a streak of soft hums from his throat. Your chin falls slack as it numbs slightly, and you let him use your mouth free to his will.

"That's it, sweetheart," he moans and keeps working your head. Your knees begin to hurt uncomfortably but you would be damned if you ever dared to stop him. With two more pumps, Heeseung lets go of your hair and pulls out of your mouth, jerking himself off with quick strokes. "Where can I come?"

You clear your throat and hesitate slightly before saying, "You can do it in my mouth."

Heeseung grunts in reply before tilting your face up and shoving his dick back there again. Hot tears stain your cheeks when he finally lets go with a loud moan and splutters white seeds down your throat. The taste is not what you expected, yet you do your best to swallow as much as you can, letting the rest drip down your chin.

After coming down from his high, he pulls away to crouch down in front of you and kiss your red and swollen lips. You whimper at the slightly burning sensation yet still you pull his neck to you and let his tongue enter your needy mouth. His lips move down and sponge kisses on the soft skin of your neck before pulling you up to your feet.

"Hope it didn't hurt too much, baby," he mutters, looking pointedly at your red knees.

"It's fine," you reply quickly, drunk on his kisses and greedy for more.

It's stupid how bewitched you have him only after meeting you such short time ago. Your face stained with smudged make up. Your glossy eyes that look at him with such need. Your sweet voice and the cute little moan you let out as he sucks on your tongue – all of it. And, fuck, he can feel himself growing hard again.

"Want more?" He asks after his teeth nibble on your bottom lip.

You nod your head dumbly. "Yes, more, please. Give me more."

A rasped fucking christ drifts from between gritted teeth as he turns you both around and presses your back against the bathroom door. Your skirt is still riled up, exposing your underwear that Heeseung soon starts slipping down your legs. You sigh when the cool air hits your soaking folds and you shiver, both from the cold and the nervous anticipation.

He grabs your thighs firmly and lifts you up in his arms, spreading your legs as he steps closer to rub his wet dick between your legs. Your back is pushed into the wooden surface and you hit your head by an accident as you tilt it backwards. Heeseung chuckles.

"Ready?" He breathes out, looking into your eyes and watching carefully to back away at any sign of discomfort on your face. But he finds none, only a firm nod of your head and eyes clouded with lust. "Good. Tell me if something hurts or if anything's wrong, okay?"

You nod, a sheepish smile tugging on the corners of your lips. "Yeah, okay."

Heeseung lunges forward and kisses you hungrily again as he lines his hardened length to your weeping hole. When he rocks the tip of his cock into you, you can't help the whine at the unfamiliar feeling. It doesn't hurt, unlike what you've been so afraid of – you just feel so full as he slowly sinks more and more inside you. Your clenching walls suck him in so eagerly, impatient to make him the first one to have you in such way.

And, fuck, he almost loses his mind when your seeping cunt swallows him all the way through your tightness and gripping him so hard he can barely move. Heeseung groans lowly, hands pushing onto your thighs and spreading them even more apart until he bottoms out in you fully. You claw at his shoulder blades, leaving tiny red crescent marks all over his skin whenever you move your fingers.

"You're doing good, baby?" He asks and grins when you nod your head with a moan. "Such a good girl f' me."

He fucking swears he's in love.

His hips move in careful strokes against yours at first, letting you adjust to the unfamiliar stretch. And the second he looks at your face again, he could cum solely from the starry-eyed wet look you give him.

He groans low in his throat and he thinks it's the first time in his life he stutters while fucking a girl.

"F-Fuck, baby, quit squeezin'," he pants when your tensed walls don't give him even a second of break. He clenches his eyes tightly and ruts his hips a little quicker, causing your body to rock against the door and make a dull noise. "You're so tight. So good. Prettiest girl I've ever fucked."

You sound so pathetic after hearing his praising. When he picks up the pace even more, all you hear is white noise as you let him pound you against the door. All you know at the moment is Heeseung, Heeseung, Heeseung. The way his fingertips dig into the plush of your thighs and ass, his lips on your neck, his whiny voice. Heeseung.

"Heeseung, I-," you whimper mid-sentence, voice trembling and jumping as he fucks up into you. "It's so good. You're amazing."

"Aren't you the sweetest little thing?" He snickers, giving you a harsher thrust and clicking his tongue at the strangled sound you let out.

It's overwhelming. The pleasure and him. It's a lot and soon you're left a quivering mess, swallowing thick and choking back on your tears.

"Aww, baby, I know," he coos at the sight of your shiny lashes. He wipes under your wet eyes with his thumb and squishes you even further into the door until he's chest to chest with you now. "You're doing so well for me."

By the way you're throbbing around him, he can easily tell you're close without even needing to hear your words. His eyes wander down to see your shaky fingers rubbing onto your swollen clit and he grins teasingly. "Ahh, so you do know a little something then."

He removes your hand only to replace it with his more skilled one and your body jolts forward into his, trembling in his firm hold.

You jerk in his arms, growing louder in the sounds you let out, having little to no control over them. It's so loud combined with the rattling of the old door as your body hits it over and over again. His eyes roll back at the sound of your whines – borderline screams really.

Heeseung reaches to his pocket where he's hidden your panties before and pulls them out only to shove the fabric between your parted lips.

"You're too loud, sweetheart. We need t' keep it down," he chuckles and resumes his unrelenting pace, completely unaware of how your brain has melted at his lewd act.

You're cumming on his dick within seconds, slumping heavily on his body as you cry out into his ear, teeth clenching harshly on your underwear. At the feeling of your trembling thighs and the unforgiving grip of your cunt, Heeseung furrows his eyebrows with bliss as he follows right behind you and releases right inside your warm walls.

You're nearly gone. Face so fucked out, cheeks so prettily stained with wet mascara and the black lace hanging from your drooling mouth, it makes Heeseung's cock twitch and throb as he overstuffs you with his hot strings of creamy cum.

With a whimper, you start squirming against his firm body pressed so closely to yours as his release starts overflowing out of your hole and leaking out on your bare thighs. "Stay still, baby. Lemme fill you up like a proper slut," he hums deeply, hands soothing you as they caress your skin with gentle touch, such a contrast to his filthy words. He empties himself in you completely with shallow thrusts and you pant, head dropping to his shoulder as you let your panties fall to the ground as well.

The two of you stay still like that for couple minutes, way too intimate for a pair of strangers. But you like it. Surprisingly, he makes you feel the most comfortable you've ever been around a boy. And damn what a boy he is.

Instead of letting your shaky legs touch the floor, Heeseung walks you all the way to the sink and sits you there. He grabs the first better hand towel within his reach and soaks it with warm water before bringing it to your sensitive and still throbbing pussy. He cleans you up, not minding the small jerks and sighs you let out.

You thank him softly and watch as he fixes himself up then comes back to you, stepping in between your legs and leaning down to kiss you once more. He's addicted, that's the only explanation for the way his heart hammers in his chest.

He's much gentler this time – letting his lips caress yours slowly and capturing them fully. Your mind is still hazy from him, dizzy from his intoxicating scent and shying away from his handsome face.

"Can I have your number? Please."

His embarrassingly desperate eyes are enough to have you nodding and typing your name on his roughed up phone.

"i stumbled over all my words

i made it weird, i made it worse

each time i step outside, it's social suicide"

taglist: @luvkpopp @yannew @hoonxclsvly @jongseongslvr @beomgyusonlywife @starggukies @koizekomi @ineedsomezzz @starl1ghtsinthedark @enhastolemyheart @seokseokjinkim @parksunghoonsgf @skzenhalove @somekpopshiteu97 @enhypens-hoe @alpha-mommy69 @jwnzlvr

permanent taglist: @bambisgirl @arizejkt19 @luvmura @milisabunny @cathy-1997 @satoruskitchenrag @ramenoil @jenjnk @jaylaxies @yoongspi @nichoswag @s00buwu @dazzlingligth @seungiesluv @i4kt @heehoonsnemo @seongslutt

note: happy no nut november fuckers x

[tinyenha]

and i’ll be missing you

the mission wasn’t long — four days, from tuesday to friday evening. it wasn’t anything new, not for zayne. it wasn’t like he didn’t have his hands full either, with a packed week of appointments, occasional lectures to speak in, and a surgery the night before you came home. as far as he was concerned, time would breeze by and he’d be picking you up again in no time.

except that’s not what happened.

instead, zayne found himself on thursday at a loss, staring at the neat stack of journals and projects he planned to read through on his coffee table, fingers tapping lightly against the pages in his hand.

despite keeping busy, the silence was heady.

every few pages, he found himself glancing at his phone across the table, unable to help perking up when it illuminated only to find it was just another promo text from the cafe between the hospital and your workplace. a smile tugged at his lips as he saw the famous words ‘buy one, get one!’ on the screen, only to gust over with a sigh.

“if only you were here…” zayne murmured, setting his phone beside him to see a mass of white and red fluff tumble to the edge of the sofa. with a swift stretch of his arm, he pulls it back, and when he looks down at it, an undeniable ache tugs at his chest.

the warm snowman you two had snagged from the claw machine the day before you left sat in his hands, his fingers squeezing the wider bottom of the plushie with a chuckle. the sight of your wide, sparkling eyes the moment they landed on the plushie plays in his head, and for a second he can almost feel your hand tugging him along to the machine.

he recalls the words as if it were yesterday.

“we are not leaving without it…”

zayne couldn’t help but laugh at your determined gaze, the way you stood at the machine, hands on either side of the controls, focus solely locked onto that snowman plushie.

“what’s particularly special about this one?”

in the reflection of the glass, your gaze softened, lips curving into a pout almost immediately as if he had offended you in the highest regard. when you turned your head, he couldn’t help the heat that started to sneak onto his cheeks, reaching the tips of his ears.

“it’s me… and my happy snowman is you.”

zayne gave the snowman plush in his hands another soft squeeze, a smile playing on his lips as he sat up and near the edge of the sofa again.

“i guess this counts,” he said, almost a whisper as if someone would hear him in the privacy of his home. “but i don’t think you’d be good to take to the cafe…”

another sigh.

with a swift motion, zayne rose from the sofa with the warm snowman in hand, setting it down at your spot on the counter. without skipping a beat, he made his way to the refrigerator, taking out leftovers from the night, lingering on the tray of eggs before he brought them out too.

while his leftover honey and herb chicken reheated in the microwave, he rummaged through the pantry to find the remaining ingredients, everything he needed to make brownies — the ones you practically begged for on his days off and his favorite for that reason.

between eating dinner and meticulously adding the ingredients in a bowl, zayne couldn’t help but steal glances at the plushie at the corner of the counter. if you were here, you definitely wouldn’t be this quiet, he thought, a soft laugh leaving his lips as he poured the mix into a baking dish, turning around to set it in the oven. without a second thought, he brought the rest of his dinner to his seat beside warm snowman, eating in a strangely comfortable silence while the oven clock counted down.

by the time zayne finished and cleaned up the dishes, the soft ring brought his attention back to the sweets in the oven. with care he brought them out, the warm, comforting aroma of the brownies washing over him, his shoulders easing from the tension he didn’t even notice until now.

that and a weight of fatigue, from the week of work or the slightest ache that lingered the more he thought about — no, the more he missed you. undoubtedly a bit of both, but if he had to be honest, the latter most.

as zayne covered the brownies, loose enough to let them cool properly, he stifled a yawn, cleaning up a few scattered crumbs on the counter before taking the warm snowman in his arm.

“i’ll check on that later, but you’re coming with me…”

he brought the plushie with him as he made his way to the bedroom, the night setting a cozy mood that made his eyelids heavier upon entering. setting the snowman plushie down, he found himself mumbling as he walked into the closet, already prying away at his clothing in exchange for pajamas.

“i’ll be right back love…”

zayne let out a soft hum, a hand running through his hair as he stepped into the bathroom, reaching for his toothbrush in the spot by yours. brushing with swift, intentional motions, he wasted no time freshening up before sitting on the bed, the plushie tumbling to his side as if eager to be close to him just like you would.

“mm… just like your mom,” he chuckled, taking the warm snowman in his hands again before his eyes landed on the clock — only 7:30 pm. pulling himself to his feet again, zayne went back to the living room and plopped down on the sofa, the plushie still in his embrace as he turned a random show on.

for a moment, he couldn’t help but feel a little silly taking the snowman plush around with him. yet as silly as it felt, zayne couldn’t deny that it made his heart warm, almost as if you were back in his arms, snuggling up beside him as the show faded in the background… slipping into slumber…

hours later, you slowly pried the door to zayne’s place open, lip between your teeth as you tried to withhold a smile, anticipating the surprise on his face when he saw you. what you didn’t expect was to find him out on the sofa, a random show playing on the television.

and when you slip off your shoes and tiptoe to his side, you certainly weren’t expecting to see the warm snowman you had won wrapped up in his arms, tight against his chest, the companion to the one you had brought on your mission. it was then that you realized what had unfolded, the plushie and the unforgettable scent of zayne’s special brownies putting the biggest smile on your face — he missed you this bad.

reaching forward, you graze the back of your fingers along his cheek, down his jawline and zayne stirs, his hold tightening on the plushie. your heart swells with a familiar feeling, and without a moments hesitation, you gently wrap your arms around his shoulders, lips beside his ear, lulling your sleeping snowman awake.

“i’m here now zaynie… let’s go to bed…”

[tinyenha]

sylus x f!reader

when you accidentally hurt yourself

a/n: i’ve recently joined the lads fandom and just had to write a fic for sylus 🤭

it had had been a long day and you just wanted to make yourself a cup of hot chocolate. not just any hot chocolate, you’d seen online a trend for a homemade black forest hot chocolate and wanted to try it out.

what could go wrong, right?

you reached for the top shelf, you wanted the large mug with the face of a cartoon panda on the front. it was your favourite. fingers brushing the edge of the mug, so close - until it tipped.

the crash came a second later, as shards scattered across the tile floor. in an (admittedly silly) attempt to catch it, you had managed to cut yourself but didn’t notice until it caused your arm to bloom a bright red colour.

“well, that sounded dramatic,” sylus’s voice called from the other room, light and teasing.

you looked the cut, wincing slightly at the stinging pain that now occurred and called back “just gravity being gravity.”

sylus appeared just a moment later, his eyes flicked from the ceramic mess on the floor to the blood on your arm. he didn’t speak right away.

“are we collecting injuries now?” he slowly arched an eyebrow.

“its barely a scratch,” you muttered trying not to make a big deal out of it.

“then let me fix your ‘scratch’ before it becomes a souvenir.” sylus now stepped closer and his voice a lot quieter now.

“really, it’s nothing. i should probably just clean up this mess” you pressed on but sylus was already on the move.

his figure disappeared into the bathroom and he soon returned with the medical kit.

“we can clean it up later. now sit” he tilted his head and gestured to the chair he wanted you to sit in.

he kneeled on the floor in front of you and took your arm into his hands. he began to clean the wound, as he did you couldn’t help but notice how his touch was precise, deliberate, but never cold. there was a gentleness to it.

“you know,” he said after a pause “most people would ask for help before bleeding all over the kitchen.”

you playfully scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“well, i didn’t realize i was living with a part-time medic.” your lips tugged into a smile.

sylus gave a quiet laugh “part-time? darling, i’m full-time. especially, since i’m living with you”

you couldn’t help but chuckle in response.

you both stayed in a comfortable silence as he continued to clean your cut. for a moment he pressed the piece of gauze a little too firmly and you unexpectedly flinched at the sensation.

his eyes flicked up immediately, and the teasing faded “sorry.”

“it’s okay” you murmured, watching him intently as he now began to wrap the bandage carefully around the cut.

once he was done, he didn’t move back right away. his thumb gently brushed just under the edge of the bandage, as if he was double-checking it.

“you don’t have to tough everything out” he said finally, voice low and oddly serious.

you blinked, surprised by the sudden softness his words. “it was barely a scratch, really...and i was only supposed to be making a hot chocolate. to be honest, i’m not used to someone looking out for me.”

“then get used to it.” sylus leaned into your ear “now come”

sylus reached for your hand and led you to the couch. he fluffed the pillows up and hie eyes remained focused on you and even after you were sat on the sofa. you never left his gaze.

“you’re staring” you whispered and decided to lean back onto the cushions.

“i’m supervising,” he corrected “you’re a known flight risk.”

“you cut your arm one time and suddenly you’re labelled as a flight risk” you sarcastically commented and let out a soft laugh.

you waited for sylus to respond with something just as sarcastic or witty but instead that didn’t happen.

his face now serious, he sat before you close—closer than he usually would. he reached toward you and his fingers found his way to your shoulders where they began to trace gentle shapes.

your eyes narrowed in confusion for a second and then it clicked.

“you’re really worried, huh? sylus i promise you im okay” you turned your head slightly and examined his facial expression.

you noticed how his eyebrows furrow, his jaw clenching slightly for a second before returning to normal. a small sigh escaped his lips. almost as if he wanted to answer straight away but he didn’t, so the room fell into a quiet lull, city lights peeking through the curtains painting faint gold and silver lines across the floor.

you didn’t push any further and let sylus take his time. it had been a good few minutes before he finally spoke.

“i know that it’s only a small thing and that you’re okay…but it’s just that i’ve seen small things spiral into so much more before” his voice was low and careful as his eyes glanced down at the bandage on your arm.

“It’s okay to care, sylus. it’s what i love about you, you care about everything you do and it’s admirable” you laced your fingers with his.

“carings not the hard part however, letting someone see that i care, it’s still newer to me” his gaze flicked from the bandage up to you and you noticed how his eyes held something vulnerable.

it was very different compared to the usual calm in his eyes.

“then let me be the one who always sees it and appreciates it” you didn’t break the eye contact you had with him.

sylus’ lips tugged into a smile - albeit a small one, it was genuine and real. he then began to shift closer with his hand still laced with yours, he reached his free hand up and cupped your face. his thumb rubbing small circled on your cheek.

“no more reaching for mugs without me, okay? and if im ever not here then i will send someone to come do it for you” he spoke, voice firm but calm.

you relaxed into him, now leaning up against his shoulder. your heart felt warm as you cherished the current moment.

“you’ve got a deal. but only if you promise to keep playing nurse for me” you held back your smirk.

sylus chuckled, low and amused at the comment “i’ll make it my permanent role, kitten”

any left over tension slipped from the room and sylus pulled you in closer. your head rested on his chest and when you closed your eyes you could hear the faint beating of his heart. it brought you a comfort and you wanted to stay like this forever.

with him.

nothing mattered, not even the black forest hot chocolate you were originally so determined to make.

