#Whats with the bus theme actually?

[air--so--sweet]

How to Speedrun Bury Your Gays aka That Time Legion Killed All Its Queer Characters In 20 Minutes

Well, 20 minutes 30 seconds to be exact...

First up at the episode's beginning, we have Daniel, who doesn't actually die, but I'd argue having your memory erased with no possibility of regaining it is comparable to death.

But hey he was a two dimensional character who existed solely to have effects on his husband, Clark's, storylines, firstly to humanise him when Daniel was introduced in Chapter 8 and then to add weight to Clark and David's exchange in this episode, Chapter 24. Oh and he also appeared in chapter 20 to remind us he existed since he hadn't been seen or spoken about once since he first appeared. So, not a great loss, right? I didn't even know his name, I had to google it for this post. Not a big deal when he was practically created to die...wait...

So at the 3 minutes 48 seconds mark our first gay has been buried. Record time and we've barely broken a sweat.

Next up we have Lenny and this one is trickier. She's a more developed character with her own agency and who has purpose beyond being a glorified prop. That purpose has been a bit harder to nail down this season but she had some growth in the last episode, choosing to feel the loss of her daughter rather than let David take the pain away or suppressing it with drugs (which feels like it would have been her MO pre David). It also seems she's reached her limit and is no longer willing to blindly follow David and allow him to- oh no, never mind, she's stabbed herself in the neck. I guess it kind of fits with her motivations, since she states to David that he can't have her, prior to stabbing herself. Would it have been more interesting and satisfying narratively if she chose to work with Division 3 to take David down instead? Or decided to try get revenge on Farouk for what he did to her on her own terms, which would also have the benefit of at someone finally trying to hold Farouk accountable for the monstrous things he did? Or even just have Lenny decide she doesn't have a horse in this race since she was drafted against her will and she's going to ride of into the sunset to do her own thing? (this is one hell of a mixed metaphor, I impress myself) Sure...but here she gets to have her last words be a call back to a memory she shared with David...except actually that was a false memory altered by Farouk to hide his presence in David's mind and he and Lenny never had a 'Why is it blue?' exchange in real life nor did she witness said false memory. Love the writer's cared enough about her arc to remember this accurately. And so dies maybe the best role Aubrey Plaza has ever had.

We've now hit the 10:42 mark so slowing down but still keeping a decent pace (sidenote: I remembered Lenny's girlfriend Salmon when writing this, a character who was maybe even less developed than Daniel, and wondered what happened her. We saw her giving birth in the previous episode and then she wasn't present for the rest of her daughter's abridged life courtesy of the time eaters which...actually implies she died in childbirth which is incredibly grim...I don't think it was an intentional implication but it's there nonetheless).

And last, but certainly not least we have Mr Clark DeBussy. Did I know his surname without googling it? Absolutely not. Have the writers ever figured out how to use his character post season one? Absolutely not. Though I did enjoy his one girl talk scene over tea with Syd.

To be fair, I do quite enjoy the scene leading up to his death. While a manufactured scenario, the home movies he's watching of his husband and son do add a melancholy to this scene and I love the visual when he turns to face David that leads to those images being projected onto his face. Teamed with his resigned yet angry delivery of 'I should have killed you the first time we met', David's sad smile as he agrees and Jeff Russo's always beautiful score it is just perfect. And then Clark is grabbed by one of David's cult members and thrown out the air lock and, as we hit 20 minutes and 30 seconds, our final gay is buried...well floating in the depths of space but same thing. There's excellent use of the family video projections again as they briefly overlay the scene of his expulsion from the airship and...it's just occurred to me since going to space in no way impeded David's attack, and Farouk could have gotten pissy with Division 3 for being cowards even if they hadn't started orbiting the earth....did we go to space just for this visual The style over substance of Legion is an ongoing issue but this time I might just accept it, it's a lovely shot.

And thus ends Legion's queer cast's run. There is a further 21 minutes and 40 seconds in this episode in which Syd loses her mind and Kerry looked like she was about to lose a fight and I thought 'Okay actually this is just an episode where characters are going to die, it's coincidence the first three were gay' but then Kerry actually survived and, after a brief second childhood in the astral plane with Melanie and Oliver, Syd gets her mind back...so actually the only people who stayed dead/memory wiped were queer.

I don't know how to to end this. Maybe with the advise to write decent queer representation and don't bury them or at least not all in one fell swoop only taking up half an episode? I wrote a joke about Clark's son not having a name but googled it to doublecheck and he does...it's Buster...Buster DeBussy...Clark was underdeveloped but I refuse to believe he would give his child a name tha sounds like a side character in a video game. He was better than that

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Man I got some posts I gotta re-reblog. I even have some asks that have been sitting in my drafts for months. I’ll be working on it….soon…

[magpiesbones]

honestly the Nimona movie does have a kickass soundtrack

[nephynes]

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!

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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 laptop 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 you 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 falter.

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.

══════════════════════════

➺ taglist-

@immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @inawonderfulworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji

[wakatoshiiss]

how the haikyu boys would react if you showed up to a game - after saying you wouldnt! °○~

contains : hinata, kageyama, daichi, tsukkishima, kuroo, kenma, bokuto, akaashi, oikawa, iwazumi, ushijima, tendou

warnings/tags : not all boys included ! suggestive themes in a few of them, but nothing descriptive!

note : just some of my fav cuties, if you want more pls throw it in the requests! i wrote half of this on mobile and half on my laptop, pls excuse any mistakes. i also had either none or alot of motivation for these, so eat up what you can out of this!

masterlist // requests are open

SHOYO HINATA :

he honestly forgot about the banter between you two, begging for you to come but then being shot down because of your studies. so when he stepped onto the court and began playing, he didn't pay any attention to it.

but in private, you felt too bad, so you attended. you cheered him on from the group of karasuno fans, a little louder than the rest. so when he turned his head and saw you, his face lit up, a big smile on his face before giving a small wave and turning back around.

by the end of the match, he met you outside, jumping at his full potential with hands on your shoulders, " you came!? but what about your homework? wait - did you see me during the second set!? " he blabbering on, before you just ruffled his hair and giggled.

" you should come to all my matches, it makes me play better " he mumbled as he pulled you into a tight hug while tanaka and noya gushed over young love.

" oi! hinata, let's go! " kageyama called, as they were getting ready for a team photo infront of the complex.

he dragged you along, jumping onto your shoulders just to be taller than kageyama in a photo.

---

TOBIO KAGEYAMA :

there was no point in asking you to come tonight, it was normal. but he did want you to see some new stuff he spent so much time working on. but of course, you turned him down due to working late at the onigiri shop downtown.

so as he put his uniform on, sliding his knee pads up and tying his shoes, he went about the match like normal. he actually never noticed tou watching in the stands, eyes flowing back and forth through his stealthy sets. that freak quick attack that he set up was always impressive. it made you wonder why you never saw matches before.

you caught him on his way out, bag slung over his shoulders and jacket zipped up. the bus was parked and waiting already, so you barely got to his hand. your fingers wrapped around his, and he almost smacked you before realizing it was you.

" yn? " he asked, tilting his head in confusion, " but - I thought you were working late tonight? " he muttered, fingers squeezing a little tighter when you smiled.

" well, thanks for coming. " was all he could muster up between the harsh heat in his cheeks. he burried his chin into the collar of his jacket, watching you reach up and plant a kiss onto his cheek before running back into the building.

yeah everyone sitting on the bus just saw kageyama fold for his girlfriend again.

---

DAICHI SAWAMURA :

he completely understood how important your studies were, and he seriously didn't mind you not coming to games. so when he kissed your head and jumped in the car, he expected to see you later after the match.

but he had no clue you spent the rest of the time getting all ready, dressing up and jumping into your car to race, and making the first set. you flooded the stands as it began, leaning against the barrier next to their manager, Yaichi.

daichi was too busy with slamming recieves back and forth. when he finally got steady with returning the great king, oikawa's, serves, the crowd cheered. so naturally, you did, too.

" nice recieve daich' ! " you called out, hands cupped by your mouth with a big smile.

his head whipped behind him to see you all bubbly and pratically shaking with excitement as you watched him play. all he could do was smile and wave before giving sugawara a nervous look.

by the end of the match, you were downstairs, watching the teams flood out. you patiently waited for your boyfriend, hands clasped in front of you as the rest of the teams said their hellos. when daichi laid his eyes on you, he belined, lifting you and spinning you.

" you said you weren't coming! don't do that! it made me nervous - " he laughed, reaching up and rubbing the back of his head.

" but - thanks for watching, means a lot to me, baby " was all he he said as he kissed your head and pulled you into a tight hug.

---

TSUKKISHIMA KEI :

he didn't care, he actually didn't want you coming. he didn't see the point, they'd probably lose. and of course being a grade freak he was not about to sit and do your homework with you till 2am, so yea get it done now.

but when you appeared with an extra water bottle right before he went on the court, he just furrowed his eyebrows. he looked around before smirking a bit.

" thanks " that's all he said before grabbing the bottle and taking a drink, " if you didn't finished your homework, you have no idea what I'd do " he groaned, piercing his lips together into a flat line.

" tsukki - it's fine! you know I love to watch you play! " you gushed, teetering on your heels and looking up at him with a plead, that he knew too well.

" I am not giving you a kiss right now " he mumbled, going to walk away

" but it's good luck! " you whined, chasing him almost to the court.

" will you shut up? everyone can hear you " he whispered, leaning down and pressing a peck to your lips before grumbling off to warm ups.

he made sure to always look for you in the crowd before the next play, your bright eyes and smile always widening when you two made eye contact. yeah, he secretly loved seeing you support him.

---

KUROO TETSURO :

" cmon, baby, it's just one match, can't you come? " he pleaded, waiting by the door.

you told him you wouldn't be able to make it to this match, you were too busy and had stuff to do at home. so you shook your head and sighed.

" sorry, testu, not tonight " and he frowned, but hugged you goodbye and as always, kissed both cheeks for good luck.

when you watched him leave, guilt ate away at your gut. so you checked the time, got as much stuff done, and then raced to the complex. his match had just started, and you were in his red jacket. so you blended in with the crowd of fans.

when they lined up at the end to thank the fans, you shot forward to the balcony and yelled out for him, " good job, tetsu! " giggling and waving as he looked up at you.

kenma also looked up, rolling his eyes when kuroo put his hands on his hips and cackled like a hyena, " told you she'd come kenma! " he patted the smaller boy on the back.

when you two met up, he crushed you, squeezing all the air from your body. " so you were busy, huh? " he teased, shoving you as he walked you out to your car.

he leaned against the top of your car with his arm, pressing down and capturing you in one more kiss. where he tried to make in to a full makeout session and fit into your drivers side.

" tetsuro! not now! " you yelped, shoving him out and scoffing.

" so later? I did win, yknow " he dragged out, and you rolled your eyes and shut the door.

---

KENMA KOZUME :

you barely made it to the third set, noticing kenma already being worn out and sweating buckets. you bit your lip anxiously, knowing kenma definitely didn't want you here. it made his anxiety skyrocket.

you stood hidden in the sea of fans, rushing out by the time it ended so he didn't see you. you watched him walk into the locker room, kuroo following close behind him with a proud smile.

you tried to creep your way silently, but kuroo seemed to notice you before kenma.

" ey! kenma look! " he redirected kenma from the door, to face you. you were wide eyed and smiling innocently.

" oh " he blinked, walking up to you, " when did you get here? " he asked, looking down at you with a blank expression as always.

" I just saw the last set - sorry I know you hate it when I come but - " you began, but kenma only stopped you by pulling you into a very awkward and sweaty hug.

you laughed and hugged back, of course. kuroo was already beckoning lev to come see this. once lev bursted out laughing, kenma let go, " sorry - they're just gonna be annoying " he muttered, shooting them a look.

" I know, kozu, you did great tonight " you nodded, trying to reassure him by rubbing soft circles into his palm.

" can you come to all my games from now on? "

---

KOUTARO BOKUTO :

every time was the same, bokuto trying to drag you out of your house to come to at least one match. you hated crowded areas, a sea of people watching a game of more sweaty people toss a ball around? yeah absolutely not.

but you knew it was important to him, so you always said 'next time', but there was never a next time. now bokuto was walking with you to the gym of fukarodani so the team can pack and leave.

" im sorry, kotarou, maybe next time? " you offered, holding his hands right before he walked in.

" you say that every timee! " he whined, but quickly gave up when he saw your frown.

" good luck out there, youre gonna do amazing " you kissed his hands before skipping away to the front of the building and driving home.. well, that was the plan

and somehow you found yourself driving 2 hours away to the complex, wearing an old jersey of bokuto's. you stepped out and scanned in with a wristband. the place was packed, fukarodani fans already setting up. so you sat and waited.

the match finally started, and akaashi was already fighting to keep bokuto out of emo mode. you teetered on the edge of your seat, clapping when they scored once more.

" lets go bokuto! " you couldnt help but give yourself away, and the look on his face was worth it all.

after that, bokuto scored point after point, taking both starting sets with ease. now akaashi was working on calming him down before they were kicked off the court. you were already on your way down to the court. when he saw you, he rushed off the court without a second though and into the crowd.

" you really came? hey! did you see that? all those were for you baby! " he shouted, taking you in his arms and jumping around, akaashi couldnt help but run after him and say his hello.

" akaashi! my beautiful girlfriend finally came! wait - why are you laughing? did you two set this up? HEY! " he began, hands on his hips and scowling.

---

KEIJI AKAASHI :

another night working late at the corner shop downtown, and man was it slow. you knew akaashi had a game tonight, and you were itching to go see it, but there was no way you could get off of work. so he made the effort to stop by right before leaving.

the door dinged open and before your started the whole 'welcome to l/ns' speech, your boyfriend already set your meal down on the counter. " hey you " he spoke, smiling slightly.

" keiji! but arent you leaving - what are you doing here? " you asked sadly, coming around the counter and hugging him.

he gently ran his fingers across your hair before pulling you back, " im sorry you cant see my game tonight, so i thought id bring you something " he offered, kissing your temple before letting you go completely.

the conversation continued, and he soon left. and your store was empty once again. you peaked into the back at your father, who was sleeping in a chair. you removed your apron quickly and bolted for the door, grabbing the bagged meal on your way out.

you hopped in your car and began directions to the complex, speeding almost half of the time there. you parked, squeezed your way through the people, and found your seat right as warmups began.

you watched the match, clapping and cheering as they took home the win. you said goodbye to some fellow classmates you found in the sea of fans, before rushing down the stairs. you got caught in cross traffic, and barely saw the team head into the locker room for warm down.

you waited patiently, noticing bokuto being the first to leave, " hey! bokuto! " you called out, rushing for him before he wandered from the door.

" ah! akaashis pretty ladyyy " he put his hands on his hips, " i thought you werent coming tonight? " he tilted his head, but the door opened after him.

" bokuto, did you say my - " akaashi was quickly cut off by the sight of you, swiftly scooping his arms under yours and pulling you into a crushing hug.

" i thought i heard you, but i figured i was hallucinating " he laughed, setting you down and holding your head to give you a large and dramatic kiss on the forehead.

" i wouldnt miss you for the world, keij " you giggled, noticing bokuto sulking.

" when is it my turn, akaashi!? " he cried out, trudging away

---

TORUU OIKAWA :

you seethed every time oikawa had a game, especially because his whole fangirl club would just shove you to the side to breathe his air. so when you told him you werent coming to anymore games, he quite literally got on his knees and begged for you to come to his final one, which was tonight.

" absolutely not, toruu! you barely even notice im there anyways! " you argued, crossing your arms and shaking your head.

" wha - no baby i promise! i will glue you to my side! ill shoo them away! " he pleaded, standing up and going to hold your arms.

" no, i have a bunch of homework to do anyways " you giggled, denying his words and looking up at him.

" finee " he sighed dramatically, gathering his things and waling for the front door with you following.

" good luck, okay? hey, i love you " you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek before letting him walk out the door and to his match.

a few hours went by, and you got up and groaned, before ultimately driving to his game. you were in an extra jersey, dressing comfortably as you were going to be sitting the rest of the time anyways. you watched the match begin, noticing oikawa was first to serve. and his girls were going crazy.

it was like that for the rest of the time, screeching and drooling over the top balcony at your boyfriend. the game ended and you were now waiting outside near seijohs bus, anyone wouldve thought you were a creepy fangirl too.

when the team came out, and oikawa's eyes finally met yours, he took off running. he lifted you into the air and spun about a hundred times. " i knew you couldnt resisit me! did you see the whole thing? " he asked curiously, kissing all over your face.

a crowd of girls practically melted, tears quite literally rolling down their face at the sight of oikawa and another girl. but he paid no mind, only hugging and gushing over the fact you actually showed up.