[tinyenha]

pheromone perfume

u buy a pheromone perfume for shits n gigs but it actually works!!!

x fem reader!! minors dni

genre: crack, suggestive

[tinyenha]

════════════════════════

PAIRINGS: Sylus x reader, Caleb x reader °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:

SUMMARY: You train at a taekwondo academy in which Caleb and Sylus are experienced fighters. Ever since they’ve helped you train, they just cannot get their eyes off of you…

(So they fuck you and make you choose between them)

WARNINGS/ TAGS: MDNI 18+, mentions of threesomes, p in v rough semi-public sex, overstim and edging, fingering, degradation, nipple play, all characters are 18+. 1.6k words

════════════════════════

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who are your elders. Being one of the most experienced fighters at the Academy, you often see the pair training with each other. To anyone watching, they look straight out from a Taekwondo World Championship scene, with the intensity and speed of every strike, until you notice the dumb grins between hits that remind you it’s all just a game to them.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who effortlessly bring back trophies and medals from every sparring competition that they attend. It is not uncommon to see them swaggering into the Dojang, with the gold hanging from Caleb’s teeth and a wide grin on his face, and Sylus tossing his own medal onto the table with a proud smirk as all the juniors crowd over in awe as they congratulate and gush all over him.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who help you one day during training. Being a junior, you’re struggling with learning the movements of a spinning hook kick.

Caleb jogs up to you, Sylus following behind. “Hey, newbie. Coach told us to help you with the kick.”

Under the fierce, watchful eyes of the two blackbelt seniors, you can feel your face get a little warm — with the gleam in Sylus’s crimson eyes and with Caleb’s warm violet gaze fixed on you.

“It can’t be that hard, right?” Sylus looks down at you, an eyebrow raised. Caleb swiftly nudges him in the ribs, hard, to get him to keep silent, as he continues with kind eyes kindly, “Can you show us how you do it?”

You nervously do as you’re told, your movements rigid and uncoordinated, as you clumsily attempt to swing your right leg and turn at the same time – but your foot catches, and suddenly you’re slipping to the ground –

But Sylus already has a strong arm wrapped around your waist, firmly keeping you in place. His grip on you is tight and his breath is warm. He looks down at you lazily. “You planning to fight the floor next?” He looks almost amused.

Caleb pulls you out of Sylus’s grip with a frown. “Alright, let’s focus.”

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus whose hands are all over you as they go through the motions of the kick. Twist, turn and then swing your leg over. Caleb has you pressed up against the wall, your leg over his built shoulder to “train your balance”, whilst Sylus holds you by the waist to prevent you from falling (again), his fingers digging into the flesh of your waist.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who bicker over who has the most credit over helping you master the kick. They watch you from a distance as you talk to your friends, all thoughts of their own training completely forgotten. They just can’t get their eyes off of you, honestly.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who are eager to help you once more for sparring. They teach you how to attack the right way, and you spend a good amount of time trying to hit them in the face.

You’re panting, your legs are burning, but the pair are still going at it, dodging your futile attempts like it's nothing.

“I’m exhausted!” You gasp. “Can we please have a break?”

“Quitting now would waste all that effort, would it?” Caleb laughs teasingly.

“What!” You try to go in for another kick, but your movements are sluggish, uncoordinated, and Caleb effortlessly hooks you by the arm and flips you over like you’re a ragdoll. You land flat on your back, and Caleb and Sylus peer down at you.

“That’s why you keep your stance tight.”

“That’s not even allowed!” You yell incredulously, flushing. That was hot.

“Pretty sure she’s into it. Look at how red she is.” Sylus quips. Your jaw drops, as you start protesting indignantly.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who are still training with you when the training session has ended and everyone else has already left the training hall. You’re doing stretches, forcing your legs to go as far as possible. Sylus and Caleb sit on either side of you as you two talk about the day’s events.

…somehow the topics lead up to relationships and sex and you find yourself being teased by Sylus and Caleb once more.

“So – what’s your type? Don’t say insufferable guys with red eyes.” Caleb bumps your shoulder with his, a half-grin on his face.

Sylus just snorts, crossing his arms. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you, Caleb.”

They simultaneously turn to look at you expectantly.

“What about you both are attractive,” you admit, trying to keep your tone matter-of-factly. “But that’s what everyone thinks. The whole academy probably wants you both.”

With a gleam in Caleb’s eyes and pressing your legs down mid-stretch, he says lowly, “So we’re your type, huh? Then tell me…who do you prefer?”

But then Sylus, too, is closing in the distance between you two on the other side. Two fingers hook under your chin, lifting your face until your eyes meet his.

“Go on, answer him.”

“Um.” You can feel your heart racing as you stare into Sylus’s intense eyes. Caleb presses up against your back, circling his strong defined arms around your body as Sylus tips his head towards you.

Before you know it, Sylus has his lips up and against yours, his hand firmly holding your face in place as he angles your head just right so he can fuck his tongue into you. The noises that you two are making are downright obscene, and when he finally pulls away, his lips still slightly parted open, a thin thread of saliva hanging between you. Meanwhile, Caleb has his hand around your tits, squeezing and pinching and kneading. When you whine and buck into his touch, he slides a hand up your shirt, warm fingers gliding up your soft skin as they finally make their way against the soft flesh of your tits. Your body tingles against his touch, and a sensation stirs in the pits of your stomach.

Caleb’s breath is hot against your neck as you continue to stay seated in his lap. “Pips, we’re not going anywhere until we hear your answer. Who’s it gonna be?”

“This only ends one way, sweetheart.” Sylus’s fingers stroke the side of your face, whilst Caleb’s finds the sensitive buds and gives them a hard pinch. A moan is pulled out of you.

“I - I don’t know – I can’t think straight –”

“That brain’s all scrambled, huh? Let me fix that by doing...this.” With a swift fluid motion, Caleb flips up your shirt and bra, exposing your nipples to the cool air. Sylus’s eyes fall to your tits, his pupils instantly doubling in size. His lips attach to your left boob, suckling and nibbling, whilst Caleb plays with your other. The sensations go straight to your core as you slump against Caleb’s chest.

“Feels good…” you whine.

Sylus arches an eyebrow at you. “Look at you…our junior is a fucking whore.” His fingers dip down south, pressing up against your aching core through your pants. When he slides them off and slowly presses a finger into you, you moan out his name. Instantly, Caleb’s hands still around your tits, a low growl escaping from his throat.

Grabbing you by your waist, Caleb lifts you out of his lap and shoves you down on all fours against the cool wooden floor. His fingers find your needy cunt, rubbing tight circles into your sensitive clit and when he removes them, they’re glistening with your slick.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who both fuck you like they’ve got something to prove. It’s filthy, the way Caleb unrelentlessly pounds into your tight cunt from behind whilst you choke on Sylus’s rock-hard cock. They fuck into you at the same speed, pulling back for just a fraction of a second before ruthlessly thrusting back into your pussy and the back of your throat once more. And when you start to tremble, indicating that you’re close, Caleb abruptly pulls out of your pussy.

“Not so fast, pips,” Caleb’s voice is low and smooth against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and heavy. “You’re not cumming until you pick one of us.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re so torn.” Sylus pins you down to the ground, his perfect defined abs rippling just the slightest as his wide frame cages you down. He reenters you, and your walls stretch deliciously from trying to accommodate his girth. Your back arches, a string of moans and pleas escape your mouth as Sylus mercilessly slams his hips into you. Already, the familar pressure is rapidly building up in your core and you whimper out loud. Sylus stills, his cock still buried in you. You look back up at him, tears welling up from frustration and the stimulation as you desperately try to rut back.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who keep you on edge for hours, taking turns to use you as their cumdump. By the time they finally let you cum, you’re completely spent, Sylus ruthlessly driving into you whilst Caleb toys with your sensitive nub, nimble unforgiving fingers callously circling and pinching all over your clit.

They make you come so hard you nearly pass out by the time you stop shaking from your orgasm. But Sylus and Caleb, once more, are quick to catch you before you fall. They clean you up good, making sure to wipe all the mixed juices off of your bare body before helping you back into your shirt and pants.

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who take you out to Korean barbeque afterwards with innocent, fawn-like looks plastered all over their faces, happily discussing defence tactics. You’re truly speechless as you help yourself to delicious barbeque meat. Are they just going to act all whomesome and innocent about what had just taken place?

TaekwondoStudents!Caleb and Sylus who, in fact, did not forget about the session you three had, because they come up to you during the next lesson, arms resting idly on the ledge as they watch you beat up a punching bag.

“So,” Sylus begins, his predatory eyes gleaming. “Have you made your choice yet?”

(Round two?!)

·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········

[tinyenha]

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

• minors do not interact

• pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

• wc: 28k

• content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.

WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.

•a/n: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.

nsfw tags under the cut

SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

══════════════════════════

You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place —2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her phone down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close y

ou could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falterr.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again,

trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

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•taglist-

@immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @inawonderfulworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji

[tinyenha]

Now that his birthday’s passed, I can be angsty on main.

cw: non-mc reader, angst, rejection, heartbreak, self-loathing, alcohol mention, unrequited feelings (kind of), stream of consciousness, not proofread, bittersweet (?) ending

After Sy returns to the base following a day spent with Emcee, you quietly slip him your gift—a small, matte black box with a curled, scarlet ribbon encircling it. You don’t give him time to thank you before you’re out of sight. He doesn’t miss the forlorn undertone of your “Happy Belated, boss-man,” before you leave.

He opens it up to see a QR code at the base of the box. He scans it on his phone. Two tickets to a candlelit orchestral performance. He smiles quietly, an affectionate chuckle in his throat. Something tame yet different to get him out of the base. Something so inherently Sylus. But why are there two tickets?

He stares after your afterimage. Ah. Was one of them for—not you? Well, that won’t do. You went through all this trouble to get him something thoughtful. Of course you’re coming with him. Maybe it’ll help break up the tension that’s been brewing between you since he made his choice.

—

It’s nice. Pleasant. You rented out the concert hall just for him. Didn’t expect him to bring you, but you won’t deny that you were thrilled about the invitation. Surprised—it was meant for him to enjoy it with…someone else.

He looks great beneath the candlelight. Then again, so do you. Dressed in sophisticated crimson, a dress to highlight the devastation of your body, courtesy of him. It’s still alright for him to buy you things, right? Friends buy each other gifts all the time.

It’s a little awkward, sitting there beside him. Thighs just barely brushing, fingers itching to reach for each other’s hands. But you’re friends—this is what you agreed to. You convinced yourself you were content with remaining by his side, paying off your unspoken debt to him, even if it pained you to look at him. Smell him. Feel him, barely ghosting, but always a commanding presence.

The music is a lovely distraction. It’s soft, invoking emotions you tucked away. Your eyes water as the strings kick in. It’s like he senses the minute shift in your expression, the change to your posture, the clench of your teeth, and he places his hand over yours to offer you a semblance of comfort. It feels wrong how his fingers burn, how they curl towards your palm on the armrest. How they make you feel safe, validated, wanted.

That soft smile he offers when you glance at him doesn’t help. And how he strokes over the clutch of your hand with his thumb, agitating the emotions welling in your chest. Your returned smile is watery, guarded as you glance at your lap.

Should friends even be holding hands like this?

—

A little bubbly to chase the burn away.

He took you to a lovely restaurant afterwards. You joked it was his birthday gift, so you should be treating him. It’s fine—friends take care of each other, right? When the ache is too much. When your tongue’s too heavy in your mouth, and your heart pulls in your chest.

You end up going for a walk downtown after dinner. Enjoy the historic sights, the fairy lights, the nightlife bustling on the cobblestoned walkways.

You’re laughing. Crowding together. Conversing like two idiots who just fell out of love, itching to sink back into it. He has gentle yet firm fingers around the crook of your elbow to steady you. Maybe you drank more champagne than you thought.

Your feet hurt. He shepherds you to a bus stand to take a load off. Pulls your feet up onto his lap, peeling off your high-heeled sandals, and working through the pain with his knuckles. Just like old times. Is this alright? Should he really be…this nice when he’s…not yours, and—

Thoughts you tried to keep at bay come spilling in. That night replays like torn film reels.

“Maybe in another lifetime,” he whispered, as if admitting it so low would ease the devastation of it. The sting. “Maybe in another lifetime, it could’ve been you. I could’ve held your hand while you laughed so sweetly under the sun. I could’ve stroked your cheek while you pouted in that adorable way, pretending to be upset with me. I could’ve held you so close while you dreamed, while you gave yourself to me. Just…not now. The timing. It’s just—”

You laughed despite the pang in your chest. Despite the tears clumping in your lashes, distorting your vision of him. Pathetic little streaks of red, white, black. You remember rubbing your arms to self-soothe. Being hysterical. Curling into yourself as bile singed the back of your throat. You wanted to vomit. Wanted the world to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to be erased from his memory—him forgetting you would’ve hurt less.

“Please don’t cry,” he placated, voice all croaky. Strained. Broken, almost like how you felt. Like it pained him more to let you down. He reached out for you, fingers shaky in the air near your cheek. You stepped away. You didn’t deserve his affection. Didn’t think you could handle it.

You laughed again, forcing a bitter smile onto your lips. “I’m okay,” you lied through a constricted throat.

It burned. Felt visceral. His pity was the worst torture you’d ever been subjected to. Honestly, you could’ve lived with him being mean. Crushing you. Telling you that you were delusional, a mistake, pathetic. His tenderness hurt more, like a knife thrust into your gut and twisted. It was like he was teasing you with a glimpse of what could have been. False hope. That doting voice speaking to you every day like that.

“Don’t worry about me,” you choked around the threat of a sob, a laugh, “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

He hated it, how you always had to put up a front. Always so brave, guarding your emotions like forbidden treasure. He wanted to hold you. Stroke over your hair. Murmur, ‘I’m sorrys’ against the outskirts of your ear. He’d never seen you like this, falling apart at the seams, and yet still fighting to shield yourself. As though showing a bit of weakness would cause him to dispose of you.

He hated himself, watching you wear that prideful smile despite the tears streaming down your cheeks. Letting you slip out of his office without a fight. His nails bit unforgivingly into his palm. Split the skin. Anguish possessed his features in the quiet. He always swiftly dealt with anyone who hurt you. A hair out of place, a scar on your cheek, blood seeping through your clothes.

So what was he supposed to do when he was the source of your pain?

You don’t say anything as his driver pulls his car up to the bus stop. Stone-faced as Sylus drops his jacket onto your shoulders, ushering you into the backseat. You feel empty—a husk. You thought you’d be over it by now, his soft rejection. But he’s gone and picked the scab, reopening festering wounds beneath with his sentimentality.

Why couldn’t it be you? Why was it always—

Someone else?

You lean away from him the entire ride back to base, watching the streetlights blur past the tinted window with your forehead against the crisp glass. It’s all you can do to keep your tears at bay. To keep yourself from falling apart all over again.

And you don’t miss his reflection—those anguished, scarlet-spun eyes watching you. His mouth opening and closing, grappling with the right words to say, yet failing to get them out. 

What could he say that wouldn’t wound you more? 

—

You leave without warning the following morning while everyone’s asleep. Pack up your essentials, a duffle slung over your shoulder, a motorcycle purring between your legs.

You ride towards the horizon, no destination in sight, a sinking feeling in your throat. You thought you could do this. Thought you could brave the storm, the torrents of pain, the letdowns. Thought you could handle seeing him smile like that, hearing him laugh like that, knowing you weren’t the cause of it. 

You deserve better, don’t you? A change of scenery. A chance to start over. To figure out who you are again, without the crushing weight of a quiet, consuming, one-sided love tearing you asunder.

[tinyenha]

Paring: Sylus x nonMC!Reader

Story Content Warning: angst no comfort.

Story Summary: You were never his other half, not really. And yet, you fell anyway.

Word Count: 1,266

A/N: Who's ready to hurt today?? 😃 Me, apparently lol. Inspired by the song 'Already Gone' by Sleeping at Last. I hurt my own feelings writing this, and I apologize for nothing. Tagging @humanitys-strongest-brat and @blessdunrest , because apparently we want to hurt together.

It was a quiet change - so subtle that you didn't even notice it at first.

It wasn't an odd thing for Sylus to be gone for days at a time to handle whatever situation appeared. It wasn't an odd thing to not hear from him at all, and then for him to appear once more - a text. Flowers. A shadow in your apartment door.

You hadn't given a second thought to being warned away from the base for a few days - the warning that he was dealing with the Hunter's Association was enough to keep your head down.

No one in the N109 Zone had clean hands.

But the streaches between seeing him became longer.

His attention immediately pulled to his phone when it buzzed on the fewer, quiet moments together.

You snuck a peek once, when the bright screen cut through the darkness and he was off in the shower. You knew better and yet…

Kitten

Ah - well. He had found her then, hadn't he?

You had heard the stories - the rumors. Been there to comfort him through the nightmares, and in the deepest part of you, you knew this was temporary. That you were quite literally not his other half, but your heart did not listen.

You fell fast and hard - freefalling down a mountain to the rocky depths below. The crash was ineviable.

This life - this love, it wasn't for you. It was for him. And what was love, really, if not to give the world to the person you adored the most?

So you allowed yourself a selfish night. Just one more night snuggled close, breathing in his scent, feeling his arms and the silk sheets envelop you in their warmth - praying you would remember this on the lonelier nights to come.

And the next day you left. Not loudly, but quiety, as you did everything.

It's not like you had much anyway - always ready to run. It was the life you had lived long enough to know the pattern. First, you removed traces of yourself from his home, and then in the following month you removed traces of yourself from the city.

Like the changing of a season, you slipped away. Your belongings fit easily enough into the beat up car you owned. To your credit, you only looked back once in the rearview mirror as you drove from the forever night to the brightness of the day.

A new journey - a new start. It would be good for you both.

Sylus couldn't find you anywere, even the little things that marked your territory in his life - little things that had become part of the background with their perminate place on a shelf. In a corner. In his heart.

Those spaces were filled with nothing but dust now. Wasn't there a snowglobe that used to sit on this shelf? He swore there used to be - a black and gold grammaphone trapped inside a snowstorm. It played a tinny version of The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy. He wouldn't have moved it, would he? You had thought it should live by the records, and he had agreed.

The keychain that sat on the corner of his desk was gone - a grumpy, green dinosaur. The one you said reminded you of him. He had thought it had just been covered by the large crow plushie that took up the space now, but when he moved it, there was no trace of it.

Not on the floor. Not in the drawers.

He wouldn't have gotten rid of it, and he wasn't one to misplace things so easily.

Little bits of you were missing. It unnerved him, as you had been a constant anchor in his life. When was the last time he had seen you? Time moved so weirdly, and he had been so busy with this aether core nonsense.

A month? The date of the last text where you had agreed to come over glared angrily at him.

You hadn't reached out in that time? He couldn't be angry; he had been just as bad. But he was missing you, and he would rather have the real thing than the missing trinkets, anyway.

But when he sent you a text, it didn't deliver.

He tried again.

And again.

Brows furrowed, he went to find Mephisto, but his steps slowed in the hallway. The crow had been watching Ms. Hunter lately, not you.

The twins, then. You had always had a special bond with them. They would've noticed something going on with you. Surely.

When he asked, he wasn't expecting the fear in their body language. The stiffness. The hurt.

Why were they hurt?

Kieran was the one to produce the letter, and then they both left him alone with it. This quiet, last piece of you that was still here.

He recognized your handwriting instantly, tracing the letters of his name with a gentle finger before flipping it over and breaking the seal.

The note was short, and it caused a pain to crack through his chest, a tremor in his hands.