" yes toru, i saw the entire thing " you reassured, nodding and giggling,

" oh just wait till i get home - " he muttered, before being slapped on the back by iwazumi.

" lets go shitty-kawa! " he yelled, getting onto the bus.

oikawa gave you one last kiss before waving off and sticking his tongue out. you shook your head and then noticed the stampede of girls that now chased after the bus.

---

HAJIME IWAZUMI :

oh this man was swooning over you, had a picture of you in every crack and crevice of his room or car. he even kept one in this pocket of his shorts during practice. so obviously when you said a family emergency came up, and you cant make it to his game, he was crushed.

" go home and make sure everythings okay, love " he said, kissing your head before seijoh loaded the busses for the tournament. despite him obviously loving when youre there, he understood this was important.

when you got home, a few hours of dealing with whatever had finally passed. you noticed, there was only an hour till seijohs warm ups began. so of course you ran for the car, ripping out of your driveway and speeding down the express ways to make it in time.

you filed into the crowd about halfway through the first set, that seijoh was obviously going to win. the vibes were up and good, oikawa fangirls fawning and falling. you just didnt understand, when your better looking love of your life, hajime iwazumi, was standing right there. well, youd kill anyone who came close to being a fangirl of him.

seijoh took the first set, and the second one, now advancing to the next round. you were over the moon excited, bouncing down each step to find iwa. you managed to tag onto the back of the train of players as they walked, making conversation with maki.

you noticed iwa and oikawa making conversation right outside of the warm down room, and you bolted. you stood behind iwazumi, putting a finger over your lips as oikawa giggled.

" oh it looks like a iwa-chan fan girl does exist! " he chimed, tapping his chin while iwa hummed.

he turned around and his face instantly flushed, lips sputtering out noncoherent words. " wait - yn? what are you doing here? " he asked, shaking his head to clear any confusion.

" well - i broke a few laws just to see you " you laughed, yelping when oikawa shoved iwazumi into you, laughing

" atleast hug your lady! " oikawa gasped, hand on his hip as he tried to escape a running crowd after him.

iwa held you close, head over top of yours, " you did all that for me? " he asked quietly, face hot with embaressment.

" of course i did, iwa! you think id leave you alone with him - " you went to pull away and point, but noticed the stampede oikawa was trampled by.

you and iwa only giggled together, before he looked down at you with the utmost sincere eyes, " thank you. truly, thank you " he muttered, kissing the top of your head while holding your hands.

---

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI :

you didnt even see ushiwaka before he left, he only sent a simple text. 'leaving now, love you' was all he said, you couldnt tell if he was upset about you missing this match, youve been pretty busy, so maybe hed understand.

as much as tendou tried to poke him, he only put in headphones and stared out the window for the entire bus ride. he tried to collect himself before going off and playing for one of the most important tournaments in his entire highschool career - and you werent going to be there.

you sighed and tapped your foot anxiously against your floor, trying to decide if you should really risk skipping all your piled school work to see him. but of course you chose the latter. you threw on one of his academy volleyball hoodies and began the drive.

of course you buckled, and barely sped up. all because of ushijimas extreme car safety thing he had for you. there was a little sticky note reminding you to buckle, and a photo of you two covering anything thing on the right side of the speedometer. and when you flipped your visor down, there was a sticky note next to the mirror that read, 'stop looking in mirrors. you know youre pretty'

you parked pretty shitty, running in and tripping over a few steps as you caught the last glimpse of the second set. ushijima absolutely slamming the last point into the ground. the crowd went wild for them, of course, it was shiratorizawa. everyone needed to see your hunk of a boyfriend that was the best spiker in the prefecture.

you watched him walk off the court, not paying attention to any of the harsh celebration dont by goshiki and tendou. he wiped his forehead, before lining up to shake hands. when the team came to thank to fans, he finally saw you.

you watched every muscle tighten up, and his stoic face falter for a moment. tendou nudged him a bit, before laughing as they walked away. you walked down the stairs carefully, trying not to trip again or you wouldnt hear the end of it from ushijima.

" yn. " he said broodingly, already halfway up to stairs to find you first.

" wakatoshi! " you beamed, trying to rush down to him, but he caught you first, demolishing you into this bear of a hug. " ushi - ! - cant breathe! " you squeaked out, and he let go.

" thank you for making it " he said quietly, blinking down at you, and for a moment, he actually smiled with his teeth.

---

SATORI TENDOU :

he was ecstatic for his game tonight, knowing it was against some no name school that they would beat in 30 minutes. but he was quickly shot down when he heard you say the words 'i cant make it tonight'. so he sulked and sighed.

" yn.. are you sure youre really reallyyyy busy? " he asked, putting his head down on your shoulder as you ate your lunch.

" yes, im sorry tendou " you chewed out, blinking over at him and giving him an apologetic smile.

" hm " was all he peeped out before sitting down in the desk ahead of you, backwards so he could see your face.

he drew meaningless shapes into the desk, huffing and sighing as you packed up your lunch box. the bell rang and you said your goodbye, not seeing him for the rest of the school day. you made sure to send him a big and happy good luck text, hopeful that it would bring his spirits up a bit.

when you went home, you immediately stared on your chores. you picked up around the house, your room, and helped cook, all while reading through your homework assignment. you tried your best to get it done in time to catch the game.

luckily you didnt live far from the stadium, so you arrived just in time for the match to begin. and as tendou expected, they beat the opponents in a whopping 43 minutes. he was giggling with goshiki, and practically jumping over ushijimas head while celebrating.

you stood in the hallway, squinting around and trying to peer over the crowd. you noticed a white and purple jersey, with the most noticeable red hair upon anyone, walking next to the broad wakatoshi.

" satori! " you bellowed out, trying to wave and get his attention but he was on a one track mind.

well, he was, but ushijima turned his head and nodded at you, before tapping tendous shoulder and pointing right in your direction. you waved happily, trying to get him to notice you actually came. and you swore the room just got brighter.

he smiled and laughed, running up to you and pulling your body into a hug. " so you caved? how was i? " he giggled, his cat like face peering down at yours with triumph.

" you all played very well, satori. " you spoke, kissing the corner of his lip and smiling.

" i have the best girlfriend ever " he announced, squeezing you until you coughed one too many times. " see, i told you she'd come, wakatoshi! " he chimed, grabbing around your shoulders to keep you by his side.

ushijima just grunted, looking around before looking down at you. you backed away slightly, smiling nervously all while tendou giggled once more.

[back2bluesidex]

Sweet Dreams - JHS (18+)

Pairing: Idol!Hoseok X Staff!Reader

Wc: 1k

Theme: pwp, smut, fluff

Summary: Hoseok is going to take you home and let you know how much he actually likes you.

Minors Do Not Interact!

Masterlist | Patreon

A/N: UNEDITED BECAUSE I AM ONE IMPATIENT BITCH.

Hoseok has always considered you as one of the most beautiful women he has ever laid his eyes upon - contrary to whatever you believe. 

The gentle slope of your nose, the soft looking petals of your lips, your chubby cheeks - everything - every single thing drives him crazy. 

And he loves it all. He loves how overwhelmed you make him feel with your beauty, your kindness, your soft voice, your enchanting smile and your presence. 

The only downside is that you don’t know or don’t want to acknowledge his feelings. 

He understands a part of it. Anyone would be intimidated with his status of a global star and anyone would expect him to date someone similar but Hoseok doesn’t want someone from his own world. 

He wants you. He wants a quiet, peaceful relationship with you. 

And tonight, he will make it clear to you. 

“You sure the buses are still available?” he jogs upto you - a little breathless. 

You jolt at his sudden invasion. 

“Huh?” you turn your head towards where he’s now walking right beside you, “oh. Yes. the last bus is still available.” 

You offer him a kind smile and he wants nothing more than just to claim it as his own by kissing you. 

“I can drop you home.” he offers straight away. Honestly, he has done enough of that beating around the bush kind of thing - his patience is now running thin. 

Your eyes go wide, “I- no- I can go home.” 

“I insist, please. Let me drop you home.” he takes a scandalous step towards you. You breathe him in instead of stepping away. Hoseok smiles internally. 

“Hoseok-ssi, I can get fired.” your pupils shake but you keep looking at him. Hoseok wants nothing more than just to pin you to the nearest possible wall and take you right here. 

But he will wait. 

“You trust me, right?” he asks as softly as he can. 

You nod in affirmation. 

“Good. Now let me take you home.”  he envelops one of your hands with his and tugs you towards the elevator. 

The car ride is silent apart from the soft jazz he has decided to put to cut in the awkwardness. 

Your eyes stay out of the window and Hoseok’s eyes stay on the road. You have given him your address and it’s easy so he doesn’t feel the need to force a conversation. 

He will ask you out on a date once he reaches your destination - that’s what he has decided to do. 

The car comes to a halt right outside the entryway of your building and then you finally look at him. Hoseok stares back at you, suddenly feeling the need of not letting you go, keeping you all to himself for as long as he can. 

“Thanks.” you give him another of your kind, gentle smile but this is not enough anymore. Hoseok wants more, more and more. 

So he lets his intrusive thoughts win. Lurching forward Hoseok places his lips on yours. The seatbelt is making it a little tough to kiss you properly but he manages to pull you close by your neck. He wastes no time in capturing your lower lip between his hungry ones. 

You taste as sweet as he imagined. That’s not a shock. 

The shock is when you kiss him back instantly, as if you have been waiting for him to make a move forever. 

The kiss is sloppy at first, then a little hungry - when both of you manage to unbuckle your seatbelts, Hoseok deepens the kiss. 

You give him free access to your mouth, his tongue takes the chance of exploring every corner. You, too, push your tongue inside his mouth, tasting him thoroughly. 

Only when the air becomes less and less available in both of your lungs - you two part. 

Hoseok is insanely happy. He got to taste you. But now that he knows how you taste, he only wants more. 

Your expression matches his. Lips glossy with his spit, eyes wide, shaking, hazy with lust. 

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.” you let your voice be heard. 

“You won’t have to.” he dives in for another kiss. 

Hoseok’s bare chest touches your bare one.

Your perked up nipples sit on his skin making him shiver all over. His mouth fits just right on the crook of your neck. 

He sucks in a bruise there. 

As he trails his kisses further down, he reaches the swell of your breast. Taking a nipple inside his mouth, he sucks you hungrily. 

You produce the sweetest sound he has ever heard. 

His teeth skin in your pebbled nipples as his finger brushes through your sleek folds. He parts those by scessoring his fingers and puts his index finger inside your heat. 

“Ummph.. Hoseok..” You whine, clearly satisfied with his ministrations. 

Hoseok drinks your sounds, makes up his mind to write a couple of lyrics about it later. 

He pushes his cock in your cunt. You are so tight, so warm - just perfect. 

He wants you all to himself for the rest of his life. 

“Baby, you feel so good.” he praises you softly, tugs a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. Having you naked under him, with nothing but a necklace dangling from your throat - this is heaven to him. 

“Hoseok- ah- hobi” you moan his name. Oh he loves having you like this. 

You are so pure, so beautiful - he can fuck you forever just like this, without having to rush anything. 

Hoseok understands that you are reaching your edge, your walls close up around his shaft. He loses his breath. 

“Let it go baby.” he whispers in your ear sweetly. 

You keep his request. 

He fills you in with his own arousal right after you cream his cock. 

And then he pulls you in another kiss.

Now as you lay down beside him, still naked, sleepy - he smiles at you. 

“Sweet dreams, Y/N.” 

“Sweet dreams, Hobi.” you place a kiss on his forehead. 

He wants to keep you close forever just like this. 

[fulcrum-art-fox]

I think something I actually really appreciate for some reason about Arcane is that it’s got all these big cool weapons that it’s very happy to throw under the bus. The way all of the Hextech weapons malfunction in awkward ways in the big pivotal emotional s2 ep3 fight. The way Vi and Jayce are set up for an epic moment with the hammer in s2 ep1 and undercut by the fact they miss. Jayce’s first outing with the hammer undermined by the fact he accidentally kills a child with it. The way they hyped up a fight between Jayce and his hammer and Vi and her gauntlets (that a lesser show would have had happen for the visual alone) only to have Jayce decide not to fight. The way Vi wins her s1 finale fight with Sevika using a function of the gauntlets she didn’t seem to realise they had. All the way back to the monkey bomb that went so spectacularly wrong. Like it really highlights the way the main priority is the writing and the characters, and yeah they’ll throw in a funky looking weapon shot because of course they will it’s a video game adaptation but they never miss an opportunity to yeet that coolness under the bus in favour of the shows actual messages and themes, and to show that the characters are human and fallible. They almost use the fact that the audience is primed to look at the weapons in order to deliberately swap them out suddenly with what the story is actually about

[woso-dreamzzz]

Rival VI

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Part of Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You return to London

"Princesse," Magda groans as you come jumping down the stairs of the hotel with Pernille," What did I tell you last night?"

You very pointedly ignore her as you go skipping over to Sydney, Georgia and Sam. You present yourself in front of them, chest sticking out as you smooth down the familiar red material and the cannon crest on your chest.

"You're kidding," Georgia says, eyes wide as she looks up at Magda and Pernille," You have to be kidding me. You're letting her wear this?"

"I'm not!" Magda says at the same time Pernille rolls her eyes.

"She's old enough now to choose her own clothes," Pernille says plainly," We're fostering independence."

"Yeah!" You say with a little giggle, sticking your tongue out at Georgia happily," I packed it just for today!"

"It shouldn't have been packed at all!" Magda insists," I told you that you weren't allowed to pack it."

"Auntie Frido says-"

"Oh, here we go."

"-That choosing clothes is an exercise of my right to express myself."

There's silence for a moment and all of the adults look at you with varying degrees of shock.

"Do..." Magda's mouth is wide open as she stares, blinking a few times as if she can't understand why you've just said that. "Do you know what you just said?"

You shake your head happily. "Auntie Frido told me to tell you though. She made me remember-ise it."

"Memorise."

"Huh?"

"She made you memorise it."

"Yeah, that too."

Magda sighs deeply, eyes closing briefly before opening again. "When we get home, I'm burning your Arsenal kits."

"Auntie Frido says that's illegal! And I can sue you for it!" You turn to Pernille primly, chest puffing out. "She made me memorise that too."

To save Magda's eyes, you end up wearing a zip up hoodie over your Arsenal jersey on the bus ride over to the pitch.

You happily sit with Pernille, who lets you watch one of your favourite Scooby-Doo episodes on her phone as you hum the theme song under your breath. Your little legs kick around happily as Straus says a bit more about the game plan to the team.

You're not listening at all as you watch Daphne use her super cool martial arts skills to punch one of the monsters in your show.

"Alright, you," Pernille says softly as she takes her phone back," We're here."

"We are?"

Your head pops up as you look out the window, fingers automatically going to unzip your hoodie so you can show your Arsenal pride but Magda's there quickly.

Her hands make sure your zip is done all the way up and you frown.

"But Morsa-"

"No," Magda says firmly, lifting you up into her arms before you complain anymore.

You huff a little but don't fight her.

Magda carries you all the way into the changing room and still doesn't let you take your hoodie off. Even Pernille doesn't relent and you sit stubbornly in her cubby with your arms crossed over your chest.

"What's that pout for?" Tuva asks with a laugh, tickling under your chin," You not going to be our good luck charm?"

You shake your head. "No."

"Oh? Why not?"

"My good luck is going to Arsenal!"

Before anyone can stop you, you stand up and rip off your hoodie to show your Arsenal shirt.

"North London forever!"

"Oh no," Pernille groans as Magda's eye twitches.

"Whatever the weather!"

Georgia bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

"These streets are our- Morsa!"

Magda plucks you from Pernille's cubby, muttering under her breath too quiet for you to hear as the door to the locker room is knocked on.

Katie and Caitlin poke their heads around the door.

"Alright, Eriksson?" Katie asks with a grin," We heard our Big Boss was in the building. Do you mind if we steal her?"

"Actually-"

"Of course you can." Pernille takes you from Magda's arms without fuss, putting you back onto the floor so you can run over to the two Arsenal girls by the door. "Princesse, remember, be nice, helpful and-"

"Don't cause trouble," You finish off," I know!" You take Caitlin's hand. "Let's go see Auntie Stina and Auntie Lina!"

"The warm ups are just starting," Caitlin tells you," Have you got your gloves? Because I'm sure the keepers would love to warm up with their Big Boss."

[metalandmagi]

Romance Anime Starter List

I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sick and tired of seeing “Top ___ Best Anime of All Time” lists that are nothing but shounen. So I wanted to put together a list of some romance anime that I consider good “starters” for the genre. Because if I were just now becoming an anime fan, I’d think all there was to offer was shounen action series.