You deserve the world and happiness. I hope you have found it with her.

It wasn't cruel, just truthful. He was quite sure that there wasn't a mean bone in your body. Honestly, he was surprised you had managed to live as long as you had here. The innocense, the quiet kindness had been something that had drawn him to you originally.

The stranger who had found his twins hurt and helped them to your home, bandanging them up, after a mission had gone wrong. This quiet bird bringing gentle song in a darken world.

You weren't something he wanted to lose. Where had you gone? When had this happened?

His steps were too loud when he tracked down the twins again, but Luke and Kieran weren't able to provide much. The last time they had seen you was a month ago, too, leaving through the front. You had handed them the note before closing the door, and they knew, even without you saying anything.

They had been hurt, too, but done exactly what you had instructed.

"Don't give this to him until he asks."

Quiet - respectful of all; even this woman you did not know. Unwilling to shake the lives around you even as you hurt deeply. You left as softly as you arrived, like a sun setting.

The note crunched in his grip, and he was quick to smooth it out. This last thing he had of you.

They didn't have your new number, either. Had no idea where you had gone.

Sylus' arm holding the letter felt numb - a part of him missing, like a phantom limb. Ms. Hunter, while quite literally holding part of his soul, had made her choice, and it had not been him. So he had let her go, because she deserved whatever her heart desired, even if it wasn't him in this lifetime.

But losing you, too - that was on him. And he knew you well enough that this was not from a place of malice. This was from a place of love care for him.

He should have noticed earlier. He should have reached out at least once. Checked in on your wellbeing - maybe this could have been prevented.

The last thing he ever want to do is hurt you, and yet he had done and been the very type of person he despied.

"What do you want us to do, boss man?"

A sigh escaped him, heavy and painful, as if he was breathing in shards of glass. "I don't know."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Created by @thechaoticarchivist . DO NOT REPOST. Reblogs and comments always welcome ♥ Sylus Stories Master List

[tinyenha]

stargirl — lhs

— you are heeseung's perfect star, glowing just for him and the way he fucks you makes you shine even brighter.

warning: explicit content (smut) dom heeseung, unprotected sex: kitchen sex, dacryphilia, hee gets crazy at reader's ahegao face, creampie, overstimulation, squirting. MDNI.

“I had a vision, a vision of my nails in the kitchen…”

Stargirl Interlude played softly in the background, a sultry contrast to the sound of skin slapping against skin, echoing through the kitchen.

“Scratchin’ counter tops, I was screamin’—”

“Heeseung, fuck!” you squealed, nails digging so hard into the counter they nearly bled. Behind you, Heeseung only groaned, gripping your hips tighter as he thrust into you again and again.

"My back arched like a cat, my position couldn't stop,"

Your back arched, the curve of your spine deepening as Heeseung slammed into you.

“Fuck—right there,” you gasped, fingers slipping against the countertop, your body trembling with each thrust.

“You were hittin’—” the song purred in the background, perfectly mirroring the way Heeseung had you pinned, his cock driving deeper, chasing every pulse and squeeze of your walls around him.

"Yeah?” he rasped, as he leaned in, his breath hot on your neck. It didn’t take long before your arms finally gave out, your body surrendering as your bare chest hit the cold marble countertop.

Heeseung only chuckled at your weakness, he slowed his thrusts, letting you feel every inch of him dragging in and out of your soaked cunt. Until his gaze dropped, mesmerized by the way your slick coated his flushed, throbbing cock, glistening under the light.

“Messy little thing,” he murmured, groaning at the sight. He groaned, his fingers tightened around your wrists, wrenching your arms behind your back, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. He drove into you harder, your body jerking forward with each ruthless thrust.

“You like this, huh? Getting fucked like a needy slut on the kitchen counter?”

A broken moan tore from your lips, your toes curling, legs shaking as he thrust deeper.

“And I shouldn’t cry, but I love it, Starboy,” the song purred in the background.

“You hear that?” Heeseung mocked, his lips curling into a smirk as Stargirl Interlude moaned through the speakers. “Even the song knows what a filthy little thing you are.”

His hips snapped forward, forcing a strangled gasp from your throat as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open, making sure you felt every inch of him.

Heeseung released your wrists, his hands sliding down to grip your waist before snaking around your stomach, pulling you flush against him.

His chest pressed firm against your back as he guided your hips to move with his thrusts, forcing you to take him even deeper.

“Do you love having my cock this deep?” he murmured, "do you love being bent over like a desperate little slut while I use you?”

“Yes, Hee! Yes! Yes!” You moaned, your voice breaking as tears streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the countertop below.

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening before one hand slid up to wrap around your throat. He tilted your head back, his lips brushing over your damp skin before his tongue flicked out, tasting your tears. Then he kissed you hard, his tongue shoving past your lips.

When he pulled away, his gaze dropped to your face, and his cock twitched at the sight—your mouth hanging open, your heart eyes glazed over with pleasure

"I just wanna see you shine, 'cause I know you are a stargirl"

“I love being your perfect little fucktoy, Hee,” you choked out, your eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat tightened.

Heeseung watched every expression that flickered across your face—the way your brows knitted together, your lips parted, your lashes fluttering as you gasped for air. Your hands flew to his wrist, not to push him away, but to ground yourself, fingers trembling against his skin.

Then, with a low grunt, Heeseung pulled you up, his strength effortless. Your back arched against his chest, your feet no longer touching the floor, legs dangling as he held you up by the throat.

Your head lolled onto his shoulder, your mouth hanging open, your tongue slipping out as you went completely fucked out—limp in his hold, lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck—” Heeseung groaned, his cock twitching at the sight, his hips snapping up harder, rutting into you like he couldn’t get enough. His breath was ragged against your ear, completely immersed in the way you looked.

“H-Hee, ahh—” you gasped, your voice breaking, nails digging into his wrist as he kept you suspended in his grip.

Heeseung barely heard you, too mesmerized by the sight in front of him—the two of you reflected in the dark, tinted window. The city lights outside barely illuminated the glass, but it was enough. Enough for him to see the way you glowed.

His perfect star.

Your body trembled in his grasp, skin damp with sweat, flushed and glistening. Your breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath, your nipples hard from the cool air and the intensity of his hold.

His cock throbbed at the sight, the way your body arched so beautifully, muscles quivering as he fucked into you mercilessly.

“Hee—Seung, ah… gonna cum,” you barely managed to whisper.

Heeseung groaned but didn’t slow down, his pace only growing rougher. His grip on your throat loosened before he let go entirely, his hands dropping to your thighs to spread your other leg as he focused on chasing his own release.

“Hold it,” he ordered, his breath ragged.

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as his tip slammed against your g-spot over and over.

Your legs trembled violently, your walls tightening around him, dangerously close. “Can’t,” you gasped, shaking your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Can’t—gonna cum—”

“Hold it,” he growled, his head tilting back as his eyes rolled, lost in the way you clenched around him.

Then, without warning, he pulled out.

A desperate sob left your lips as he dropped you to the ground, your legs barely holding you up before he grabbed you again, strong arms hooking under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly.

This time, you were facing him.

Your back slammed against the wall, his grip on your legs was tight, fingers digging into your flesh as he spread you open, his cock sliding back inside in one brutal thrust.

The new angle had you seeing stars.

“Heeseung—!” you gasped,he was deeper like this, impossibly deep, hitting that spot over and over, forcing every last coherent thought from your mind.

His lips found your breast, latching onto the sensitive skin, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over your hardened nipple in sync with every thrust.

The song in the background was fading, the last notes dissolving into the air, but it didn’t matter. Your moans filled the space now, replacing the music.

Heeseung smirked against your chest, his breath hot as he lifted his head slightly.

“Sing more for me, baby,” he murmured before he snapped his hips forward, his pace turning brutal.

Your body jolted against the wall, arms clinging desperately to his shoulders, you could barely form words—only gasps, whimpers, and broken moans of his name.

“That’s it,” he groaned, watching your face contort in pleasure, completely fucked out. His grip on your thighs tightened, spreading you even wider, letting him sink deeper, hitting your sweet spot so perfectly you thought you might break.

“You take it so well,” he panted, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing you hard, swallowing every sound you made.

The way his stomach ground against your clit making it impossible to hold back. Your fingers found his hair, tangling in the strands, pulling him impossibly closer.

Your orgasm tore through you violently, your body arching against the wall as you keened, your pussy clamping down around his cock so tight it ripped a deep groan from his throat.

“Fuck—” Heeseung hissed against your lips, his rhythm faltering for the first time as he felt you milking him, your walls fluttering around him like you never want to let go.

His grip on your thighs bruised as he held you still, fucking you through your high, prolonging every delicious aftershock.

Your eyes unfocused, lips swollen, body limp in his arms. Heeseung cursed, barely holding himself together, the way you clenched around him sending him dangerously close to the edge.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged. “Gonna fill you up—make sure you’re dripping with me.”

You gasped, body trembling from the overstimulation as he kept fucking into you, relentless. Your walls were still sensitive from your last orgasm.

“C-Cum, Hee,” you whimpered. Your body was burning, and Heeseung only made it worse, his pace unyielding. Your head spun, the kitchen lights blurring into a dizzy haze.

He chuckled breathlessly, his lips brushing over yours. “I’m so close, baby,” he panted, voice strained with pleasure. “You can cum again for me, right?”

You shook your head, whining, trying to squirm away as his hand found your clit, rubbing tight circles.

“Hee—n-no, I can’t—” you sobbed, legs shaking in his grip, but he just groaned, ignoring your protests, his cock twitching inside you as he felt you tightening again.

“Yes, you can,” he rasped. “C’mon, my stargirl. One more. Let me feel you.”

Your scream tore through the air as the burning sensation coiled unbearably tight, heat pooling in your stomach, rising too fast. Your body convulsed, your walls squeezing him in a vice-like grip, dragging him to the brink along with you.

“Fuck—” Heeseung gasped, his rhythm stuttering as your pussy clenched hard around him, refusing to let go.

Your mind blacked out as a sudden rush of liquid gushed from your cunt, soaking his abdomen, drenching his cock. It left you shaking, breathless, your body trembling violently in his arms.

“Shit—baby,” Heeseung groaned as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you, hot and thick, mixing with the mess between your thighs.

His high-pitched moans filled your ears as he fucked his cum deeper, his hips rolling lazily even as his body shuddered from the aftershocks.

Your body was completely spent, limp in his arms, head falling onto his shoulder as your breath came in shallow, uneven pants. Heeseung groaned softly, still sensitive, but he held you close, his arms secure around you as he carried you effortlessly to the couch in the living room.

He lowered you onto the cushions with care, watching as you sprawled out beneath him.

Heeseung pulled out slowly, groaning at the sight of his cum spilling from your ruined pussy, dripping onto the fabric beneath you.

His gaze traveled upward, drinking you in.

Your eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell heavily, your body completely dazed.

Your skin glowed—shining even brighter, like a star burning just for him.

[tinyenha]

Friend You Can Keep | Zayne

summary: while preparing for final exams, you ask Zayne if you can study his anatomy lol

cw: 18+, mdni, college au, afab reader, loss of virginity, oral sex (receiving), vaginal sex, fingering, lots of kissing, this is literally just self-indeulgent love-making

wc: 3.7k

a/n: I started playing lads a few weeks ago after a lot of resistance (I'm afraid of spending money on them!!) I started playing for Sylus but Zayne really came out of nowhere and assumed the role of my husband. I'm obsessed with him!!

In my mind, I wrote this with a five-ish year age gap between Zayne and reader (reader a freshman/sophmore in college, Zayne in the first years of med school). That isn't explicitly stated here so choose your own adventure. I'm also of the opinion that Zayne would make sweet, sweet love to you to the soundtrack of true yearner R&B. Just me?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Songs from your favorite R&B playlist emanate from your roommate’s speaker. You thought listening to the calm crooning from the nest of pillows and blankets that is your bed would help you study. But the music is more effective at lulling you to sleep, as are the sparkling fairy lights strung around the room’s perimeter. Maybe you should suck it up and turn the horrendous, overhead fluorescent lights on for this. Because the words in your textbook swim together the longer you try to focus on retaining them.  

You rub your eyes hard; flashes of color undulate in the darkness of your closed eyelids beneath the pressure of your fingertips. When you open them again, somehow, the words rearrange themselves even more chaotically. It’s like looking for a prophecy in a bowl of alphabet soup. 

“Is it possible I have late-stage dyslexia? Is that a thing?” you ask. 

Zayne chuckles from his place at your desk. “I believe that’s an indication that you need a short break. And right on time, too.” 

The timer on his phone goes off then, which he shuts off before it can complete one full blare of sound. He opens the desk drawer and takes out two candies. One for each of you.  

“A reward for our diligence,” he says as he deposits a sweet into your hand.  

“What? Where did these come from?” you ask as you unravel the foil wrapper. Candy didn’t survive in your dorm room long enough for you to have a stash to dip into for emergencies like today. 

You have two more finals to study for before you can officially begin a much-deserved winter break. Your roommate had been your study buddy up until her first and only final yesterday. She left for home immediately after she’d submitted her exam, having decided that the papers assigned could easily be completed from the comfort of her own home. And while you were so happy for her and not at all jealous, it meant you were short a study buddy.  

But Zayne, always dependable, offered to swing by and study with you when you’d met up for lunch earlier and bemoaned the fact that you would have to stay focused all by yourself. A herculean task if there ever was one.  

“I managed to hide them while you were fiddling with the speaker. Otherwise, I doubt they would have survived more than ten minutes had you seen them.” 

“Don’t be a hypocrite. Your sweet tooth can be just as bad,” you say. 

You observe Zayne as he delicately pops his candy into his mouth, pushes his glasses back up, and continues to study through your break. He has some biochem final to prepare for. While he had told you he felt more than prepared for it before your complaints about being abandoned, he’s sitting here reviewing alongside you all the same. Your heart warms at how thoughtful he is. Sure, he loves to help everyone, but he always goes out of his way for you. Does he go out of his way for anyone other than you? You're too curious.  

So curious, in fact, that you ask without thinking, “Don’t you have a girlfriend? Or someone you’re kinda into?” 

Zayne blinks at you, slow and deliberate like a house cat, then shakes his head. Embarrassment and relief coalesce in your stomach. In an ideal world, you would shut the fuck up and go back to studying too. 

But like the glutton for punishment that you are, you sit up on your knees and keep talking. 

"Oh, ok. Good. Well, not good as in you should die alone but good in the sense that...well...You know what, can I ask you something without you freaking out? Like, you have to promise not to.” 

Zayne swivels in the desk chair. A gift from him to you actually. Ergonomic and expensive, he’d replaced the standard rocking chair that the room was originally furnished with since he was concerned about the health of your spine as your future primary care physician.  

Once he’s facing you completely, he says, “I would prefer not to promise something if I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to follow through. That would not be fair to you.” 

“You know what, you’re right. I’m sorry. You're always calm anyway so I have nothing to worry about. I think.” 

Zayne watches you expectantly as you reach for a plushie to hold. Your mouth feels dry now that his attention’s on you. You’re not sure why you feel so nervous, he normally goes along with your schemes. This won’t be so different, right?” 

“So, I was wondering if maybe you’d be...willing to have sex with me?” The words leave you in one breath. 

Zayne stares at you blankly. You might have successfully broken the most collected person you know.  

“Zayne? Did you hear me? I said would you–” 

“I heard you the first time,” he says. His expression hardly betrays anything, but color spreads across his face, up his ears. If he didn’t have a turtleneck on you imagine his neck would be just as pink. “I apologize. I’m a bit taken aback. I certainly didn’t expect that to be your question.” 

“It’s just feels like everyone my age has lost their virginity already. Obviously, I don’t need to have sex, but I’m intrigued, I guess.  And I don’t want to do it with just anyone. And you’re not just anyone so–” 

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I want to make absolute sure I’m understanding you correctly.” He clears his throat before asking, “You want me to take your virginity?” 

You hug the plushie for dear life. “Well, yeah. You would be my first.”  

Zayne takes a deep breath. You begin to worry about the state of his heart the longer you sit in silence. Because your own is pumping so hard you fear you’ll succumb to cardiac arrest if you’re lucky. Or maybe the earth will miraculously swallow you whole before that happens. You’ll even accept death by wanderer if it means escaping this conversation. 

“May I ask why you wish to lose your virginity to me?”  

Not a flat-out rejection. You can shelf the death wishes for now. 

“Since you’re basically a doctor you know all about anatomy; safe to assume you know how it goes. And you’re hot so...why not?” 

Zayne averts his gaze at your blunt assessment, and you can’t help but tease him a little.  

“I thought we were working on accepting compliments.” 

Zayne smiles faintly but still refuses to face you, “I have to say when it comes to accepting compliments, I’m not very good in front of you. But I suppose there’s a chance for you to teach me.” 

“First lesson starts now. All you have to do is say ‘thank you’ or something.” 

Your breath hitches when his eyes meet yours again. He’s caught you in his gentle yet captivating green gaze. In it, you see acknowledgment of what your relationship to each other could be. A desire to explore a new dimension of intimacy, one that goes beyond childhood friendship. 

“I accept your compliment,” Zayne murmurs. His eyes drift to your slightly parted lips and you feel your skin prickle. 

“This will be an opportunity to learn each other’s bodies together,” he says, almost distracted. He plucks the plushie from your grasp and carefully places it on the back-killing rocking chair beside your desk. “I only hope I can measure up to your expectations." 

“Oh. Ok,” you manage to whisper. You didn’t think he would say no per say, but considering his immediate response you expected a little more resistance to the idea than this. And now you feel nervous, more than you had anticipated. This was your idea after all. 

You go to remove your pajama bottoms, a seemingly imperceptible shake in your hands. But of course, nothing gets past Zayne. He stops you with a reassuring squeeze on your thigh.  

“There’s no rush. This requires ample preparation. I would never want to hurt you,” he says, caresses the hinge of your knee. “Just, let me kiss you for a bit. Like this.” 

Zayne brings the chair up to the edge of your twin xl and gives you a sweet peck. He gives you a few more before he brushes his lips against yours. You follow his lead, revel in the plush feel of his mouth as he kisses you. He rubs his palms along your thighs, squeezing them every so often. His tender touches embolden you as much as they relax you. You hesitantly touch your tongue to his bottom lip and Zayne moans into your mouth. The vibrations of such a gentle yet erotic sound travel through your whole body. You cup his cheeks to pull him closer, and Zayne gladly follows. He rises to his feet and crowds you into the corner of the bed until you’re on your back. He kisses you so thoroughly that you can taste the lingering sweetness of candy on his tongue when he licks into your mouth.  

You slip one hand under his sweater, trace the ridges of his tight abdomen, no doubt the result of all those pull ups he does on the rare occasion you work out together. Zayne’s breath shudders against your mouth and you shiver in response. His receptiveness to your touch makes you desperate to feel even more of him. You grab the hem of his turtleneck and yank it upwards. He pulls away, reluctantly you think, grabs the shirt from between his shoulder blades and tugs it off. The action leaves his glasses askew and you remove them from his face with a giggle. 