And by “starters” I mean basic stuff that’s not too…out there, and actually involves the characters getting together instead of just harems or using romance as a side plot (sorry Ouran High School Host Club and My Next Life as a Villainess). 

So if you’re new to anime and want stuff that’s not just guys beating the shit out of each other (which is also fun, don’t get me wrong), here are some basics.

Taisho Maiden Fairy Tale- When the pessimistic Tamahiko Shima loses all function in his right arm, his family sends him away to live in the mountains with the cheerful, hard working Yuzuki Tachibana…who was purchased by the Shima family to pay off her family’s debts and basically act as a caretaker/future bride for Tamahiko so they’d never have to deal with him again. It’s a more cheerful version of My Happy Marriage (without the supernatural stuff), except in this one, the guy is the one who has massive self-esteem issues and an abusive family. There are still very serious themes, but ultimately it’s not meant to make you cry every episode. I swear it’s so good, but nobody watched it!

Horimiya- A slice of life in which pretty and popular high school queen bee Hori, finds out her quiet, unassuming classmate Miyamura is hiding piercings and tattoos that could get him expelled. The two gradually find out more about each other and get together in the most realistic way I’ve seen depicted in an anime. It’s also fucking hysterical and genuinely emotional.

Recovery of an MMO Junkie- Another slice of life that focuses on two adults who meet in an MMO game without realizing they also know each other in real life. I don’t want to say much more than that. It’s adorable, and the main character is so relatable it hurts.

Love with Yamada-kun at Level 999- Speaking of MMOs, this is a newer series about Akane Kinoshita, a college first year who’s reeling from a bad break up. In an attempt to get back at her ex, she winds up meeting Akito Yamada, a popular gamer who happens to be in her guild in the MMO they both play at an IRL meetup. The two go from acquaintances to something more as they keep running into each other. Even more relatable main characters and just wholesome relationships all around.

Snow White With The Red Hair- A fantasy in which an apothecary named Shirayuki (meaning, you guessed it, “snow white”) runs away from her home in order to escape becoming the concubine of her town’s prince. While fleeing, she is rescued by Zen, the prince of a neighboring country, and she ends up becoming an herbalist to repay him. It's super cute with some genuinely swoon worthy moments and a couple that just works so well together. I have a habit of comparing this to Akatsuki no Yona, even though the two aren’t really that alike. This is more romance driven while Akatsuki no Yona is more of a serious historical fantasy with romance elements (Yona manga is amazing, but the anime barely scratches the surface, so that’s why I didn’t include it).

Sasaki to Miyano- When the shy, easily flustered Miyano meets Sasaki, a cool “delinquent” upperclassmen, the two end up bonding over manga…specifically BL manga. That’s right, Miyano is a fudanshi, but due to his small stature and somewhat feminine appearance, he’s constantly trying to convince others that he’s not interested in having his own love story where he’d be reduced to a stereotypical doe-eyed uke. But as Sasaki and Miyano spend more time together, they realize that what they have is more than friendship, and they have to come to terms with their own perception of gay relationships. This is my favorite romance of all time. It’s a slow burn, but boy is it worth it. Their relationship is so natural and realistic, just like Horimiya. Just two people hanging out and bonding over things the way people do in real life!

Given: The story of some boys in a band with trauma. Enough said. It's great. Go watch it.

Bloom Into You- Yuu Koito is a high school girl who’s been waiting her whole life for her own perfect romance to start…but when she receives a confession, she realizes she doesn’t know how to respond when she’s just not into the guy. And then she gets another confession…this time from the cool student council president Touko Nanami, who basically jumpstarts her lesbian awakening. Very cute story about how we perceive the concept of love vs actually feeling it. Also has a canonically aro/ace side character, so that’s a win for me. Another show like this is Adachi to Shimamura (but I honestly don’t remember much about it. It just didn’t stick with me as much).

Ore Monogatari- Takeo Gouda is a tall, bulky high school first year with a sensitive heart of gold. He wants nothing more than to find his own true love, but most girls are intimidated by his enormous stature, and they end up falling for his conventionally attractive friend instead. That is, until he meets the tiny, adorable Rinko Yamato. He falls in love instantly, but he’s sure she’s interested in his best friend like everyone else, so he vows to help get them together, even though his heart is breaking. Peak himbo behavior. Pure of heart, dumb of ass.

Yuri on Ice- Yes it’s the gay figure skating anime everyone knows. And yes it’s a fucking romance, okay? I will die on this hill. The romance between Viktor and Yuri is just as important as the plot!

Kaguya-sama Love Is War- Two insanely smart high school students both have a crush on the other, but since they’re…you know…high schoolers, neither of them wants to admit it first. So they come up with increasingly convoluted plans to get the other to confess first. This will go down as one of the best of all time. It’s a hilarious yet poignant modern classic.

Fruits Basket- I’ve talked about it before and I’ll talk about it again. A romance “comedy” that slowly morphs into a drama about a girl named Tohru who finds herself living with the mysterious Sohma family after her mother dies. Little does she know, the Sohmas are the victims of a  (somewhat silly, but ultimately tragic) curse that she must fight to break. Even though I’m more into it for the family drama, the romance is still top tier and plays an important role in the story. This is my second favorite anime of all time, and it’s a classic for a reason. If anyone hasn’t watched it yet, GO WATCH IT! IT WILL RIP YOU TO SHREDS!

Blue Box- A sports romance about an aspiring badminton player named Taiki Inomata who has a massive crush on the girls basketball team's star player Chinatsu Kano. Through a twist of fate, the two end up living together and having to hide it from the rest of their classmates, all while Taiki tries to work up the courage to ask Chinatsu out. It's so sweet and wholesome, and it's a great blend of sports anime and romance that can appeal to anyone who is more hesitant to get into the romance genre. The animation is also so freaking gorgeous!!!!

Insomniacs After School- A slice of life/drama that follow two high schoolers with insomnia who meet and form a connection while using their school's abandoned astronomy club room to sleep during the day. They soon find themselves spending more and more time together and bonding over their personal issues. I don't want to say too much, because there are a few spoilers that heighten the stakes of their relationship, but the characters are so great. They're fun and realistic without being annoying. And the show is mostly chill, but it definitely builds the drama by the end.

365 Days To The Wedding- A workplace romance between the two most awkward people you could possibly imagine! The story takes place at a travel company that is about to open a new branch in Alaska, but because our two main characters are...like I said...very awkward, they come up with a plan to avoid being sent to work at the new branch...by telling their boss they're getting married. Because they wouldn't want to split up a married couple by making one move away, right? As ridiculous as the premise sounds, hilarious shenanigans ensue, but there's also a surprising amount of serious discussions about romance and marriage. The main characters also have major autism coding, so if you're looking for a neurodivergent romance, this is it. (There's also an episode that involves a princess wanting to give up the throne to pursue a life with her girlfriend!)

And now for some honorable mentions that didn't quite fit into the regular list:

Ride Your Wave- A movie about a surfer who falls in love with a firefighter……and I’m not going to say any more than that. Go into it blind. If you like stuff like Your Name, this is a good one to watch.

Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun- A comedy about a high school girl who finds out the upperclassman she has a crush on is actually a shoujo manga artist, and no matter how she tries to confess to him, he just never gets it.

The Ice Guy and His Cool Female Colleague- A slow burn slice of life that focuses on a guy with ice powers who has a crush on his coworker. That’s it. That’s the show. When I say slow, I mean SLOW. It’s perfectly cute and fluffy, but my god does it take forever to get anywhere with these two.

Skip to Loafer- A high strung, small town girl decides to go to high school in Tokyo, where she meets a variety of classmates, including the laid back Sousuke Shima. The unlikely pair become friends, and soon enough, she starts to feel something more than friendship. The only reason I didn’t include it in the main list is because they don’t get together by the end of the first season, but it’s still really cute (also canonically trans character for the win!?)

So that’s my starter list. And no, I didn’t include Toradora, even though it’s a classic. I know it’s blasphemous, but I like it more as a comedy than a romance. It kinda lost me with the ending. But anyway, maybe someone will find something they like. Or maybe you'll just want to roast me and my picks 😅

[the-oblivious-writer]

It's Only Love

Shauna Shipman x Female Reader

One-shot

summary: what starts as a routine calculus tutoring session in a quiet library becomes something deeper when shauna's academic frustrations give way to vulnerable conversations about trust, fear, and what it means to be worth staying for.

warnings: college/modern/no crash au, established relationship, fratboy shauna x tutor reader, academic stress/anxiety, brief reference to past breakup and self-harm (punching a wall), the label "girlfriend" being thrown around, mild intimacy, and themes of self-doubt and abandonment fears.

note(s): this one-shot is long overdue but better late than never ig. this was originally gonna be an angst/no happy ending but i figured i'd give you a break.

The library's third floor was practically deserted at seven PM on a Thursday, which made it perfect for your weekly tutoring sessions with Shauna. She'd claimed the corner table by the windows weeks ago, spreading her textbooks and notebooks across the surface like she was marking territory. You'd learned to arrive a few minutes early just to watch her ritual - the way she'd arrange her pens in a perfect line, check her phone twice, then immediately look annoyed at herself for the nervous habit.

Tonight was no different. You spotted her from across the room, dark hair falling like a curtain as she hunched over her calculus homework. Even from a distance, you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her free hand kept fidgeting with the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt - one she'd definitely stolen from some frat guy's closet, though she'd never admit it.

"Starting without me?" you asked, sliding into the chair beside her.

She glanced up, and you caught that micro-expression she always wore when she first saw you - relief mixed with something softer that she tried to hide behind a smirk. "Figured I should at least pretend to attempt these problems before you see how hopeless I am."

"You're not hopeless." You pulled your own notebook from your bag, deliberately brushing her arm as you reached across the table. "You just think in different ways than the textbook expects."

"Right." She rolled her eyes, but shifted slightly closer to you, her knee bumping against yours under the table. "That's a very diplomatic way of saying I'm bad at math."

The thing about Shauna was that she wore her intelligence like armor - quick wit and cutting observations designed to deflect before anyone could find the soft spots underneath. But you'd been doing this long enough to recognize the pattern. The jokes always came right before she had to admit she didn't understand something.

"Show me what you've got so far," you said, leaning in to look at her work.

Her handwriting was surprisingly neat for someone who claimed to hate the subject, though you could see where she'd erased and rewritten the same equation multiple times. The frustration was evident in the slightly harder pressure of her pencil, the way certain numbers were traced over until they were bold against the page.

"This is where I got stuck." She pointed to a derivative problem, her finger hovering just above the paper. "I know I'm supposed to use the chain rule, but every time I try to work through it, I end up with something completely different than what's in the back of the book."

You studied the problem, acutely aware of how close she was sitting. Close enough that you could smell her shampoo - something floral that didn't quite match her deliberately careless image. Close enough to notice the small scar on her knuckle that she'd gotten from punching a wall freshman year after a particularly brutal breakup.

"Okay, so you've got the right idea with the chain rule," you said, reaching for your own pencil. "But you're overcomplicating this step here. Can I?"

She nodded, and you started writing out the solution step by step, talking through each part of the process. This was the part of tutoring you actually enjoyed - not just the math itself, but the way Shauna's face changed when something clicked. How her eyebrows would relax and her mouth would form a small 'oh' of understanding.

"Wait, so you're telling me I just had to multiply by the derivative of the inside function?" She grabbed the pencil from your hand, her fingers brushing yours in the exchange. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"I've been staring at this for an hour." She shook her head, but she was smiling now - a real smile, not the carefully constructed ones she used in social situations. "God, I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot." You bumped her shoulder with yours. "You're just stubborn. There's a difference."

"Oh, is that your professional tutoring opinion?"

"That's my girlfriend opinion."

The word still felt new enough that saying it out loud gave you a small thrill. You'd been officially together for about six weeks now, though the flirting and tension had been building for months before that. It had started innocently enough - Shauna needed help with calculus, you needed the tutoring money, and the math department had paired you up. But somewhere between explaining derivatives and watching her celebration dance after acing her first exam, innocent had stopped being the right word for whatever was happening between you.

"Your girlfriend opinion, huh?" She set down her pencil and turned to face you fully, one leg tucking up under her in the chair. "And what does my girlfriend think about the fact that I've been procrastinating on the rest of this problem set all week?"

"I think," you said, matching her position so you were facing each other, "that you've been avoiding it because you're scared you won't understand it."

Her smile faltered slightly. "I'm not scared of math."

"No, but you're scared of not being good at something." You reached out to play with the drawstring of her hoodie, a gesture that had become automatic over the past few weeks. "Which is different."

Shauna was quiet for a moment, her dark eyes studying your face like she was trying to decide how much truth she wanted to acknowledge. This was familiar territory too - the way she would retreat just slightly when conversations got too close to real feelings.

"Maybe," she said finally. "But can we focus on derivatives before we psychoanalyze my academic anxiety?"

"Fair enough." You grinned and turned back to the textbook. "But I'm billing you extra for the therapy session."

"Add it to my tab."

The next hour passed easily, falling into the rhythm you'd established over months of these sessions. Shauna worked through problems while you provided guidance and encouragement, occasionally stealing her pen to demonstrate a concept or sketch out a graph. The library around you grew quieter as other students filtered out, leaving you in a bubble of soft lamplight and whispered explanations.

You'd always been good at math, but teaching it to Shauna had made you better. She asked questions that forced you to think about concepts from different angles, to find new ways to explain things that seemed obvious to you. And watching her face light up when she solved a particularly challenging problem was better than any grade you'd ever received.

"Okay, last one," she said, pointing to the final problem on the page. "And then I'm buying you dinner as payment for not letting me drop this class."

"You were never going to drop the class."

"I thought about it. Extensively." She started working through the problem, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. "Remember that night I called you at midnight crying about my upcoming exam?"

"You weren't crying."

"I was very close to crying."

"You were frustrated. There's a difference."

She paused in her calculations to look at you. "Do you always have to be so rational about everything?"

"Someone has to be, when you're being dramatic."

"I am not dramatic." But she was fighting a smile as she said it.

"Shauna, you once told me that calculus was a personal attack on your soul."

"And I stand by that statement."

You laughed, and the sound echoed softly in the empty corner of the library. This was what you'd grown to love most about your relationship with Shauna - the way she could make you laugh even when she was complaining, the way her dramatics were always laced with self-awareness.

"There," she said, setting down her pencil with a flourish. "Done. And I'm pretty sure I actually understood that one."

You leaned over to check her work, nodding approvingly. "Perfect. See? You're not hopeless."

"Don't get carried away." But she was smiling as she started packing up her books. "I still have to survive the midterm next week."

"You'll be fine. We'll do a review session this weekend."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The library was almost empty now, just a few dedicated students scattered across the main floor below. You helped Shauna gather her things, a process that always took longer than it should because she had a habit of spreading her belongings across every available surface.

"God, I'm starving," she said, shouldering her backpack. "Please tell me you don't have plans tonight."

"Just dinner with my girlfriend, apparently."

"Good answer."

You walked out of the library together, Shauna's hand finding yours as soon as you were through the doors. The October air was crisp, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and the promise of winter. Campus was quieter than usual for a Thursday night, most of the party crowd having migrated to the bars downtown.

"So where are we going?" you asked as you headed toward the dining hall.

"Wherever's still open. I'm not picky when I'm this hungry."

"Since when are you not picky about food?"

"Since I spent three hours staring at math problems and forgot to eat lunch."

You stopped walking, tugging on her hand to make her turn around. "Shauna. You forgot to eat lunch?"

"Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That concerned girlfriend look. I'm fine."

But you were already digging through your backpack, pulling out a granola bar you'd thrown in that morning. "Here. Eat this before you pass out."

"I'm not going to pass out."

"Eat it anyway."

She took the granola bar with an exaggerated sigh, but you caught the way her expression softened. This was still new territory for both of you - the casual care, the way you'd started looking out for each other without really discussing it.

"Thank you," she said, quieter now.

"You're welcome."

The dining hall was mostly empty, just a few other late diners scattered around the cavernous space. You found a table by the windows, and Shauna immediately claimed the seat facing the door - a habit you'd noticed but never commented on. She always needed to see who was coming and going, always needed an escape route planned even in the most innocuous situations.

"So," she said, digging into her pasta with the intensity of someone who had actually forgotten to eat lunch, "tell me about your day. And don't say it was fine."

"It was fine."

"I'm serious. I spent the whole afternoon complaining about math. Your turn to talk."

This was another thing you were still getting used to - the way Shauna actually listened when you talked, the way she remembered small details from conversations you'd had weeks ago. It was such a contrast to the image she projected in public, where she was all sharp edges and carefully constructed indifference.

"I had that meeting with my advisor this morning," you said. "About graduate school applications."

"Right. How did that go?"

"Good, I think. She thinks I have a strong chance at getting into the programs I'm applying to."