“I hope they’re not messed up now,” you say as you carefully put the lenses on yourself. They blur your vision some, but you clearly see Zayne swallow thickly when you smile up at him.  

“I have an extra pair,” he says breathlessly before he removes them and goes right back to kiss you. More of his warmth seeps into you now that he removed his sweater. He presses his thundering chest against yours, and the delicious weight of him renders you pliant beneath him. You smooth your hands along the muscled plains of his back and moan. You can’t think straight in the face of such overwhelming affection. He hasn’t even touched you yet, really, and you already feel so ready for more.  

But for some reason, a pang of guilt lances through your gut. Did you pressure Zayne into this? Are you taking advantage of his goodness, his kindness? You said it yourself, he goes above and beyond for you in all things. You would never forgive yourself if you ever made him do something he didn’t want to.  

“Wait,” you say, and weakly push at his chest.  A gossamer thread of your saliva stretches between both your lips, and your thoughts empty out of your head for a moment. Zayne’s eyes are as unfocused as yours as he looks down at you, cushioned in your fluffy pillows. 

“Are you sure you’re cool with this?” you ask quietly. 

Zayne takes hold of one of your wrists to drop a kiss to your palm that you feel in your clit. Does he want to kill you? 

“Why don’t you touch me and find out.” 

He most certainly does.  

You gasp when he guides your hand to his hardened length. The fact that you could do this to him with just a few kisses turns you on immensely, makes you feel powerful. You squeeze him gently and he groans. You flick the button of his pants free, but he stops your second attempt at undressing before you can even yank his zipper down. 

“Let me take what I desire first,” he says.  

Zayne carefully unbuttons your pajama top, until your chest is fully exposed to him. You sit up slightly to remove it, and no sooner is it off than Zayne starts to knead and kiss at your breasts. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and you arch into him, mewling at the spike of pleasure that zings through you. He licks and teases it into a stiffened peak while he pinches and rolls the other between his fingers.  

Once your nipples are wet and taut from his ministrations, Zayne trails deep kisses down the center of your spasming stomach. He grasps the waistband of your pants and tugs them down along with your underwear.  

While most guys would look at you with lust clouding their gaze, Zayne looks at your naked body like he loves it. It’s enough to make you feel sheepish.  

Zayne fits his broad shoulders beneath your slightly spread thighs and puts his mouth to your dripping core. You’re so stunned by the sight of his head between your legs that your brain goes fuzzy. Obviously, no one has kissed you here before. But you’d still be inclined to say that even if the opposite were true. Zayne full on makes out with your pussy. He licks and sucks at your clit with the sole purpose of making you cum hard. And your entire body sings with ecstasy.  

He eases his index finger inside of your wet heat and you whimper at the intrusion. He searches for that spongy patch inside of you that has your back surging upward. Zayne coaxes more of your arousal out of you with his tongue on your clit and his finger massaging the soft walls of your cunt. You feel strange, like you need release, but you’re almost terrified. Your thighs close around Zayne’s head and he groans into your sex. The sound vibrates through you until you’re a quivering mess. 

Zayne blindly reaches for one of your hands and squeezes. He licks and kisses you as you cum on his beautiful face with a loud cry of his name. He laps up as much of your essence as he can, and you twitch and whine all the while. 

Your back falls onto the mattress once you come down from your high, the first orgasm that someone else has ever given you. You lift yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him. He kisses your thighs, your hip bones, back up along your stomach so earnestly. 

 Zayne settles himself over you again and now pumps two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. They curl against your sweet spot with the skill and precision of a surgeon, and you moan his name. When his thumb swipes at your clit you cum for him again, still so sensitive from your last climax. He kisses you through it. The taste of yourself is a little strange, but you don’t hate it. You deepen the kiss as you cum around his fingers. You didn’t think you could cum again so quickly, but Zayne is nothing if not efficient.  

He removes his fingers from you so he can lay in between your twitching thighs. He rolls his clothed hips into your bare ones, and you meet his thrusts readily. The friction of his pants against your clit makes you feel delirious. Enough to remember what you had first asked of him.  

“Zayne,” you sigh as he moves to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Do you have a condom?” 

He exhales against your ear; you just barely hold in a whimper. 

“No, unfortunately. I haven’t had a need for them before now…I suppose we’ll have to reschedule,” he says, but makes no move to pull away from you.  

“No! It’s ok!” You wince at your frantic tone. Way to go, Desperate. “I, um, grabbed a handful from the resource center before you came here. They’re in my bag.” 

While he had thoughtfully replenished your stash of candy, you had shoveled way too many condoms into your backpack only an hour after your lunch date with him. Now he’ll probably think you're some sex-crazed degenerate or something. How embarrassing. 

Regardless, you feel a teeny, tiny thrill at the knowledge that he doesn’t have any on him.  

Zayne nods, presses one lingering kiss to your lips and goes to retrieve a condom from your backpack. You feel even more embarrassed when he returns with one embossed with a heart and the words ‘wrap it before you tap it.’ He doesn’t seem to pay much attention to that, however. Zayne removes his pants and his boxer briefs. His hard cock springs up against his abs and your mouth waters at the sight of it. Long and flushed and too pretty, you think. He settles back into bed, kneels in between your spread legs and tears the wrapper open.  

You watch, wide eyed, as he rolls the latex over the glistening head and down the length of his cock. He lines himself up with your stretched entrance and makes eye contact with you. Despite the heat pulsing through your veins, you shiver. This does not go unnoticed.  

“Anxious?” Zayne asks. He runs his fingers up and down your arm. Slow touches that soothe your frayed nerves. A reassurance, a reminder that he won’t let you feel anything you wouldn’t absolutely enjoy.   

“Only a little,” you admit, “but I trust you more than anyone, so I think I’m more excited than anything.” 

Zayne smiles down at you, small and sweet. You feel even more shy now.  

“You know we can stop at any time,” he says even though his cock is straining against the condom. “You need only tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” 

You place a hand on his smooth cheek and smile up at him. His breath leaves him on a shaky exhale.  

“I know that Zayne. Thank you. But I think I’m ready now.”  

There’s a slight discomfort. A foreign pressure, a pinch, that he lets you acclimate to. There’s so much tension in his body as a result. You can’t help but feel endeared by how considerate he is of you always. Especially now.  

He places his palm on your belly, and you jolt.  

“Try to relax your muscles,” he says. 

You slow your breaths, try to do as he says until the fullness of his cock feels less invasive, almost comforting. You focus on the intimacy of this moment, of your bodies connecting. Of him being the first person to ever give you pleasure of any kind.  

“Mmm, good, just like that,” he groans. Who knew a voice could get you so hot. And not just his voice, those green eyes of his. He stares down at you so intensely you feel like you’ll melt into a puddle. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask meekly.  

“You’re beautiful,” he says matter-of-factly.  

You hide your face behind your hands and whine for him to stop. Zayne laughs lowly and pulls your hands away. 

“You helped me accept a compliment earlier,” he says, kisses one wrist. “And even teased me for being nervous.” A kiss to the other. He rests them on the back of his neck and regards you with an almost mischievous smile. 

“Now it’s my turn to return the favor. Say ‘thank you’.” 

Your chest is heaving. You can’t believe how seductive he’s being. And so effortlessly, too. Where did this side of him come from?  

He lowers his face into your neck and all the air in the room vanishes when he kisses it.   

“Won’t you accept my compliment? Or should I continue to tell you how lovely I find you? Say that your beauty is beyond measure? That you are my greatest treasure.”  

Zayne lightly sucks on your pulse point. How does he expect you to speak? You can hardly function as is. 

“I’m not as patient as you think I am.” He nips at your neck, and you tense up.  

“Thank you!” you yelp. 

You feel his lips pull into a grin. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Or should I give you more compliments so you can practice?” 

“Y-you can move now!”  

Zayne kisses under your ear before he pulls his hips back and slowly grinds into you. His pelvis meets your sticky clit every time your bodies meet. He thrusts into you until your moans and sighs fill the humid air between you both. 

You experimentally squeeze around his cock as he pulls away from you and he moans in concert with you.  

“Did you want to see my like this?” he asks, voice hoarse as his cock pushes deeper into you. You arch up against him, your nipples grazing his chest. Zayne dips his head to take one of your pebbled nipples into his mouth again, sucking and biting at it affectionately. You wrap your legs around his trim waist and try to pull him even closer to you. He’s making you feel so good that you can hardly stand it. All you can focus on is Zayne. The way he fits so perfectly between your legs, the feel of his biceps under your hands. His crisp, clean scent sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. You want even more of him.  

You bury your hands in his hair, thick silk between your fingers, and tug. Zayne pulls off your breast with a wet pop and kisses you. He plasters his chest to yours as he rolls his hips into you. Your walls tighten up around him and he grits out your name. He wraps his arms around your waist tight and fucks into you so deep that you swear you see stars. So bright that you clench your eyes shut as pleasure takes hold of your whole body. It’s an ecstasy like no other.  

“I love you, Zayne. I love you,” you babble mindlessly as you cum harder than before. 

Zayne moans and ruts into your body erratically, desperately, until he seizes up and cums with you. Maybe you’re too caught up in the romantic atmosphere you accidentally created– sultry love ballads and low lighting–but you almost wish he had painted your walls instead of the condom.  

He looks ethereal as pleasure contorts and relaxes his features, his muscles. Zayne takes your face between his hands and kisses you hungrily. Like he’ll never have another opportunity to. You’ll make damn sure that’s not the case.  

"I adore you,” he says before he steals another kiss and your breath along with it. You both grip and pull at the other as if you could get any closer. You want to nestle in the marrow of his bones, dwell in the cavern of his heart. 

“I want you to be mine. Only mine,” you whisper between kisses. 

“I have always been yours. Only ever yours.” 

[tinyenha]

𝄞 bloodhound

𓍯𓂃 hybrid sylus x female reader

(10k wc) ✦ summary: demanding, old, hostile— just a few of the warnings the man at the local shelter gave you before opening its cage. but it doesn’t matter. so long as he can protect you, all else can be forgiven. yet he’s more wolf than dog. more… man than wolf.

✦ content hybrid! sylus, nsfw/smut, hints of violence (not between mc/sylus), tension, kind of enemies to lovers-? he warms up to mc, knotting & adjusting to it, feral behavior, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia (not detailed), hinted age gap (all parties are 18+), possessive behavior, size difference,

✦ sidenote as by popular demand we have the latest installment of the lads hybrid collection 🙂‍↕️ i apologize in advance bc even as a wolf-man creature i made sylus older, because yall already know i love me a good ol’ fashioned dilf. dont ask me what bro is in dog years just know he’s scruffy! anyways do enjoy this lil thing while u wait for the caleb fic which i am busting my ass for :] 💕 ALSO sorry. he’s not feline this time… >_< this is def not my fav piece but i hope some of the girlies will like this one :] i did work hard on it it’s quite long. i gave it plot but tbh the smut is straight up filthy 😖 ig all we have left to do is hybrid rafayel! but that boy’s gonna have to wait lol :,) i do hav an idea for him tho ;D

With every step, it feels as if the walls of your apartment are closing in on you.

By your feet, at the front door you hardly have the coordination to close- blundering with the lock- lay a bouquet. Scattered. Flowers strew themselves across your hall as you kick the clasped bunch with the tip of your heel and glide from room to room, warily ducking into each one with your hand braced in front of your body, ready to beat and thrash and fight for your life.

In your other hand- a note. Crumpled, now. Shaking between your fingers.

You don’t think he’s gotten inside again- it seems the new home security measures you installed have thrown a wrench in his plans- for the moment, at least (although your spare key is still missing)- but you’re not wholly convinced you’re safe, either.

And to be clear, it’s better to be that than sorry: You’ll check each and every cranny of your little flat if it means reclaiming your peace of mind.

Your life is a different story though, as of late; threatened yet not something quite as simple to take back. Living with bated breath is no way to exist- neither with the perpetual looks thrown over your shoulder on the short trek back from the bus, the seemingly harmless creaks at night hurling you whole feet from your bed.

Because of that fear, you can hardly even bear to look down at the tiny paper in your hand to read it.

I loved that outfit on you yesterday babe. Can you blame me for taking a little from your wardrobe? ♡

Strangely, though, your drawer is just as you left it when you slide it from its framework almost fast enough to pop its screws, fearing the worst.

Clothes- your tee shirts, blouses for work and lacy bras, pencil skirts- fling across your bed, yet nothing is… amiss.

That outfit from yesterday.

With a gasp, you twist around to look at your hamper, and-

Sure enough, the lid is open.

✦

“-get a few new ones a week. Gets hard to keep up with ‘em all. All the personalities and quirks- a lot of them won’t even eat their kibble unless you look the other way.”

The cold brick walls and all the sounds bouncing off them (grunts, woofs, and nails against tile) become humdrum as the worker, waving a hand as he talks- rants, really- leads you through the pound.

The fluorescence lighting the place flares, whirs overhead. Everything about the setting is harsh. Obviously, you’re in no danger- but as you trail alongside him, you feel a sense of foreboding in your gut all the same. Like you’re walking into a dungeon.

The colorless walls swallowing up most of your vision make that silly threat seem an ounce realer.

You swallow, head on a swivel- yet not for fear, but sympathy as you pass an assortment of fenced-off pets. Some track you with a snarl. Some with eyes that plead. Still, they all share the undeniable tinge of distrust.

What an awful place, you think to yourself.

…But coming here had a purpose.

Your heels clip against the scratched floor and echo in rounds, a certain emptiness existing around you that seems misaligned with all the noise and sights.

Dogs in their cages— some upfront, teething at the metal, others: cowed to their corners, lying on thin blankets not quite as worse for wear.

To sum it up- creatures sapped of will. Defeated in life.

A distinct sorrow weighs in your chest, even as the employee happily drones on, a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand (the other: gesturing emphatically), hardly paying you any attention. To be fair, you’re giving him very little as well.

“-I mean, some don’t even eat at all. Picky things.”

Picky? You question quietly. Or without hunger? Their appetite for cheap, bagged kibble robbed right along with their appetite for life.

Your nails dent into your palm as you clench it.

It’s hard to get a word in edgewise as the man chatters away, but you manage to pile down your need to be polite for long enough to get in a:

Hey, excuse me, I asked what kind of dog you’d recommend for prot—

Clack, clack… Clack.

You come to a pause, dead-center in the walkway. The dull rhythm of his shoes remains where yours doesn’t.

“Heh. We got one a couple of months back who thinks this place is his own damn gourmet restaur-“

When he notices you’re not arm-to-arm, he, too, stops.

“Ma’am?” He turns.

“That one,” you breathe, just vaguely registering as the worker sidles up to you and glances at the cage you approach. The glint in your eye wins his interest.

For once since you entered the building, he shuts his mouth.

When he looks at ‘that one’ in question— a silver shock of fur, immersed in a shadow against the far wall— his eyes almost bulge from his skull.

A sharp laugh.

“Ah, little lady. Don’t wanna bite off more than you can chew, now. See-“

As he falls back into drivel (albeit, you lend an ear, curious now), you eye the pooch.

He looks a little wilder than the rest, a little more weathered, tucked to the corner of his cage but not quite ‘cowering’- no, he’s a touch too big and threatening for it to seem that way. More like… brooding.

…Yet you wonder all the same if that’s what he feels, too. Scared like most if not all of the others.

Your chest stirs again with that wisp of sadness.

If you could, you’d clip their collars to a leash and walk them all home, cramming them into your apartment with no thought and all heart. For reasons- countless reasons (having to do with your tiny home and even tinier wallet)- that’s not possible.

In a place as cold and unfortunate as this, he’d have every reason to be frightened, you think, but when your eyes soften with pity at him, his own narrow.

Thoughtfully, you blink.

As the worker rattles off his minor crimes around the playpen- and the hole he eats through their budget, what with his size- you can’t help but marvel at him.

Concerningly massive. With thick, silvery fur matted in certain areas, patchy with scars in others, and eyes that glow an unnatural shade of red- you can wholeheartedly say you’ve never seen the breed before. Less dog-like and more wolfish.

It warrants a raise of the brow, just what he’s doing here. Did he have an owner before? Was he abandoned by them? Or… was he just pulled from the street?

And if so, how many elephant-sized tranquilizer darts did it take to haul him here?

“So,” he says, stuffing his hand in his pockets, “Honestly, Ma’am, he’s probably not what you’re lookin’ for.” Giving your clacking heels and airy sundress a once-over, he sighs.

“We do have a Samoyed though- he was brought in just yesterday. Super playful. Great personality. Domesticated. He definitely won’t be here for long. Uh… this one here, though,” he snickers. “He’s unpredictable at the best of times. Growls when ya feed him- then growls some more ‘cause he’s still hungry... tsk,” he glances down at his hand, then. Evidently, there’s no mark there, but you think he’s imagining one that could’ve been.

“He’s on the older side, too. Can’t teach him any new tricks. And… big, as you can see. With his temperament, he’d probably tear a hole in your apartment. You, uh, you got an apartment, you said-?”

Right now, you should be thankful for all his advice- at the very least, relieved his chatter has become more meaningful, relaying all the pooch’s unruly habits. Yet you tune it all out, slightly cocking your head at the beast dog- a movement that, if you’re not imagining things, his scruffy one mirrors.

“He’s…”

“Yep. Like I said-“

“Perfect,” you breathe, falling to a crouch.

The man beside you coughs on his own spit. “What-? Uh, little lady, I seriously don’t think— hey, watch the hands! Don’t stick ‘em through!”

“-How much?”

You manage to pry your gaze from the ominous thing tucked a number of feet into his prison, cloaked and out of the light, to look up at the man. For all of the warnings and, really, defamation made against the animal— to his defense, he doesn’t lunge. Bark. Claw at the bars or slip his snout through to bite the harmless hand you extend in the space there.

No. With a lift of his whiskers, he watches.

Tuna-sandwich blinks. Eyes widening to twice their original size before he scrubs the lower half of his face.

Eventually, he shrugs. Takes a moment to process it.

As he does, you await the price with a hand already dipping inside your purse. I mean, you hope not to spend a small fortune during this outing- but it’s also an investment worth your while. There’s no saying when your stalker will show his face again. If tomorrow he’ll be waiting under your bed or in your closet for your return- hell, right now, the hackles on your neck are raised as if he could be lurking still.

A word relieves you of worries for naught.

“Nothing.”

…Wait- No, that can’t be right. Nothing? The- your future good boy is worth nothing?

“E-Excuse me?”

He sighs, exasperated. “You’d be doing us a favor,” is all he gives as an explanation. “You can have him for free.”

Dumbfounded, snapping your head back to the cage, you’re met with two crimson eyes that look almost hellish as they catch in the shifting fluorescence- and a pass of surprise on its face that appears almost… human.

“But, are you-“

“Haaaaah. Maybe it’s for the better. You’re like his savior, you know,” he comments, sparing a rather indifferent glance to the animal, “he oughta be thankful for you coming in here.”

And there, fucking again- like a blade wedged between your ribs and twisting—

“Too much longer and we would’a had to put him down.”

A squeeze of your heart.

Jaw fluttering shut, that morsel of information wipes the entirety of your hesitance out. Belatedly, you nod, perching your bag above your hip once more, a sense of determination smoothing out your features.

“When can we get him out of this cage?”

You ask without looking his way.

The sound of keys jingling on a ring has the silver-furred creature perking his left ear ever so slightly- a movement you track with curiosity as the beast’s chest swells in. It’s like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s seen countless people just like you filter in and out, pass him by, and ultimately land on a different pet to jailbreak take home.

“I can get you sorted right now,” he quips, helpful, “Just… You might wanna back up.”

Weirdly enough- and despite knowing you really should be cautious with a veritable beast from the local shelter, scarred to no end and skulking- all the tiptoeing around him is endearing in its own right.

He’s a good boy, you’re sure of it. Misunderstood, probably, like the rest of the poor, trembling things here— just in need of a nice, loving home and maybe a scritch or two behind the ear. And you’re positive, if nothing else, he’ll do plenty a good job at keeping your stalker at bay.

It takes a handful of minutes to loop the rope (not leash: rope) around his neck- yet the worker treats it as a pleasant surprise, muttering something about how he’s just a whit more cooperative today.

“Thank you,” you chime a bit breathlessly. Sure, your main goal in coming here was to find a suitable guard dog, but you can’t deny the excitement that flutters within as the gate closes to a now-empty cage, your new pet springing free.

Anticipation thrums in your chest as you eagerly accept the rope from him- “careful,” a snigger- and—

The ground beneath you all but gives way.

“Oh, sir- one more thing! What’s his name!”

He stops for a moment to turn halfway over his shoulder. Long, overgrown nails skittering across the floor as the leash tugs harshly and you’re rapidly propelled out the front door, into sunlight.

However, you do catch him shrugging.

“No clue.”

✦

A number of days pass. Those days drag by with an eagerness to get to know each other that seems only one-sided- and a caution on his end that borders uncanniness.

You buy him a fluffy dog bed (the biggest you could find; he’s bigger still). Quality food, not the rubbish they fed him at the pound. And you give him your patience; small, gentle smiles that you’re not entirely sure an animal can understand— but when you offer out your hand for him to smell, a sign that you mean no harm, he growls and retreats to his corner. He chooses one part of your tiny apartment to hunker down in and outright glares when you get too close.

This is your house.

This… was your house. Maybe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. As a week moves on, you concede to your bedroom or the sofa and watch him with resignation as he watches you back- and contemplate if you made the right choice.

Does he seriously hate you that bad? How can you make him understand that you don’t harbor any bad intentions for him-? I mean, aren’t animals supposed to have that preternatural kind of instinct anyway? to spot malice?

What is he spotting in you?

Curled up on the couch, you hang your hand off the arm and release the new brush you’d bought days ago. It’s seeming more and more like a useless purchase, yet after countless attempts to bathe and brush him- all for naught- it’s only now starting to settle.

Work was long. That one coworker was grating on your nerves more than usual and you could’ve sworn you heard a second pair of footfalls trailing yours after the bus back- but you can only look over your shoulder so many times without attracting the attention of people who start to wonder if you’re batshit crazy.

But you're not crazy. That- That psychopath is, and his countless notes and uninvited visits to your apartment while you’re gone are all proofs of that.

But that’s changed, now. If your dog hates you, he’ll hate an intruder even more.

You sigh, holding your head in your hands as you lean forward. Like a flower wilted, folded in on itself, too heavy with its withering to support its own weight. You rub your temples when you grudgingly glance up to the wolf-sized beast sulking in the corner.

He stares, of course; buttery light twinkling in imposing, ruby eyes in a way that almost makes him seem tame. Mellow.

Not quite.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to dislike him, or regret taking him off the pound’s hands— for all his stubbornness, the hostility he barely conceals, you know all too well that fear manifests itself in strange ways. Like when you almost snarled at your deskmate today for leaning over your shoulder again to review your work- the proximity too startling to handle. You’re irate. On alert. Scared. And it’s making you do unreasonable things as a way to calcify your soft skin into a protective shell. You start to think that you must be hard: the climate calls for it.

The mutt that broods behind your armchair is the picture of ominous- big and bad and threatening long before his lip even curls in warning. Everything about him screams see, look at my scars- my sharp teeth and nails. Don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.

Your heart stirs.

Tiredly, you offer a small smile. “You are perfect, you know,” folding your leg over the other as you pat the open space of the couch beside you. It can fit four to six people if they cram together, but you know he’d take up the three cushions beside you if he sprawled out entirely.

He regards you with a microscopic flick of his ears. “Even if you don’t like me, that doesn’t change what I think about you. If you just let me give you a bath… I’ll let you sit on the couch, deal? I’m sure it’ll be comfier than what you got now,” you offer, gesturing harmlessly to the dog bed that lays unused by the table— for this reason or that, perhaps just as a way to show you he’s completely rejecting you, he’s avoided it.

Yes, he’s just a tatterdamelion, forgotten animal, operating out of instinct and whatever feels right.

Yes, you still had to mask your hurt over it.

You sigh. “I mean, I haven’t even thought of a name for you yet. And I’m sorry, I just…” Trailing off, you give your head a small shake and stand to your feet. In your mind, with no small amount of discontent, you realize you’ve reached a watershed here— one that separates your old, normal life from a sense of great uncertainty that rests on the horizon.

And you’re terribly concerned. And tired. But God forbid you start venting to a dog about it.

“Nevermind. Goodnight, boy,” you wave your doubts off dismissively, deliberately leaving the lamplight on lest he get scared in the dark. Sometimes, you think you see eyes staring back in it, too, so you put no judgement on him.

Pattering with heavy, sock-clad feet down the hall, “Sleep tight. Just tell me if you hear anything at the door-“

A labored sigh.

Nails clacking behind you— and for one awful second you fear the worst: You’ve turned your back to a beast.

Your breath hitches with the realization, yet as you swiftly spin around- half prepared to bolt or at the very least shield your head with your vulnerable, just as fleshy arms- you’re mistaken.

There, he stands, as a massive silhouette against the living room light angling into the narrow, dim hall. He’s like a bull in a china shop- monstrous, sharp claws etching lines into the lacquer of the maple wood floor, his tail sending fur gusting behind him as it falls. You become clear of two things, then:

One) you must sweep, and soon. And two)

He’s tilting his head- in an uncannily shrewd way- towards the ajar bathroom door beside you, and as he noses it open and stares at you, it’s with expectance.

Oh, and then three—

When you don’t respond right away, he steps around you and impatiently nudges you in- headstrong as ever- through the bathroom door with a throaty huff.

✦

He smells of strawberry shortcake. Vastly sweeter than what he really is, you think with a wry but endeared smile, when you extend a slow, ever-cautious hand to pet.

To your surprise, he lets you.

Call it a truce between you both. A comfier place for him to crash at for a little more peace of mind on your end.

With all the dirt and dried muck lathered out from his coat (it took an hour or so, and patience- as he flung water and stubbornly tried to readjust in the small tub- lots of it), you’re given the chance to finally see the beauty of his breed.

Chalky white fur, soft as the cashmere sweater stowed in your closet on standby for the chilly autumn weeks ahead. His hair is long, perhaps overdue for a trim- not that you’re deluded enough to believe he’d allow a groomer anywhere near him- and easily covers most of the scarring underneath.

Convincing him it was safe to let you clip his nails was an even harder task than getting him in the bath- but he… cooperated. In a looser sense of the word.

None of your limbs are missing. That’s a small miracle in itself. You’re thankful for the little breakthroughs with your new pet, even if it feels like you’re walking uphill all the while.

He hops up on the sofa beside you. True to your word, you allow it, the springs dipping beneath you both as he settles.

If the couch fell through the floor and onto the one below in a mist of crumbled drywall, you’d have no right to be surprised. None at all.

Trying not to show a fraction of your joy as he sets his head on your lap lest that deter him, you bite back a grin and rest a hand on his back. You avoid needless contact with his head- you get the feeling that’s a iffier place for him. You’d respect it, of course. Your show of patience has been nothing less than outstanding in the past week. Now that you’re finally making headway with him (and yes— his letting you bathe and sit with him is headway), you’re encouraged.

Besides…

Unpredictable. The forbidding advice of the shelter employee rings in your head.

Ahem.

It’s late.

Tomorrow, you’ve another long day of work and second-guessing your surroundings and the people in them. Whether or not you’ll be attacked in your own home by your persistent ex-boyfriend who couldn’t stop meddling with your life even if it meant saving his own.

The doubt, momentarily, is pushed to the back burner.

You smooth your hands through his velvety fur. A strange layer of peace drapes itself over you, warming your chest like a fleece as his back rises and falls, your quiet breaths punctuating his own heaving ones.

“You’re a good boy, you know,” you murmur contentedly as you lay your head back and drift off. A crimson set of eyes regards you carefully, peering up through fine, snowy lashes.

From the barrel of his chest, he lets out a deep rumble like he understands. You know he doesn’t.

Half awake, you weave your fingers along him, “You are. You are a good boy,” as if it’s come as an epiphany to you- made realer as it’s spoken.

Before you let sleep take you entirely, you murmur with a ghost of a grin, teasing despite knowing it’s ridiculous because your words aren’t coherent to him- just a swooning, soft sound to bitten ears—

“Hey… I could tell you didn’t really like Cookie, or Sweetie, or Dragonfruit, but… what about…”

A moment passes. Barely, you register his snout lifting from your thigh.

“Sylus.”

Before dozing off, you’re fairly certain- for his sake- you’d left the lamp on that night.

…But when you wake the next morning to your alarm blaring in the room over, all that lights the living space is the sun streaming through the blinds.

✦

You blink and autumn is in full throttle.

You blink and you’re trading your thin sleep shorts out for pajama pants and slippers- layering your work blouses with wooly cardigans.

Days leap over one another like cards of a rolodex— yours, on your cubicle desk: filled with doodles of the unruly pooch waiting at home for you. Idling over him is all that you can do to ease your mind as anxiety gnaws through.

You worry for him when he’s home alone. Not because you heed the warnings you were once given- ‘he’ll tear a hole in your walls’- but because you care for him, and with that brings the inexplicable want to see him as soon as possible.

Of course, he can’t speak, but he shows in his own way that he misses you too when you’re gone.

Once your shift ends, you do as you did the day before. You quickly take the jacket off your wheely chair and gather your things, waving to the select few coworkers who don’t make you want to rip your hair from the root.

Perhaps if you’re quick enough, you’ll even make it off the bus, to your complex, before the sun sets. You appreciate fall for its colors. Not for the darkness it brings far too early to be comfortable with.

Every alley appears with teeth, in those eerily quiet moments when you make the short trek back home. Cars purr beside you on the congested roads, and despite cursing traffic on the ride to your stop, you’re grateful for it now.

At least more people are out; potential buffers to stave off your crazy ex from putting his hands on you…

Potential witnesses if he does.

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Every evening you can’t help but wish you could just- take Sylus with you to work. But for so many reasons that’s just not possible.

Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you breathe out a fine mist and pick up the pace.

You can’t escape dusk from falling- but you can take advantage of the early moments of it right before night comes swinging.

You nervously glance up to the sky, a fiery swatch of orange sat under starry blue, and tell yourself it’s fine.

…It’s fine- and yet you swear on all things holy you can hear boots pacing behind yours—

A gasp. You turn around and get ready to rip your pepper pray from the scabbard that is your pocket- for naught. Emptiness greets you. Sneering and quiet. In the distance, deeper into the city, a car honks. Where you are now though, you’re more or less alone.

You wet your lip where it’s dented from biting. You turn around, and press back on.

It’s okay. You’re almost home. Just a bit further. Within ten minutes you’ll be crooning to your ‘puppy’ and itching behind his ear while he rigidly thumps his tail, closing his eyes indifferently as if he wasn’t hurrying to the door as soon as he heard the lock.

Yes, that’s right. In ten minutes- on the dot (you know because you’re toying with your watch to calm yourself)- you’ll be slipping off your jacket and refilling his water bowl, tossing him scraps as you prepare a nice steak dinner in celebration of your weekend commencing. The fancy wine you’ll pair with it is to help wash it all down and pretend you’re financially better off than you are. Not to help your nerves.

…Even Sylus, the creature who doesn’t understand you even if sometimes it seems he unexplainably does, would be hard-pressed to believe such a feeble lie.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Your heels. A dull, monotonous rhythm against pavement, one you relish now because it fills the crisp, silent air.

Then-

Tap tap tap.

Your heels- “Hey baby, wait up- where ya going?”- with the sound of another and the bone-chilling revelation that every suspicion you had was grounded—

You don’t even turn around. You don’t reason with, stick up the bird to, or even hastily shout a fuck off, creep, over your shoulder because you’re not sure you have the luxury to.

By the sounds of it, he’s already close.

“Oh no you don’t. Come on, baby, just let me fuckin’ talk to you!”

-Closer and gaining still.

Fear rattles through you. It goes from zero to one hundred in a breath- yet how to breathe becomes a distant memory as your lungs still. The pulse in your throat drums, and suddenly your cardigan isn’t enough to save you from the ice eating you from the inside out- a cold sweat already forming at your nape.

You’re in such a panic you even forget about the spray in your pocket- the assortment of makeshift blades (keys, pens that grow knives when you click them) tucked in your purse. You have a small arsenal in there. Yet your mind spins.

“Stop-! I haven’t even been able to visit you lately because of that fucking asshole- since when you’d get a new boyfriend, baby? Do you really not care about me anymore? I just wanna talk!”

No. No no no- and new boyfriend? What-? All thought is dashed from your brain, his hollers becoming static. No, just ignore him, it doesn’t matter what nonsense he spouts to try and get you back- you won’t so much as glance behind you. After all he’s done to hurt and twist and outright disgrace you and your home, you don’t think he deserves it.

You break into a sprint. The concrete path pushes beneath you. You feel like you’re running in a dream, you’re so terrified- but you do run. You run like hell. You run like a girl.

You fiddle for the key in your purse, shaking as the door opens and you slam it behind you. His hand almost gets stuck in it, the knob jiggling loudly just a millisecond after you lock it.

As the reality of what could’ve been settles, you’re horrified. Cold in the face.

Sylus is there, leaping over to reach you. You wonder if the fury you catch in his wide ruby eyes is your imagination or reality; if he has the inexplicable knowing- based on your frazzled state or the noise- that something is terribly wrong.

“Sylus-“

You breathe with relief, but you don’t linger. You skitter past to the kitchen for a weapon- a real, proper one. A snarl rips from his throat as you leave him behind you, shouts sounding in the hallway behind your door. He barks at it. Ferocious and lupine. Surely not the make of a dog, of a pet meant for four walls and a roof— no, it’s a separate beast entirely.

Hostile, unpredictable, growly- dangerous. Oh, you’ve no choice but to hope all the labels on his package are true. That he’ll rip your ex-boyfriend a new one if he finds a way in.

Hyperventilating, limbs like jelly, you stagger over. In the short span of time it takes you to turn out the kitchen and down the corridor, you contemplate either opening the door and saying go boy, go— or simply staying back to ‘defend.’

You turn the corner and blanche.

Someone’s in your house- not the creeping, painfully familiar face, however, no- and he’s naked.

And then, everything you’d been working so hard to build with your froward pet over the months, the foundation of trust and patience, the hard-earned truce made between you both… As red eyes flash at you in warning, a hand taking the shaking knife from your own before he opens the door— it all shifts.

The bottom falls through.

The man opens the door, and perhaps you should be thankful that he takes the squabble outside because you’re sure that the blood spraying from your ex-boyfriend’s nose as it breaks would be impossible to scrub from your walls.

✦

“Relax,” he grouses with a tsk, “I’m not gonna bite.”

With split knuckles, a long leg crossed over the other where he sits on your couch, canines just a little too sharp as they catch in the lamplight- that’s hard to believe.

The blade he’d taken from your hands lies on the cushion beside him, and while you don’t make a grab for it, you think he sees the way you eye it- and the knife block in the kitchen- as you clench your fist to keep yourself from fainting while you gawk.

“Y-You’re not my dog.”

One of his brows lifts with amusement- or challenge, perhaps- as you deny the truth laid out before you. It’s impossible. Of course it’s impossible. He-

That can’t be Sylus.

For a moment you believe he’ll agree. Nod his head and say, no, I’m not your dog- I’m a person; because that’s certainly how he looks. But he doesn’t.

“I simply changed forms,” he explains. “Not who I am to you.”

With nothing else to say- no real rebuttal- you can only flounder. “N-No. You’re not Sylus.”

That pulls a soft huff from him, “Oh, kitten,” he grins a tenuous grin, “I’m wounded. And here I thought your kindness had no takebacks. You gave me that name, didn’t you? Sylus.” He sighs, a heavy, affected sound- like this is no more than a theater play to him as he adjusts on your sofa.

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for something else, then… Is Dragonfruit still up for grabs?”

D-Dragonfruit? How does he…

The way he looks at you then, with a lift of his chin as he angles his brow in provocation, a smirk only touching half his mouth- makes you freeze. The little hairs on your nape rise.

…Yet he’s just as scarred as your pet, with the silver hair and the gemstone eyes— massive, over six foot tall and muscular- and the air about him is… familiar. Too much to be comfortable with.

“Y-You’re not-“

Before you can splutter out another denial, he sighs and drops the bravado. He spares the weapon beside him a dismissive glance, stretching one arm across the back of the couch.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, that’s your choice. I won’t try to convince you,” he states, “I’ll just let my actions speak for themselves in the course of the next few days.”

…What? The next few days? Does he plan to stay? What- no. No no no! This mysterious, albeit helpful stranger (helpful in the way that he shook your persistent ex from your doorstep- through violent means, of course) can’t seriously think you’ll just let him crash at your place after feeding you such a ridiculous lie. He’s not your dog. He’s- he’s not some werewolf that can shapeshift on a whim- those only exist in fairytales and teenage romance novels.

Not in your tiny apartment.

“N-No. You- you’re crazy. You have to leave. You have to! I’ll- I’ll call the cops!”

Not-Sylus seems unfazed. Perhaps even a little offended at your bluffing: the vehemence is there. But the certainty is not.

Sure, the department wasn’t having your stalker drama- but an intrusion you’re actually witnessing like this can’t be easily ignored. If your crappy ex ends up snitching (you doubt it, what with his involvement)- all the more evidence, right?

He all but rolls his eyes, saying like it’s obvious, perhaps even with a mite of amusement, “I’m on your side, kitten. Don’t get all…” he looks you up and down, and you hate the flutter of your heart that’s more than just fearful— it’s self-conscious. “Hissy now.”

You punch out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re some stranger in my house! Look- I appreciate what you did, okay? I really do,” you start. You have to pause in between to take a breath because God knows you mean the words you say- you’re just inwardly afraid that the fix was only quick, not permanent, and with the sudden disappearance of your dog? Good luck protecting yourself now. Fuck, you don’t even know where he went- maybe he booked it out through the door when you were too distracted by the chaos to notice.