"Of course you do." Shauna looked up from her food, fork paused halfway to her mouth. "You're brilliant."

"I'm not brilliant."

"You are. And stop arguing with me when I compliment you."

"I'm not arguing, I'm just—"

"Being modest. Which is sweet, but also annoying." She reached across the table to steal a piece of bread from your plate. "I'm dating a genius and I want everyone to know it."

"You're not dating a genius."

"Fine. I'm dating someone who's really good at math and explains things in ways that don't make me want to throw textbooks across the room. Better?"

"Better."

You ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that had taken months to achieve. Early in your relationship, you had felt the need to fill every pause with conversation, as if silence meant something was wrong. But gradually, you'd both learned to appreciate these moments of peace.

"Can I ask you something?" she said eventually.

"Of course."

"Do you ever think about what happens after graduation?"

The question caught you off guard, partly because it was serious in a way that Shauna usually avoided, and partly because you'd been thinking about it more and more recently yourself.

"Sometimes," you said carefully. "Why?"

She shrugged, suddenly very interested in winding pasta around her fork. "I don't know. I guess I just wonder if we'll still... if this will still work when we're not seeing each other for tutoring sessions twice a week."

"Shauna." You waited until she looked up at you. "We're not together because of tutoring sessions."

"I know that. I just meant..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"No, talk to me. What did you mean?"

She was quiet for a long moment, and you could practically see her internal debate playing out across her face. Shauna had always been better at deflecting serious conversations than having them, but you'd learned to wait her out.

"I guess I'm just scared that when we don't have this built-in reason to spend time together, you'll realize that I'm not actually that interesting," she said finally.

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes." You reached across the table to take her hand. "Shauna, I didn't start dating you because you needed help with calculus."

"Then why did you start dating me?"

The honest answer was complicated - because she made you laugh, because she was smarter than she gave herself credit for, because underneath all her carefully constructed defenses was someone genuinely kind. Because she asked thoughtful questions and remembered your coffee order and had strong opinions about movies you'd never heard of.

"Because you're you," you said instead. "All of you. Not just the parts you think are worth liking."

She looked down at your joined hands, her thumb tracing across your knuckles. "That's very romantic, but it doesn't really answer my question."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something that will make me stop worrying that you're going to get tired of me."

The vulnerability in her voice made your chest ache. This was the thing about Shauna that most people never got to see - how deeply she worried about being left behind, how much energy she spent trying to be interesting enough, entertaining enough, worth keeping around.

"I'm not going to get tired of you," you said. "And graduation is still eight months away. Can we worry about it then?"

"You want to put off discussing our future until the last minute?"

"I want to focus on right now. On this." You squeezed her hand. "On the fact that my girlfriend just survived another calculus assignment and we're having dinner together and tomorrow we get to do it all over again."

She smiled at that, the kind of smile that started small and gradually took over her entire face. "When did you become such an optimist?"

"When I started dating someone who expects the worst-case scenario in every situation."

"I do not expect the worst-case scenario."

"Shauna, you once told me you were surprised I showed up to our second tutoring session because you figured I'd realize you were hopeless and quit."

"That was a reasonable assumption."

"It really wasn't."

The dining hall was starting to close around you, workers beginning to clear tables and sweep floors. You finished your meals and gathered your things, the conversation settling back into easier territory as you argued about which movie to watch when you got back to Shauna's dorm.

The walk across campus was peaceful, your joined hands swinging between you as you debated the merits of romantic comedies versus horror movies. It was an old argument, one you'd been having since your third or fourth tutoring session, but you both enjoyed it too much to actually resolve it.

"I still don't understand how you can watch people getting brutally murdered and call it relaxing," you said as you climbed the stairs to her floor.

"And I don't understand how you can watch the same formulaic love story over and over again and not get bored."

"They're not formulaic. They're... structured."

"That's the same thing."

"It's really not."

Shauna's room was exactly what you'd expected when you first saw it months ago - perfectly organized on her side, with books arranged by subject and clothes hung. Her roommate's side looked like a tornado had hit it, but Shauna had long since given up trying to impose order on that chaos.

"Horror movie," she said, flopping down on her bed and patting the space beside her. "My room, my rules."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair. Deal with it."

But she was already pulling up Netflix on her laptop, and you knew from experience that she'd end up letting you pick something halfway through when she got bored of whatever slasher film she'd chosen.

You settled beside her, automatically rearranging yourselves until she was tucked against your side with her head on your shoulder. This had become your default position for movie nights - close enough that you could feel her reactions to whatever you were watching, her grip on your arm tightening during scary parts or her quiet laughter when something genuinely amused her.

"Thank you," she said quietly, about twenty minutes into a movie about teenagers being stalked by a masked killer.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For not letting me give up on that homework. For dinner. For..." She gestured vaguely. "All of it."

"You don't have to thank me for spending time with you."

"I know. But I want to."

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar smell of her shampoo. "You're welcome."

The movie played on, but you found yourself paying more attention to Shauna than to the screen. The way she curled closer to you during tense scenes, the soft commentary she provided when characters made obviously stupid decisions, the warmth of her body against yours.

This was what you'd tried to explain to her at dinner - it wasn't about tutoring sessions or built-in excuses to spend time together. It was about all these small moments, the quiet intimacy of just existing in the same space. The way she trusted you enough to fall asleep against your shoulder, the way you'd learned to read her moods in the set of her shoulders or the tone of her voice.

"Hey," she said softly, tilting her head to look up at you. "You're not watching."

"I'm watching you."

"That's very sweet, but also creepy."

"Sorry."

"I didn't say I minded."

The movie forgotten, you shifted to face her properly, taking in the soft light from her desk lamp casting shadows across her face. She looked younger like this, without the armor of careful indifference she wore in public.

"Can I ask you something now?" you said.

"Shoot."

"What made you decide to trust me? Really trust me, not just with math help."

She was quiet for a moment, her fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. "You want the honest answer?"

"Always."

"That night I called you. When I was frustrated and tired and probably a little drunk." She paused, meeting your eyes. "You could have just talked me through the problems and hung up. But you stayed on the phone with me for two hours, and we ended up talking about everything except calculus."

You remembered that night - Shauna calling at midnight, her voice thick with frustration and something else you hadn't been able to identify at the time. You'd talked about her family, her fears about graduation, the way she felt like she was constantly pretending to be someone she wasn't.

"You listened," she continued. "Really listened, not just waiting for your turn to talk. And you didn't try to fix everything or give me advice I didn't ask for. You just... let me be upset."

"Of course I did."

"Not everyone would have."

"Then you've been spending time with the wrong people."

She smiled at that, the kind of smile that was just for you - soft and unguarded and completely genuine. "Good thing I found the right person."

"Good thing."

The space between you had gotten smaller without you noticing, close enough that you could count her eyelashes.

"We should probably finish the movie," she said, but she made no move to turn back to the screen.

"Probably."

"I mean, I did make you sit through my choice. It's only fair."

"Very fair."

"And it's getting to the good part. The part where they reveal who the killer is."

"Can't miss that."

But instead of turning back to the laptop, she shifted closer, her hand coming up to rest against your cheek. "Or," she said, "we could find something else to do."

"I like that option better."

She kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like the chocolate you'd shared for dessert. This was still new enough that it made your heart race, the way she sighed against your mouth when you pulled her closer.

"Much better than the movie," she murmured against your lips.

"Definitely."

You lost track of time after that, trading lazy kisses and quiet conversation until Shauna's roommate texted that she'd be back late. The movie played forgotten in the background, the sound of fake screaming and dramatic music a strange soundtrack to the gentle intimacy of learning each other all over again.

"I should probably head back soon," you said eventually, though you made no move to leave the warm circle of her arms.

"You should."

"Early class tomorrow."

"Right."

"And you have that economics exam to study for."

"I do."

Neither of you moved. Shauna's head was tucked against your neck, her breathing soft and even, and you were perfectly content to stay exactly where you were.

"Five more minutes?" she said.

"Five more minutes."

But five turned into ten, and ten turned into twenty, and eventually you gave up pretending you were going anywhere. This was what your relationship had become - small compromises and gentle negotiations, the kind of easy intimacy that came from actually liking each other as much as you loved each other.

"Next week," Shauna said sleepily, "when we do the review session for my midterm?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we do it here instead of the library?"

"Any particular reason?"

"Better study environment. Fewer distractions."

You laughed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "If you say so."

"I do say so."

"Then here it is."

She smiled against your neck, her arm tightening around your waist. "Good. Now stop talking and let me enjoy my five more minutes."