But then… why the hell would he leave? He- He’s never done that until now!

You rub your face and stare at him. The fear lends itself to a distant echo the more you realize you’re no longer in immediate danger. The guy is an unwelcome (and flashy, literally) intruder, yes, one your pooch would waste no time in maiming, but he’s not an active threat... You just have to figure out how to get him to leave.

“But my dog is a dog. Not a human. Not… you.” That you even have to say it out loud is ridiculous.

Even if, the longer you stare, the more you begin to believe it.

The scarred skin, the unmistakable, red eyes, and the somewhat bitten ears- his body weathered from what you suspect to be years of tussling in underground fights (evidently: winning them, not without the cost though)…

And that arrogant little air he carries with him, the one that first endeared you so.

Sylus, it all says.

But no. No- this is insane. Months of being stalked and living like a bug under a microscope have made you worse for wear. Impaired your judgment.

He draws you back to the present with his rumbling voice. “Your dog is more than just some animal,” he huffs. “Don’t tell me after all you’ve experienced with the stalker that you’re… frightened of this side of me? Really? Of all things?” His chuckle is as rich as it is short as he shakes his head.

Frightened? No… that becomes a more distant word. You’re more so stunned than anything else right now as the pieces start to fall in alignment with each other.

“Well, how about this,” he offers at your silence, waving his hand. “Let the week pass. By the end of it, you can decide for yourself if I’m real or truly just a figment of your imagination, sweetheart… You…” he lowers his gaze, then. Uncertain, almost.

“You can even decide if you want me to stay.”

He rubs nothing between his fingers, glancing up again with a pointed brow. “Deal?”

And if you say no? If, on the off chance you’re wrong and you kick him right back to the curb- to a sorry life of abandonment and bloody illegal brawls and God knows what else?

Your mouth wavers. “I- I don’t believe it.”

You do believe it. But it’s crazy.

He almost snorts. “You’d better start. But with that pest taken care of now… I think you’ll catch on quite fast,” he grins. “I’m here for you, kitten. Isn’t that what you wanted me for? Protection? Don’t tell me once I serve my use you’ll throw me out?” He laughs. But then he sighs right after, pursing his lips and looking down to his lap where he makes no effort to adjust the thin blanket that covers his nakedness as it nearly slips.

Headstrong. Cocksure. Bored with his surroundings in a way only mature folk really tend to be. The sage advice of that employee flashes in your mind— ‘he’s on the older side, so naturally he’s a bit grumpy, snippy’; really, you shouldn’t gasp at his temperament but with your current situation it’s a little hard not to when he clips out-

“So? Do we have a deal or not?”

And, well, what’s the harm in giving him your couch for one night?

Or several.

✦

A wintry chill pricks up your neck. Along your arms. Down your limbs where they bundle beneath the covers- to the tips of your toes as you respond with a shiver.

It rattles you in tandem with pleasure.

Upon waking, a few things blitz through your mind too fast to catch. For one, you’ve woken before your alarm- meaning you’ll be miserable in the minutes or hours of consciousness before it actually does go off. Secondly, the bed feels heavier.

…As do your bones.

Third— Sylus is not on the couch like he’s been for the past few months. He’s with you, in the comfort of your own bed, and as the wooly blanket slips down your upper half- leaving you to the cold air- it reveals to you a head between your thighs.

Pried open. One held up for a soft kiss while the other is pinned down— both wet. Sticky with- with you.

You gasp. “Sylus-“

You’ve no time to even rub the sleep from your eyes, big weathered hands anchoring you in place, because he lifts his head from his plate for a millisecond when you try to stop him and does something he hasn’t for months.

He snarls.

“Quiet. I’m eating.”

Protective. Territorial. That isn’t your pussy he eats from, lapping fervently at it as if it wasn’t just a number of hours ago you were hand-feeding him steak cubes from the cutting tray— no, it’s his.

He blocks your hand from interfering when it slips beneath the cover. So when that doesn’t work, you attempt to clamp your legs shut (quavering, you realize, on either side of his lupine face). All your efforts- bogged by sleep and the simple fact that he was leagues stronger- are for naught.

‘Good try’, his eyes seem to tease, though, glittering devilishly at you as his tongue flicks your clit. And then, when you hesitantly lie back and rest a hand in his hair- ‘that’s it, kitten.’

“Good girl,” he practically purrs.

He’s got a big appetite. You’ve known that.

Not as much as you do right now.

“Sylus, wait wait wait,” you moan. Life has thrown so much your way, especially in the past year or so, but you never went belly-up for it. You fought and resisted and squared up.

But right now, half of you almost wants to take him lying down- let him take his fill of you and then pin you down to take some more. Let him have his way with you, whatever that may entail.

But you- You have work tomorrow, and- and responsibilities—

“Hush,” he goes, voice muffled, having some preternatural ability to tell just what you’re thinking. He drifts a hand up your belly to splay over the valley of your breast. Your heart thumps beneath his callous palm like a metronome. Like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds or hours before you need to get up and get ready. Start a day in which you leave home, leave Sylus, and spend the rest of it longing to get back.

“Just take the day off.”

Grudgingly, you lie your head back. It’s… not a great idea, but as your rationale clouds, it seems like your best one.

“O-Okay.”

As a hot, long tongue stripes up your pussy and then his other hand, the one he used to comfort you in his own weird way, slinks downward again- the ceiling becomes too boring to bear.

So you glance down.

He’s handsome as all get out. Really, a couple months ago when he first appeared to you as a human, that was all you could think as days passed and you became grossly aware that you were sharing a confined space with a man. That you had been all along— and your prancing around the apartment half-naked was just one of the countless spectacles he’d seen.

He never pounced, though. Never lunged. Never bit you like a dog or hurt you like a man, even when every bit of his crude exterior screamed hazardous. He was a good boy. And you don’t care what form he takes; he took you as you are, didn’t he? When you were scared of your own shadow and a little snippy because of it. He let you hold the leash to his heart and snarled at anything that came too close- protected you against your piece of crap ex without prompting. Turned your fear into a mellow thing.

Warmth prods at your heart. Loosens your legs up where they clench around his head.

That day at the pound turns in your memory like a spindle.

You could’ve lost him. He- He could’ve been gone forever hadn��t you showed.

…But you did show. For the shitty time you’d been having, Sylus was your one silver lining. You were there for each other as a shoulder to lean on and a hand to hold.

Your fingers tug gently on his scalp. Fruity shampoo breathes out from the blanket when you flip it over his head to allow him better access. Nerves eat you from the inside out. You’ve seen the looks, the hungering glances and felt the fingertips that linger in seemingly innocent touches:

Finally experiencing the culmination of his quiet longing is a whole different game, though.

Slurps ring out from your thighs. Your sighing, candied words- spoken in that ridiculous tone reserved only for him- make his ears perk atop his head.

“Good boy,” you breathe. “Y-You’re perfect.”

He rewards your obedience with a finger, thick and delightful. You gasp and arch your back into his hands- or, his one hand- a throaty moan rippling from his open mouth. The several little muscles in his face go lax when you coyly guide him deeper into your cunt and he melts.

“You taste delicious,” he whispers. “Sweet girl. I can-“ a deep, shivering inhale. Not from you- from him. “I can smell how much you want it…. You’re soaked.”

You mewl his name and almost reach full relaxation ‘til you glance back down and, with the covers off, spot where his other hand disappears. He’s naked- not in the boxer briefs and sweatpants you’d bid him goodnight in- and holds his fat, upright cock in his hand.

And his hand is big. Can dwarf every part of you with its hold.

His cock is somehow bigger.

Your heart leaps from your chest as he eyes you. He’s daunting. Every bit intimidating and then some- especially as you realize he won’t be just content with kitten licking your pussy, delicious as it is, and ending the intimate moment right afterward.

Dogs will always take the bowl if you slide them one: and then look to you later for seconds.

Point is- he’s insatiable.

You shiver as raunchy images flash in your brain— rough fingers pinning back your thighs as he rams inside you, setting a relentless pace as he bites and sucks and claims.

In your imagination, he doesn’t pull out when he comes.

…What really takes your breath is the engorged knot at the base of him, though, flushed an impatient red. Fattening by the second.

Cum- not pre- dribbles from the tip. For how long he’s been at this, you don’t know.

“Sylus-!” You mean to shriek it, but you can only manage a whispering scream. “Wait, wait, wait! what do you have in your hand-!“

A grin plays at his lips. Crooked, recalcitrant.

Challenging.

He’s hardly lucid, what with the delicious heat emanating from the slick lips he stuffs a second finger in, to acknowledge your question, so it’s surprising when he pulls back a centimeter to make an answer. Lust grips him tight— the need to fuck and take and mount— but that concerned, cute little bump in your brow is one he wants to smooth.

It’s the least he can do.

“Take a guess,” he sussurates, licking slowly up your inner thigh. Torturing you. “It’ll be in yours soon though, kitten, so get ready.”

Your eyes bulge from your skull.

His response: a low chuckle paired with a moan.

From that point on, even as he suckles expertly at your puffy clit, working you to a sniveling mess as you scream on his fingers, you’re focused entirely on what he’s doing below the blanket. He palms at himself- it’s all he can do to relieve the ache as he wrestles with his fraying self-control- massaging his balls and knot as they throb.

When he withdraws his digits from you, eyes drooping at the cream coating his knuckles before fluttering back at the taste of it— you lie back down and gulp.

Taking work off today is a good idea. You can already think of a few excuses. Not being able to walk properly is one of them. Being unable to get out of bed… Feeling so sore and feverish after he’s fucked you into pyrexia that you can’t even move an inch without being reminded of it.

He straightens. The cover slips off him entirely and he’s tall. Hulking. Painting you in his shadow- but the moonlight brings out the sheer hunger on his face, and you alight with warmth all over again.

You hope he’s primed you. You pray he’s done good to prepare you for what’s to come. Because oh, it’s coming. You know that.

“Now,” he heaves, dragging your legs either side of him as he kneels. You can tell he’s not well off, trying to muster a cocksure grin but failing as he perspires at the temple. “To the good part.”

You frown at that, almost- a pang of hurt weaving through the haze of desire and the smell of your musk on his fingers as he licks them clean again, ever thorough. He notes the flicker of your brow with a thoughtful pause and then a sigh, shaking his head as he grabs your jaw and angles his front down.

He chuckles, and you experience a singular flash of softness when he goes, “Oh, so sensitive… Don’t pout. I thoroughly enjoyed the opening too, kitten.”

You’re shaking. Insides molten with the pure want for him to just- to just do something already. There’s no opportunity to come down from your high because you feel his cock bob against your tummy as he sets himself up, and you burn anew.

Oh, you love him. You really do. He’s endearing in all the places he shouldn’t be. He’s charming and strong and willing to fight for you. So you don’t care if he’s a little old and slow on the uptake when it comes to new tricks- territorial and intimidating. He’s yours.

Eyes half open, you lift your hands to trail from his pecs to his firm, scarred belly. With a hiss, he trembles. Catches your wrists and tuts at you a second later, saying, “It’s better to keep those at your side. Once you get me going, I won’t be easy to stop.”

And you’d be half tempted to tease him some more, you know, but fuck if he isn’t massive. And fuck if you aren’t a little scared for it.

So you clutch the sheets as he drives himself inside with a grunt, and settle below him. You trust he’ll take care of you.

The entrance is, at first, surprisingly smooth, what with the natural lube you’ve provided for him. You let him lift your ass and bend you into a bow-shaped thing so he can hit deeper- and that’s when there’s some turbulence.

Your fingers curl into the cotton fabric. You brace and wait for the sting to subside. When you realize your eyes are clamped shut, though, you open them to see his expression and pall at the sight of him.

He’s gorgeous. Even when he looks like he’s ready to sneeze- brow scrunched and jaw slack as he dragoons himself inside, tormentingly slow- he’s nothing less than charming through your lens. But you’re thankful for the time he gives you to adjust because you need it.

Frankly, if he intends to put his knot inside— and he fucking won’t, there’s just no way— the walls of your pussy need the patience on his end.

For several seconds, Sylus does not breathe. You’re sizzling hot; when he eventually bottoms out, he can’t tell where he starts and you end- all he knows is that it’s gooey and warm and so fucking tight his balls throb. He deliquesces between your thighs. You welcome him, your body like a landing pad.

He supposes, right then, you’ve always been very hospitable.

Sylus curses. “Ngh, you’re tight... Loosen up,” he presses his forehead to yours and hisses out through his teeth. His eyes glitter like rhodolite in the dark. Reverent hands run down your side and clasp your hip. With your slick still coating his lips- tangy sweet, you find, as he presses them to yours- you realize he’s worshipful. The moonlight pouring in the blinds makes his silhouette glow a true blue.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, swiping over your bottom lip with his tongue. “Sweet, and soft. And a very good girl. I’ve got your back. You know that, don’t you?” Then, he draws his hips back and—

Your little bed judders. But the squeak that sounds out is yours as he ruts back inside and your labia brushes with his knot.

He won’t put it inside. He won’t. You’re sure of it. Mutts only do that when they’re mating. Mutts only do that. Sylus is- is so much more than that, and….

“Mmm,” an uncontrollable moan escapes you as he begins to move, like really move, and your eyes roll.

With some difficulty, he continues. “You’re naive. Plucking something like me from its cage. But I admire your bravery, kitten, so— f- uck— let me just show you, hm? How far my loyalty goes?”

Void of words, you nod.

The reindeer-patterned bedsheets aren’t enough. Your hands leave them in favor of Sylus, grasping around his back so tight your fingertips can make out the raised scars there. Planes of muscle flexing with divots with every thrust forward.

Offhandedly, he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your nails dig in by accident, and you say his name, stringing out the syllables in a delightful, dizzying mewl.

The floodgates- they burst open. Something in him gives.

He rams forward, abandoning his restraint altogether as his furry, salt-and-peppered tail whacks the mattress beneath you. That fat swell below his cock teases at your sweltering hole with every pump inside, and Sylus burrows his nose into your sweaty neck to whimper.

You’ve never heard such a noise escape him before. Huffs, grumbles, long, exaggerated sighs he makes whenever he finds a nice spot to lay down (usually on you), as if he pays the rent around here— but never that.

He whines, words strained, “Think you can take my knot? Hah… Nod your head for me, kitten- because I don’t think that I can stop it. I can’t wait any longer. I need you to…” he shudders, “take it.”

One moment you’re nervously glancing down to monitor him- and the next he’s nudging your head back with his nose before crashing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen when he flips you over, presses his chest to your back, and thrusts inside with vigor.

With the new angle, you stretch around him with a mewl, but every bone in your body locks when his hips slam flush to your ass and—

His knot pops inside with a gasp.

Throwing your hands to the strong ones he latches around your midriff, you wail. He clings to you like a limpet, his thighs trembling behind yours as he moans endlessly in your ear. Pointed teeth graze at the nape of your neck. He doesn’t bite- but amidst the warp of pain and a pleasure so intense it gives you vertigo, you distantly realize that he probably wants to.

He holds himself off. Breath hitching as his pelvis claps into you. Euphoria rolls across him, shocks him like a static bolt, every fiber of his being awash with it as his jaw falls open and he succumbs to you.

When he comes, it’s so hard his ears ring.

The walls of your pussy become less hospitable, then, clenching around him so tight as you both cum that for a moment, he can’t even say a word to ease you. He aches inside you- you can feel it. The girth of him twitching as your heat swallows him up with a spasm. His knot takes all thought from your brain. Stuffed inside your poor hole, tumid and veiny.

You feel him coalesce with you, too. Eagerly rutting his seed inside (ensuring it sticks, you realize when he drops a finger to your folds, checking for leakage), releasing rope after rope of hot cum as you go limp and take it.

You offer up a choked mewl when he kisses at your spine, brushing your hair aside just to access your neck where he licks and sucks. You trust Sylus not to get carried away with a bite if he did, to lose out to what he’s been taught.

Evidently, he doesn’t trust himself.

Your fingers dig into his thick, scarred forearm and he sighs behind you- a long, feeble sound. He’s barely able to keep himself draped over you- let alone support your own position beneath him, what with the soup you’ve made of his brain- but he manages.

Silence sprawls out as you attempt to steady your breaths. All that comes in between it is the occasional, wet squelch and the gusting inhales he takes at the column of your neck.

“It… hurts. So good…” he hisses after several beats. Only marginally brought back to reality, you flutter your eyes open and offer a yip back. “You’re doing so well, though… Just-“ He twitches inside you, then, throbbing like a second pulse point, his cock undulating in your walls, greedily taking up all the space.

“Fuck. Stay still, sweet girl,” he grunts, harebrained. His eyes crinkle and close. “I want it all inside. Don’t wanna see so much as a drop escape that perfect, tight pussy. Hah- you hear me?”

“Y-Yes,” you quiver back. Speaking is too difficult, you realize a second later, shoving your open mouth into the pillow as you pant for air.

Yet, you can’t help but ask with a slur, “Sylus- when- when will it be over?”

He moans, right in your ear. Goosebumps run up your naked body- all that clothes you.

“It’s too big,” you cry.

“No,” he quips. “It’s just right.”

As if on cue, your cunt gives another squeeze around him, milking him for all he’s worth. In response, he bows his forehead into the crook your shoulder and jaw make to bury a whine, and your mind spins when you register his balls, hanging fat against your ass, lurching. And oh, you’re spilling, you can feel it, beginning to ooze profusely from your puffy lips even as he keeps it plugged; really, even if Sylus wanted to separate from you (he doesn’t), he couldn’t.

There’s nothing in him that wants the distance. The idea of self-autonomy. The idea of independence. No- he’s all yours.

“We’ll wait it out,” he breathes. Coasting a hand along your belly in an effort to placate you. He knows it can’t be easy for you. But the world— that stupid, irksome ex-boyfriend of yours— needs to understand where your heart belongs. There’s no better way to show that than to demonstrate it first with the body.

And you—

(Bitten by his branding kiss, supple skin covered with the divots of his teeth, your belly full of his veritable seed-)

Well. Nobody should look at you, he decides in his spirit right then, and come to any other conclusion but the one that you’re his.

Unmistakably, irrevocably, his.

“It’ll subside soon enough,” he soothes with a peck to your throat, a surprisingly chaste move. He loops his arms around your waist again and carefully- mindful not to exacerbate the heady ache- maneuvers on his side, pulling your back to his front. He whispers at your ear, “So long as you don’t move or stir me up, we’ll be fine.”

Yet, a set of canines brush at your jugular, and again- there’s that inkling, this time in better clarity, that passes your conscience. You know he wants to bite. To mark. To claim. You know it and have the vague idea of all it entails, yet he… won’t.

With a frown, cursing as you turn ever so slightly and his fat knot shifts inside you, you hazily meet his eyes.

His are practically glowing, laying heavy on you. Charting across your face the moment they make contact, observing every brief flicker of your expression to try and assign a feeling— happiness, he hopes, contentedness— to it. His lashes totter and you burn with shame when a lewd suck rings between your legs, his cock wet all the way down to the slight plush of his abdomen.

You don’t mean to pout, “why won’t you-“

“Not yet, Kitten,” he scolds. Trying to swallow down a pit of self-consciousness in your throat, you murmur, “What, do you not want me?” Sylus huffs as if offended. His eyes drag from your lips to your searching eyes.

“Really, kitten? …What, should I give you an equally stupid answer?”

Oh, you’d tug his tail if you had the luxury of moving right now-

“Of course I want you. Can’t you tell?” He sighs, then, burrowing his nose into your neck almost to hide. His ears droop along his head, donning a relaxed look.

“So. Did you like it..?”

“Y-Yeah…” you murmur, carefully looping a hand back to stroke behind his fuzzy ears. “But, I just… I thought you’d really do it, I thought you’d really tie us together-“

He chuckles richly. “We’re already tied together, kitten,” peppering another kiss below your jaw, licking appreciatively at the sweat that clings to soft skin. “I’ve belonged to you for some time now, haven’t I?”

Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s right.

“I- I guess so. Yeah.”

“So no more whining,” he lifts his chin to sample your lips, this time- his knot still throbbing white-hot and insistently inside you (albeit the ache is lessening)- eyes lidded as he conveys his affections.

“I’ll do it when we’re both ready. When…” He pauses to swallow.

In that short frame of time before he next speaks, you’re drawn to all his scarring. The faded ligature marks around his neck, the seemingly permanent gnashes along his body (which was a touch too lean before you familiarized him with good food). The nip taken from one of the ears sat atop his silvery, mussed locks. In that moment, you don’t see the misshapen, loveless thing he was beaten into— but rather the softness he worked to regain for you.

“When I know it’s manageable.”

If he feels unsure of himself- whether he can remain… civil, for lack of a better word, amidst the fervent haze that a mark would bring about— then you suppose you could wait for a bit longer.

“Okay,” you murmur with a faint, understanding smile, caressing one half of his face dotingly. You tilt your head slightly to plant a firm, benevolent kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“But you’ll always be a good boy to me, okay? I trust you. I told you before- you’re perfect-“ Rather roughly, he noses your head back into the pillow, readjusting his iron hold around you as he grumbles into your hair.

“…Hush. Now close your eyes and go back to bed. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to pull out.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[tinyenha]

Mine soon enough

✎ᝰ cw. professor zayne, tense atmosphere, teacher/student, suggestive, somewhat yearning, very conversational writing, TENSE!

✎ᝰ a/n. i’m inconsistent in everything i post lol. this is written in a very specific way, hopefully it comes across in the tone i want it to.

࣪𖤐

“am i really allowed to be here after office hours like this?”

zayne glances back at you from where he was standing by the tea kettle on his desk and smiles just slightly. “why not? this is my office after all.”

“yeah, but,” you hesitate, “most other professors are really strict on their schedules. i didn’t expect you to be so um… lenient about this.”

a small, almost imperceptible chuckle escapes zayne. “you do know i’m only this lenient on you, right? god i the headache i’d have if i had any other pesky students showing up and bothering me after hours.”

you glance to the side awkwardly and nod. “yeah… i know… it’s just a little strange… being your ‘favorite’ and all…”

“does it make you feel uncomfortable?” zayne’s voice cuts in quickly. he was clicking off the tea kettle now and preparing the two mugs with their respective tea bags.

“n-no… no it doesn’t,” you respond just as fast, “it’s just… not familiar to me. don’t take it personally professor, i only—“

“zayne,” he corrects while pouring the boiling water into the mugs. “zayne is better. you should get over all your formal habits when you’re alone with me. we’re friends, right?”

there’s a beat between you two before you nod.

“yes, friends.”

“well then as long as you’re not uncomfortable and we’re in equal footing here, there should be no problem. you would tell me if there was a problem right?”

another beat.

“yes… i would.”

zayne smiles slightly again. he places the kettle back down and starts properly dipping the teabags into the mugs before throwing them into the small can on the side.

“good. here, come get your tea.”

you move from where you were sat on the leather couch to zayne’s desk. the room was quiet apart from your gentle footsteps and zayne’s spoon swirling. you take your mug, identical to his, and scoop up a few spoonfuls of sugar. your gaze remains on the task below you rather than the man in front of you. he notices this.

“y’know i prefer tea over coffee too. i’ve always hated the bitter taste of coffee beans… even with all the sugar and cream added to it,” zayne hums.

you glance up at him and almost cringe at his attempt at conversation. “yeah, same. i’m not a coffee person…”

zayne looks you up and down with brows furrowed from scrutiny. he picks up his mug and takes a sip, eyes darting to the side in slight annoyance.

“lighten up a bit,” he murmurs. “i invited you to spend time with you. you know how much i enjoy your presence. i'd rather you not feel… weirded out.”

you finally stop stirring and meet zayne’s eyes for the first time. “i’m not… i don’t feel weirded out…”

“you do though,” he rebuttals, “you’re all tense and avoidant. am i doing something? we can take our leave, truly. just tell me.”

a small exhale escapes you after a moment of thought. you shake your head. “no, i’m… like i said im just not used to this. this type of treatment. the… personal hangouts we have in your office. the gifts. the grades. i think… i think we both know things are…”

zayne puts his mug down and mimics your earlier exhale. he moves around the desk and your eyes follow him. right behind you is where he stands, taller and towering, with his chin hovered just over your shoulder.

“i don’t want that to be a problem,” he whispers by your ear. “the hangouts, gifts, grades. i don’t want those to be a problem. i want to give you more, y’know? more… more of everything. are we overstepping lines? sure… but—“

“you are over stepping lines,” you murmur with a slightly shaky voice. the lingering warmth of him behind you was almost trapping you against the desk. “i… i haven’t done anything, you’ve done… you’ve made all the…”

“have you… not liked the attention?” zayne asks almost vulnerably.

“i never said that…”

“then is there an issue? you’re right, i’m overstepping lines, not you. if we got into some heat, i’d take the responsibility. does that mean something to you?” in the moments you hesitate to answer, zayne’s arm wraps around your waist and gently pulls you closer to an embrace. “i want it to mean something to you. what do i have to do?” he continues.

you wet your lips and search the desk below you for answers your mouth couldn’t form. you weren’t sure how long had passed before zayne backed off, but once he did, you quickly turn around to face him. he steps away with his arms up innocently, a look of shame on him.

“i’m sorry, im making you uncomfortable. im not sure what im doing.”

with your eyes avoiding each other, a long silence ensues between the both of you—charged with emotion and uncertainty.

“your tea is going to get cold, professor.”

zayne knits his brows together and trails his gaze slowly across the room, and then on you, and then on the tea.

“right.”

he steps back to his side of the desk and takes his still warm tea and avoids your presence while drinking. whether he wanted you here anymore or not, it was unclear. he notices your rogue, discarded mug of tea on the desk. barely touched and getting colder by the second. maybe it looked like regret.

your back was turned to him and facing the rest of the room, but you were still so close to the desk. unmoving. what was going through your mind, that was also unclear.

slowly, you put down your arms that were crossed in a defensive position, and glance down at the desk. zayne was no longer sipping his tea. you could only assume we was standing as silently and awkwardly as you were.

without much thought, you step back and sit on the desk, back still to zayne.

“my face is turned away, if it makes you feel any less guilty,” you whisper.

zayne’s eyes widen slightly. he looks over your body that was perched up on his desk. what a sight. “don’t say that like i’m some sort of… some sort of…”

“i’m not… insinuating anything, professor… or i guess ‘zayne’. i’m simply saying that, in the situation we’re in right now, guilt is normal to feel. but that… curiosity is too. so… i’m looking away.”

more tense silence.

“are you curious too?” zayne asks with a voice that’s barely there.

you don’t answer for a few moments.

“i’m a woman, zayne,” you murmur. “i can make my own decisions. we’re not too far off in age, yknow. we think similarly… i hope.”

amidst the quiet of the room, zayne walks closer to the desk. he stares right into your back and all of the crumpled fabric lines from your shirt.

“you’re a woman,” zayne whispers while reaching out and ghostly tracing a simple line over your shoulder blade. “and i’m a man. it works like that, doesn’t it? this is natural… isn’t it?”

you swallow. the very faint sensation of zayne’s fingertip makes you tense.

“y-yeah…”

zayne’s finger goes down to your mid back. here he feels you arch away instinctively, but still not rejecting him. he grows bolder with his touch, insisting a bit more with his finger tip until he’s tracing letters.

letters Z through E of his name. ZAYNE was on you.

“my attraction to you is natural, isn’t it?” he whispers. he reaches for the top hem of your shirt and then parts your hair from your neck, exposing your nape. with the pad of his thumb, he rubs there gently. the sensations on your skin were hair-raising.

“i… it is.”

“then does it come naturally to you too?”

you shudder softly as you feel more of zayne’s fingers rake over your skin. he abandons your neck, moving downward again until he was touching the small of your back.

“please, answer me.”

there’s more silence from you, but you break it with a whisper. “my face gives all the answers, but i already told you i’m not letting you look at me.”

“then how will i know how you feel about me too?”

no answer.

zayne looks down at where his hand is on your back and moves it lower to the bottom hem of your shirt. gently, he lifts it—so slow that a million thoughts came and passed in those long seconds.

at the top of your back, he scrunches up your shirt and admires the lines and curves of your skin.

“are you okay?”

“i’m fine.”

zayne rests his head against your back and closes his eyes. he felt stressed but also relieved. this far… he’s gotten this far…

“are you sure you’re okay?” he asks a little bit more desperately this time. his voice and breath tickled your skin a bit. “how am i supposed to know when i can’t even face you?”

you tilt your head back to stare up at the ceiling. the lights should be dimmer, you thought.

“i’m okay,” you whisper. “i don’t feel fear, i don’t feel nervous, i don’t feel anything. can you… will you make me feel something?”

zayne’s eyes fluttered open slightly. he turns his head back to the expanse of your smooth back and rubs his lips together. oh your words…

“i’ll become a man that’ll be capable of making you feel anything you want.”

the hands that were rested by your side went up to your upper mid back and touched the rough feel of your bra clip. with slight hesitation, zayne’s delicate fingers undo the clip and let it pull away to reveal your fully bare back. his eyes flutter even more now.

the moles and freckles of your usually hidden skin was an experience to his eyes.

“i’ll become a man so good that you won’t have to hide your face away in shame. after all, it’s natural, isn’t it?”

cool lips make contact to your back making you perk up instantly. the kisses were spread out, small in sound and in touch, and soon warm. zayne’s free hands not only steady you by the hips but also anchor himself through each press of his lips.

“i want you,” his voice rumbles against your skin

“i know,” you respond.

“after graduation?”

“it’ll still be scandalous.”

“it’ll be scandalous regardless. who has to know?”

you bite your lip. “is it just a lustful thing, professor?”

your words make zayne stop his affections and stand straight.

“never,” he whispers. “have i… made you feel that way?”

swallow.

“no… no you haven’t, i’m not lying either. but… i mean dates and stuff, it’s all so public. we’d get noticed immediately, it’d be risky. but… everything else, that’s done privately. so i’m just wondering… how… or where… or what…”

zayne lets out a small humorless laugh. “you’ll be mine soon enough, without all those worries meaning. i get scared too, yknow? but i’m scared enough for the both of us, so don’t… doubt me.”

you smile a little, unsure of what exactly is humorous. “don’t doubt your ability to keep me a secret, you mean.”

“don’t put it like that, you have such a harsh way of saying things,” zayne exhales.

“right, right, i’m sorry.”

you reach back for his hands and gently pull him forward so that his arms crossed over your stomach.

“but that’s what i am, a secret. you’re a secret too. just… become a man capable of taking care of me, secret or not.”

zayne tightens his grip around you just slightly.

“i’m your professor,” he whispers with his forehead against the back of your cranium, “and if nothing else, my job is to you guide you. you’ll be mine soon enough.”

he presses one kiss to your hair.

“you will.”

࣪𖤐

[tinyenha]

"Trial Period" (NSFW) LADS men

Dipper's Delusions (But Long) (It's split into two parts so keep reading for resolutions!) Tags: NSFW (MDNI), AFAB reader, pure filth. Read at your own discretion, ANGST, they act mean, mentions of stalking, toxic behaviors, messy relationship dynamics, fluff ending, break ups/makeup

Intro: This break up was NOT mutual. He made that known in every possible way. But, you were a woman riddled with pride, often stopping you from making things right until it was too late. The day was so vivid in your memories that you tried anything to get it out. The soft television static as you stared at his devastated expression. It was like you somehow confirmed that his worse nightmare WAS true... he truly was unlovable. You never seen him crumble until that night. You had to manually stop every muscle in your body to rush to his aid. The way he was hunched forward sobbing into the carpet. Those eyes that never begged for anything but you. You felt your mistake at that moment. But, you couldn't get yourself to make it right.

You want to know what made it even worse? It wasn't his hoarse voice sobbing for you to stop packing your things. It wasn't him telling you that you were all he had, no... none of that. It was when you ripped your jacket off the hanger and saw something fall from your harsh movement. He didn't even notice that you saw it. Not with how hysterical he was. The small jewelry box. Fuck. How, you hated yourself when you realized... he wanted to propose.

It's been months. You tried so hard to maintain your pride. But, when the spring flowers wilted... when the air got colder... you knew. You were at fault. You broke up over something that could've been an honest conversation. You found yourself going on so many dates to get your mind off of it. But, you couldn't even get yourself to feel real emotions with these bachelors. You were picking at the steak, listening to the ramblings of a coworker who went on and on about how many wanderers he's killed. Your mind was elsewhere... more like it was thinking about a timeline that didn't exist anymore. It was now fall. You'd probably be looking at venues with him. He'd kiss your temples as you skimmed through wedding catalogs. Knowing yourself... you'd probably have to close his eyes as you looked for wedding dresses. Now you're here, biting into cold steak.

You felt eyes on you constantly. It was not unnerving for one reason or another. You knew who that gaze belonged to. You wanted nothing more to rush to him and apologize. But, when you did... you were met with absolute and unadulterated rage. He was crumbling and YOU were out giving affection to other people. Trying to start a new life that was supposed to be HIS. So... started the "trial period". An agreement made by you. Let him take his anger out. Become the outlet for his hostile emotions. In return, whenever he's ready... you can settle on whether or not he wanted to continue the relationship.

Rafayel: (1) His usual bubbly and dramatic behavior was long gone. He was stoic and almost brooding. Moving your hand every time you tried to intertwine your fingers with his. It's fine. You'll stick to the agreement. You pushed all your spit to the front of you mouth, dispensing it to his length. Usually, this would have his body shivering. Making him look at you with a soft blush and a plea to continue. But, when you looked up... you saw him expressionless. His fingers threaded through your hair, grabbing a handful towards the base of your skull. Your eyes widened as your air got cut off by him using you like a toy. Not even a pant was heard from him. "Did you do this with everyone you went on a date with too?" You shook your head as you shut your eyes tightly. "Say it... use your words". You tried to talk but he'd push farther and farther into your inviting mouth. "Come on... oh right, you can't."

(2) You were draped over Rafayel's lap as he painted. Shivering slightly as you not even a cloth adorned your skin. He dragged the jade color on the canvas as his other hand occupied itself pressing the tip of another paintbrush on your sensitive bud. Your hips lifted a bit only for him to smack your ass so hard you flopped back down. He continued until you felt the paintbrush entering you. "Keep it there. If it so much as moves... our contract ends." His thumb rubs soft circles on your bud as you clawed at the couch. His large hand gave yours a harsh smack as well, reminding you the amount his couch costed. "Did I give you permission to destroy my couch? No? So keep your hands forward." You toes circled as he rubbed you just the way you liked. But, you had to work overtime to tell your pussy not to clench or pulse. There was no way you'd lose this chance.

(3) You had sex with Rafayel when he was in his lemurian form before. But, it was gentle and understanding of your mortal body. He would rock into you as your hand pumped his second length. That wasn't the case at the moment. His webbed hands covered your mouth as you laid on top of your ripped clothes on the sand. His tail swishing so violently that it kept splashing the shallow sea water onto your face and body. Your nails dug on his back so hard as he rocked into both your holes. The force and pace was inhuman. Yet, you didn't care. Not right now. He was finally making noises. Finally moaning your name desperately. His cocks rubbing against each other from the gummy layer separating both your holes. You felt your face getting splashed more and more with the water, making it hard for you to breathe. It somehow made it even more pleasurable. "F-fuck... stop fucking moving. I'm going to cum soon. Hold your breath until then. It won't be long."

Xavier: (1) Oh... how pissed he was. He opted for silent treatment. He laid on his back before bed. You only wore panties and a tank top. He made you straddle his naked lap. "I'm going to bed. Grind on it until I'm awake. Don't stop." He was out like a light. Holding on to your hip gently. You pushed the silk fabric to the side as you slid back and forth on his length. The edge of his tip rubbing deliciously on your clit. This would be fine... amazing actually. Until it was hours in and he would NOT wake up. Your body shaking and trembling. But, you knew the moment you stopped he'd wake up and end the contract. He started to stir awake after another two hours. When he rubbed his eyes you finally stopped moving. Your cheek placed on his chest as you panted. He moved your face off him, grabbing his length to press against your anticipating hole. Pushing the tip in only to pull it back with a pop."You haven't got your fill? What a greedy thing."

(2) You should've known there was more to it when he asked you to the park. Or the second message ordering you to wear a skirt and nothing else underneath. You really should've known. Public sex wasn't really in his alley. He didn't like the idea of anyone else seeing you. But, since you went on those dates... you dressed up for them... you wanted to be seen, huh? Now here you were. Reduced to a babbling, begging, sobbing mess. People frequently passed by in the path you were being ravaged at. He had you in reverse cowgirl. Making you look at people getting closer and closer, all while being covered by your body. His hips jerking into you so hard that you couldn't stop moaning. His balls slapping your clit every single time making your tits bounce violently. "Oh... look. Someone's getting closer." The thrusts sped up. You slapped at his arm to get him to slow down at least. Anything. But, he leans to your ear. A promise and a threat laced deliciously into one. "Don't. The pretty contract said I could do whatever I please."

(3) You saw his newest bank statement going to glow in the dark markers. Not really knowing what his intentions were with it. But, you paid it absolutely no mind. Until the bedroom is pitch black and you knew exactly what he had in store for you. His name was written all over your body as if he was claiming you in the most humiliating way possible. Your cheeks had his name written on it, one on each tit, the valley of your breasts, your ass, tiny little 'Xavier's scribbled on each fold. He used his evol to light the room up, setting the ink. "No one will see this, don't worry... unless there is a power outage". Cheeky bastard. His lips latched on to your neck. Fucking into your swollen puffy pussy as his pace never relented. Not when he could see his name laying ownership on every inch of your skin. Chuckling to himself as you started to get close to your orgasm. "Who owns this pussy? Tell me." His name came out of your lips as a broken squeal. "No. Say it again. Every syllable." This kept happening over and over again. "Say my name once more... promise it's the last time". You both knew it wouldn't be.

Zayne: (1) You were getting a "check-up". So normal right? Yeah it's also normal that he spread your folds with his pointer and ring finger, the middle finger circling your entrance. "Any sexual activity in the last couple of months?" There was something... borderline sinister laced in his tone. The pad of his finger tapped at your entrance, a hint to respond quickly. You shook your head. The smirk on his face did NOT go unnoticed. His middle and ring finger inserting inside you. "Good girl." Even with the praise... you still felt tension from him. Your legs trembling on the hospital bed as he pushed his fingers out and in with the loudest squelching sounds. He used his evol on his stethoscope. Rubbing the even cooler metal on your nipples. Seeing how beautifully they hardened and peaked. All while his other hand worked on pumping in and out of you. He kissed your belly softly. "I'm going to listen to your heart for any... abnormalities." His stethoscope kept rubbing on your nipples, no where near your heart.

(2) You were his plus one to a medical gala. Dressed in a backless, long sleeved black dress. His hand stayed on the soft arch of your back. It was a good night... or it was in your mind. You spoke to the male doctors a little too much, in Zayne's eyes. Smiled too politely. Which he didn't tell you he had a problem with, more like... he showed you he had a problem with it. His hand escorting you quickly to his car. Your hand going to open the passenger door but he pushed you to the backseat. Now, that's how you got into this position. Your heel was almost falling off your foot as he rammed into you. The back of his car was cramped for both of you. The car was fogged up, rocking violently, everything just a clear show of what was going on inside. His hand covering your clit. Not letting you touch yourself as he fucked you into oblivion. "You don't get to cum until I do". He was nothing but a patient man. He would last hours if it meant pulling multiple orgasms from you. "I feel you tightening up. Keep it in."

(3) You went to pick him up from the bar. He wasn't one to drink, obviously. But, this was the first time in many years he's even agreed to go with his colleagues. He was on you like a savage animal on the dining table. Setting you on the middle of it. Clawing at your clothes as he crawled towards you. His large body covering yours. His hands cradled your head as he spoke roughly in your ear. "Missed this? Huh? To think... those people were so close to you." Your words came out like pants. His hand gripped your cheeks hard. "Speak.. brat." You clawed at his arms. The pleasure was so overwhelming. "Get your hands off me. Compose yourself and respond to what I said to you. NOW". Yes, sir.

Sylus: (1) You struck his pride. So, be prepared to face those consequences. One on your tits was in his mouth as he fucked into you so slowly. He bit on the soft squishy flesh. Leaving the same bite marks he left on your other breast. You didn't know what to beg for anymore. Beg for him to stop biting so hard? Or beg him to speed up? You wrapped your arms around his neck. Your eyes saying everything you wanted to say. Usually he'd accommodate, he'd smile at you and do whatever for your pleasure. But, he just moved his teeth to your shoulder. Then, to your collarbones. By the end you were littered with bite marks and desperate because he kept edging you towards an orgasm only to deny you. Motioning for you to leave his room even though he didn't cum either. "Leave. I'm tired."

(2) You were upside down. Your vision blurring every time his length pushes into the back of your throat. His evol kept you flush against his body face as he licked soft and slow swipes of your pussy. It seemed he was getting off on this. Going so desperately slow that you felt like it was torture. Your hands were tied behind your back, clawing at the manipulated energy of his evol. He groaned into your pussy as he rubbed the tip into the back of your throat again. His hands snaking to your head to keep his length deep in your mouth, grinding until you were forced to swallow all he had to give you. Giving your neglected bud a soft lick, making you crash to the edge quickly. He knew your body so well, made it so it was one of the most unsatisfying orgasms of your life. He chuckled into your folds, "what's the groan for?" You tried to speak even if his soft cock was in your mouth, but, you were cut off by him sucking on your bud. Eating you like a man starved. You whined. The sound was a warning for what was to cum. He pulled back when you gushed on his face, a gurgled sob escaping your throat. "Again. Give me ten more. I don't care how long it takes."

(3) His room had a massive mirror. You thought it was to admire himself or something. Only to find out he bought it the day after you both were intimate the first time. Now, he was using it to his advantage. His hands cupped your face forward as he pounded you from behind. His abs rubbing against your back as he smiled at you through the mirror. You head leaned forward, nuzzling into the black satin sheets only for him to use force your gaze back towards the mirror. "Kitten, I told you not to stop looking at the mirror". It was too much. He looked like a greek god with how his sweat dampened his hair, how it trickled down his eyebrow, how it glistened his abs. "You're tightening up, doll. Do you like this?"

Caleb: (1) His sweet girl is gone in his eyes. The moment he saw you on all those dates, it seemed like you faded away. But, lucky you... he was MORE than willing to bring you back. To show you who you belonged to. He wasn't acting like Caleb. No, absolutely not. He was Colonel Caleb. He would put you through this trial run and break you down until you knew better. His mechanical hand kept vibrating on your nub as his evol pinned you to the bed. You shrieked as you felt it heating up so much to the point it was an unbearable heat. "Nuh uh pips... Five more seconds." Your eyes were welling with tears. The pleasure and the uncomfortable burn was making you see stars and come back to in seconds. "One..." he kept pressing harder on your poor abused nub. "Two." You were squealing at this point. Wanting to cum so badly but the burn was making you move your hips away. "Three." He moved. The burn replaced with an ache and disappointment of not having an orgasm.

(2) You were sitting in the co-pilot seat as Caleb flew you personally. It should be a great honor to be here. To be flown by Colonel Caleb personally like he was your butler. Until he put it into autopilot. Pulling you on to his lap. Slipping his hard length into your greedy hole. "Make me cum in ten minutes. Go on. I'm not going to help you". Your hands were placed on his toned thighs as you rode him. His mouth latched on your tit. You didn't know if he was doing everything on purpose or not. Usually at the five minute mark he was pulling the condom off to fill you up properly. But, now it was eight minutes and nothing. Not even a drop of cum. You felt the aircraft drop. Hurdling to the earth. You looked at Caleb in panic. "Two minutes... you have two minutes for me to fix this." You barley made it on time. Your heart racing as he landed safely. Your womb full of his cum.

(3) Days like this you realized how strong Caleb was. He lifted you up in a full nelson position whilst keeping your crotchless panties on. Fucking into you hard as his evol kept you up. He used the time his hands were free to grab your phone. Easily getting in and going to your contacts. One by one he was deleting every single man in your contact list. "Did you go on a date with him? Hmm?" You had to be honest. Giving him a meek nod. He growled in your ear. Slamming into you harder as he blocked the number. "Going on dates... all while soaking my cock? Didn't take you for a slut, pips... don't worry. I'll make her pay the consequences." He rubbed your bud with his mechanical fingers. He smiled at the mess. His fingers grazing the fabric of your panties. "You'll give me this pair when I'm done with you." Your liquids sprayed all over the furniture. Gasping for air as he chuckled. "You're a big girl... you'll clean your filth up later."

FINAL DAY OF CONTRACT: Winter was finishing up. The promise of spring showing with how the blossoms were scattered on the streets. You had your hands deep into your pockets. Fingers shaking slightly with anticipation as you waited for him to say something, anything. He opened his mouth to speak but just as quickly shut it closed again. You didn't know why... but, you felt you needed to start the conversation. "I... I saw the engagement ring". You saw the way his shoulders shook. As if he wanted to cry or maybe he was just riddled with stress. His hands went into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the box. The same cut, style and stone you wanted. Something so uniquely you. A promise that, no matter what, he'd always adore you.

Rafayel (pt.2): "My beloved bride... let's go home". You didn't need further coaxing. Smiling to yourself as you placed your things back into his house. He took you to the ocean, the waves hitting the shore so melodically that it almost lulled you to sleep. He smiled as he put down the blanket for a picnic, his gaze focused on the ring on your pretty finger. He kissed your temples as he whispered praises and confessions of love. "I love your eyes... kiss... your nose... kiss... your lips..." He pulled you to his lap. "Let me show you how much I love ALL of you."

Your bodies moved together like a beautiful dance. Your breasts pressed tightly on to his chest as he rocked up into you. "I love you..." "I love you..." "A-ah... I love you". You loved when he was like this. Cheeks and ears tinted in a rosy blush. How his eyes shut closed and he nibbles at his lower lip. He held you so close to him, his fingers rubbing your nub. "Come on... feel good on me. Please". You finally let go. The ecstasy and romance making it so overwhelmingly good. Especially how your walls were painted by his warm liquid love.

Xavier (pt.2): "My light... you're all I'll ever want." You both walked around Linkon. It was an unspoken thing between you two, walking aimlessly to expend the night as much as possible. He kept making excuses to look at your ring, even if he was the one who bought it. "Oh such a pretty ring madam... who got this for you?" He teased you all night. How beautifully your prince smiled as the sun started to set. His fingers intertwined with yours. Kissing your knuckles as you both headed home.

His kisses got more and more heated. Your apartment smelt just like you. You chest pressed against the wall, your leg propped up with his hand as he thrusted into you. "Sorry... I'll make it up to you. Promise." He groaned into your ear. You could feel his balls tense as he was reaching his peak. "S-shit... you feel so good.." You both flew off the edge. He pulled out a bit to spray the rest of his cum on your folds.

Zayne (pt.2): "My love... I'll always make time for you." He took you to a small bakery he found after the breakup. His smile never falling as he held on to your hand. The smell of croissants, cupcakes, chocolate, macaroons filling your nose. Warm rich hot chocolate filling your throat. He took your hand as he got his phone out, snapping a picture of your ring alongside the cute atmosphere of the bakery. "Help me with a caption, dear?"

He pants into your neck. His dick rubbing between your folds. The slit of his tip rubbing precum on your little nub. He kissed your neck as he groaned. "Fuck... I'm not even inside you yet and you feel this good." His thrusts sped up as he drizzled his cum on your folds. Grunting before he pushes his sensitive dick into your pussy. "I got one more... cum with me baby." You didn't even need to be told twice. His whimpering mess made you closer and closer to your orgasm.

Sylus (pt.2): "Kitten... what a beautiful art piece you are". When you got home everything was set up beautifully. Luke, Kieran and even Mephisto in on it. You could see the gold paint on Mephisto's beak and Luke & Kieran's hands. The dining table had an array of food scattered throughout. Sylus led you to your seat, seeing your name etched in gold on the side of it. Giving you a permanent seat in his dining table. He kissed your finger, right on the ring he got you. "Now... I'd get to see you every afternoon for dinner."

He made love to passionately. Cradling your head as he rocked gently into you. "There you go, angel. You feel so good, pure heaven." He kissed your face lovingly. Rocking a bit faster to get deeper inside you. Your legs shook gently as they wrapped around his waist. He nuzzled his cheek into yours. "Cum with me... please angel." You nodded as your walls tightened around his length, a clear sign you were there. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear as you both came together. His cum dripping out of you.

Caleb (pt.2): "Pipsqueak... I've been waiting for so long to call you my wife." He brought you back to his home in Skyhaven. Leading you to your shared room as he got a box from the closet. Handing you a photo album he was preparing for you. "It has all our memories... and some letters I was writing." You looked at your pictures from your childhood, high school years, when you'd visit each other during college. But, you saw the letters he made you. The poems and sonnets of him even as a young boy... all saying he'd marry you one day.

Your hands laid on his chest as you rode him gently. You panted and moaned as he stared up at you with those big puppy dog eyes. "Y-yes... you know my body so well..." You saw his muscles flex and twitch, so you kissed his temple. Seeing him bite his lip so hard you could've sworn he'd bleed. "I can't... fuck.. not until you do." You came hard on his length. Seeing his head roll back as he came inside you over and over again. Seeing the warm liquid spill out and coat your thighs.

Dipper's notes: It's a long one. Thanks for reading!

[tinyenha]

SnowCrow

Warning, this post includes: smut, threesome (MxMxF), oral (both Zayne and reader receiving), Sylus brat taming his favorite hunter and favorite surgeon, teasing, and dirty talk.

Maybe I’m ovulating but I cannot stop thinking about how perfect the SnowCrow x Reader dynamic would be.

Banner from @cafekitsune <3

Sylus has come to adore the both of you very much, finding Zayne to be a sweet black cat while you are his spunky and unpredictable orange. You both bring beautiful additions to his life, lighting up his dreary nights.

Sylus is rather addicted to watching you and Zayne interact, finding the surgeon’s soft smiles and sparkling eyes utterly adorable. Your shared laughter and soft touches tug at his heart. He used to grimace at the idea of sharing you, but now he realizes there is no sharing involved. Somehow, Zayne has won his heart too.

All three of you have quite the bad habit of staying up late, sometimes for work, sometimes due to overtime, and sometimes due to insomnia.

Sylus has always thrived at night, so he doesn’t mind the company. But when both of you are bleary eyed and have dark circles beginning to form, the leader of Onychinus takes it upon himself to coddle the two of you until you’re in his bed, under his covers, sound asleep.

His brave little hunter and his smart little surgeon.

Though, it’s not always that easy. Sylus thought you were quite stubborn, but he didn’t realize how stubborn you could be when Zayne was right there with you.

“I thought you were more mature, Zayne.”

But there is a flash of something in the surgeon’s tired eyes that makes Sylus nearly choke on his saliva. Crimson eyes find yours next, innocent written all over your face but that similar glimmer is residing in your eyes too.

You’re both daring to challenge him. How cute.

Zayne’s laptop and your phone are yanked from your hands by a nearly invisible force. Sylus’ evol snatching both and placing them high up on a shelf neither your nor Zayne would be able to reach without help.

“I don’t think you two understood me the first time around.” He starts slowly, stalking towards where the two of you were snuggled up on the couch. “It wasn’t a choice when I said you two need to go to bed.”

But the air is charged with something else now, effectively snapping you and Zayne out of the half-awake trances you had been in seconds prior. “I don’t wanna.” You start first, eyes holding Sylus’ despite your heart beginning to pound.

“Me neither, my report was nearly done.”

You shift your position when you feel Zayne cross his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t asking.” Sylus’ tone dropped an octave, sending heat straight down your spine. Judging by the way Zayne tensed, he felt the same.

“You’re both going to bed, even if I have to tie you down.” You felt it then, the ghost of his evol wrapping around your body, daring either of you to disobey.

Before your mouth could open to retort, you were being yanked off the couch and tossed over Sylus’ shoulder.

“H-hey!” You thrash a little, wiggling your hair from your face to look down and see Sylus had Zayne under his other arm. He was holding both of you as if your combined weight was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

“Sylus-“ Zayne’s tone was wary, but his cheeks were burning a shade of a crimson.

“Hey this, Sylus nothing, you’re both going to bed.”

You were both being tossed onto the mattress before you could even process what was happening, Zayne landing on his stomach while you bounced on your ass.

“Sylus c’mo—hmph!” Your words were cut short, the towering man was crushing you beneath his weight, lips melding to your own. You barely recognized the sound of Zayne’s sharp inhale over the muffled groan from Sylus.

“Quit putting up a fight, you two are such brats.” You were breathless when he pulled away, lips swollen from the intensity of his kiss and slightly dazed.

Long fingers threaded through raven locks, yanking Zayne’s head closer to deliver another devastating kiss.

“I won’t be satisfied until the two of you are knocked out.” Sylus started as he pulled away, leaving Zayne equally as dazed. “I don’t care what I have to do to achieve it.”

Oh you were both fucked… literally.

It was a flurry of movements, and by the time you could think straight, you were naked. “How is this—“ Zayne was equally undressed, cock standing at attention and twitching. “I only have one mouth.” Sylus states plainly, still fully dressed and taking note of your dripping cunt.

“So I’ll just have to be creative. Two brats don’t deserve anything more than my tongue.”

Sylus’ eyes shift between the two of you. “Zayne, lay on your back. Kitten, lay on top of him, chest to chest.” For once, neither of you give him any trouble. Too curious and needy to know what was coming next.

You did as you were told, flashing Zayne a look. The surgeon only smiled back, hands coming up to cup your cheeks and place a sweet kiss on your lips.

Sylus’ hands found your hips, tugging at them and separating the two of you. “You can do wherever you please to each other, just let me get this right.

You glance over your shoulder, fingers toying with Zayne’s earlobe. A habit Sylus had noticed, one the doctor didn’t seem to mind. “What are you-“ he cut you off again, watching in amusement as your words died off.

Instinctively, Zayne’s hands shot down to your hips, a subtle groan vibrating his chest. His aching cock was between your spread thighs, twitching against your cunt.

“Like I said, I only have one mouth and two birds to kill. I have to be creative and efficient… can’t have the two of you staying awake much longer.” Sylus is dipping down, just out of your view. Now, you have to rely on feeling.

“Sylus this—“ but Zayne’s mouth fell open as your grip on his earlobe pinched. Sylus flattened his tongue against Zayne’s cock, dragging it upwards. You shivered at the warmth, not quite reaching your cunt but enough to have your hips wiggling in response. You wanted attention too.

“Use him, baby. Grind yourself against him, I’ll keep him steady.” You whimper, eyes flashing towards Zayne’s. He’s already dazed, pupils blown wide as he glances down at your breasts squished to his chest. “Be a good girl, listen.”

You’re a fucking goner, the second Zayne gives you his permission your hips begin to drag up and down his length, nearly timing it with Sylus’ tongue.

Every time his head catches on your clit, you’re mewling, burying your face in his chest and nearly sobbing and pleasure ebbs through your veins. Between Sylus’ saliva, Zayne’s precum, and your own arousal, it’s a slick mess.

“Could have…” another lick “…had so much more…” there’s a kiss on the back of your thigh, then your ass. “… had you two not been…” he’s panting, grabbing your hips to kiss your sloppy cunt and leave Zayne twitching on the brink.

“… such fucking brats.”

You whine as he spits, the glob of saliva sliding down your cunt and landing on Zayne’s cock. Sylus let’s go of your hips, letting you continue your erratic humping.

“Sylus please…!” Zayne humps upwards gliding along your cunt and nearly snagging on your entrance. He knows Sylus won’t let him have you, as badly as he wants to slip inside and fuck you stupid… maybe even while Sylus fucks him stupid at the same time.

“Be a good boy, doctor Zayne.” You’re both moaning at that, your orgasm just out of your reach as Zayne twitches and pathetically spurts on Sylus’s tongue and your cunt.

“Coming without my permission? Guess it can’t be helped.” Sylus sighs, licking his lips and pushing upwards to grab your ass. “Still gotta make our princess cum, don’t tell me you’re too sleepy to help.”

One look at Zayne and you knew he was a goner, even as Sylus forced your hips upwards and pressed you further into Zayne. His hands were snaking under you, finding your puffy clit and rubbing as fast as his hand would allow.

“Atta boy, Zayne.” Sylus purred, mouth descending on your cunt and fucking you on his tongue. The orgasm you had been so close to obtaining finally came crashing down on you, a weak cry tumbling out of your lips.

The exhaustion you and zayne had been fighting hit the two of you at the same time. Bodies going limp and breathing slowly steadying as Sylus admired his messy handy work. Cum and saliva ruining you both.

“Sweet dreams, you two.”