"It's been more than five minutes."

"Then let me enjoy my twenty more minutes."

"Deal."

Outside, the campus was settling into its late-night quiet, the sounds of distant parties and late-night conversations filtering through the window. But inside Shauna's room, wrapped up in each other and the soft glow of her desk lamp, the rest of the world felt very far away.

This was what you'd tried to tell her at dinner - it wasn't about tutoring sessions or academic schedules or any of the structured reasons you'd first started spending time together. It was about this, about the way she fit perfectly against your side, about the trust implicit in the way she let herself be vulnerable with you.

"Thank you," she said again, so quietly you almost missed it.

"For what this time?"

"For making me feel like I'm worth staying for."

Your chest tightened at the simple honesty in her voice, at the way she could devastate you with just a few words.

"You are," you said. "You absolutely are."

And lying there in the lamplight, her breathing soft and even against your neck, you meant it completely. Whatever came after graduation, whatever challenges the future held, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Five more minutes turned into the whole night, and neither of you minded at all.

[fanaticsnail]

Pet Play: Bartolomeo

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word Count: 3,500

Themes: Bartolomeo x f!reader, Straw-Hat reader, mdni, 18+, smut, nsfw, Dom!reader, pet!Barto, praise kink, oral, gendered terms and endearments used.

Notes: first time writing for Barto, and I adore him. Day 5 of my birthday event!

It had been eight agonizing days of traveling with your crew alongside the Barto fanclub. Whichever way you turned, there was another picture of your face thrust into your body, with teary eyes and pens offered for you to sign the image held within by your fans. You appreciated their assistance, and did enjoy the fact that your captain gathered himself a following of devoted individuals, but it had began to overwhelm you.

As a Straw-Hat, you were a deity to be worshiped upon the pedestal held by the crew and captain of the Going Luffy. It was initially quite confronting, which then dove into overwhelming, and now simply infuriating. Their blatant disregard for your personal space had managed to make your skin crawl, and your lack of privacy had you so pent up you could burst in a rage at any moment.

The Thousand Sunny had little to no privacy as it was. Even living with a small crew of a few individuals made it difficult to find time to yourself to rejuvenate your energy - let alone now sharing the same air as those who couldn't bear the thought of leaving you alone for more than was required to allow for your sleep.

What made it worse was the green-haired captain’s eyes. Those dark eyes upon his war-painted face would always find yours and beam up at you as if you were the most important thing in the world to him.

Captain Bartolomeo the Cannibal's were the eyes you would see each time you lay down to rest. Those eyes that looked up with child-like wonder as he expressed how much he adored you and his beloved Luffy. Those eyes you felt singe your back with their intensity each time you faced away, only to snap hastily anywhere else as soon as you caught him out.

It was too much.

A small call of your name broke you out of your seething, prompting you to turn to your two companions either side of you.

“Something the matter, dear?” Robin asked softly, checking you over with her knowing expression, “Have they been giving you a hard time?” She leaned back on her lounge chair to reach for her drink Sanji dutifully prepared for her.

“To be honest with you,” you confessed, piquing the interest of your copper-haired companion beside you, “This is the first moment I've had with just you guys since they came aboard.”

“Oh, I know,” Nami hummed thoughtfully as you spoke, darting her eyes towards the crowd and back to you once more, “Everywhere I go, it's just ‘Beautiful Miss Nami,’ or ‘Most Honorable Nami,’ or I think I got ‘Powerful Nami,’ at one stage - which I actually quite liked.”

Both you and Robin chuckled at her admission, garnering the attention of Bartolomeo as soon as he heard it.

To him, hearing the Straw-Hat women smile and laugh alongside him was the greatest symphony he'd ever witnessed. He felt compelled to tell you all as such, which prompted him to immediately rise to his feet and head up to the top deck towards the three of you.

“See, those names are beautiful, Nami,” you complimented her, which earned you a smile from her in response, “All I got was ‘Miss’. But yes, it's been really hard getting a moment's peace-.”

“-All of the beautiful Straw-Hat women in one spot, all lounging together like goddesses amongst us mere mortals,” Bartolomeo exclaimed with a wonder to his tone.

You groaned, hanging your head on your shoulder and pouting towards Robin. She chuckled and pursed her lips, giving a polite acknowledgement to Bartolomeo as he continued to sing praises of her ferocity and beauty.

He then focussed on Nami and spoke on her weather techniques and how much joy seeing her lightning gave him. His knack for storytelling and overemphasis on the words had you rolling your eyes and attempting to ignore him, but it was no use.

Each time you opened your mouth to speak to Robin, Bartolomeo’s growling voice barked out a whimsical wonderment towards Nami. Just as he began another tirade of how truly in awe he was to her polearm fighting techniques, you couldn't take it anymore and snapped at him.

“Down boy! Sit! Fuck, do I need to leash this guy?” you growled at him, causing him to immediately slink away from the three of you with his jaw slack. Before you had an opportunity to rephrase your wording, he plonked himself down on the floor, crossing one leg over the other and nodding at you in a frantic bob.

“You can leash me,” he whispered breathily, nodding once more with his eyes wide and wanting. “If it would make an angel more beautiful than anything my mind could conjure up in my dreams happy, I would do it-.”

“-Oh, stop with the praise, damn it,” you dismiss him, “Or I'll be forced to muzzle you too.” Nami sucked her bottom lip into her mouth to stifle her laugh while Robin drew her straw up to her lips and drank a small mouthful of the liquid.

Bartolomeo’s eyes rolled in his skull, his whine caught in his throat at the picture you gave him.

Of all of the Straw Hats, aside from Luffy, you were his favorite. He was always too nervous to approach you while either you or he was alone, simply because he felt as if he couldn't control what he would say to you. What was he to do, admit he had been in love with you the moment he captured your news clipping in his hands? Surely not.

“You don't need to muzzle me,” Bartolomeo confirmed with you softly, “I know how to behave. I can be a good boy for you.”

“Oh yeah?” you taunt him, leaning forward and challenging him with your glare, “You gonna be my good boy?”

Nami turned her head, her eyes wide while containing a squeal at the interaction between yourself and Bartolomeo. Robin’s smile grew in a large grin, her teeth now exposed and giving her an unhinged aura about her.

“I'll be anything you want me to. I can be your good boy,” Bartolomeo confessed breathily, your glare shooting sparks straight down to his cock and causing it to twitch against the seam in his pants. You reached forward, collecting his smooth chin in your fingers and smiling suggestively at him.

“Anything I want you to be?” you nod, looking down your nose at him and nodding suggestively. He mirrored your nod with his brows peaking at the center of his forehead. “Do you think you could start with being quiet? Then followed by you and your crew leaving us alone for at least two hours more than our sleep schedule every damn day?”

Nami burst out laughing, no longer able to contain her teeters. Robin’s soft chuckle joined hers, but your challenge never moved from your face.

Bartolomeo felt all of the air swell in his lungs at once, his breath snatched from him while being held beneath your stare. He let out a soft whimper, causing you to almost feel bad for him before he collected your right hand within both of his and tugged it tenderly away from his chin.

“If that's what you want, mistress,” he whispered, softly leaning down and pressing his forehead to your knuckles, “Then I'll keep myself and my crew away from you all when you need your space. I can be quiet. I promise.” He raised his head up and once again and beamed emotionally up at you, “I didn't mean to offend you with how much I like you all. I'll be quiet. I can do it, mistress.”

Your lips parted as he stood, releasing your hand from his grip and bowing low to you once reaching full stature.

“I'm sorry, ladies,” he nodded, raising his head to meet your eyes and depict his honesty, “I'll be whatever you need me to be. If you need me to be quiet, then I'll be quiet. I'll keep them all quiet. Again, I'm sorry.”

He backed away, causing your eyes to maintain their contact against his as he did so. Robin slowly held her eyes on yours and smirked as she noticed the slight hitch in your breath and fluster on your cheeks.

“Well, that was certainly something,” she chuckled contemplatively. “How did it make you feel?”

“A big ol', green-haired, sharp-toothed puppy dog following your orders,” Nami cooed beside you, causing heat to continue rising in your face and tips of your ears, “Did you see the way he looked at you? So devoted and needy.” Both women teased you with a soft coo, causing you to growl and hide your face in your hands.

“Fuck…” you whispered softly, raising your fingers to pinch at the bridge of your nose, “Something about the visual of him in a collar, leash, and muzzle did something. Damn it.”

“Hey, we don't Kink-Shame on the Thousand Sunny,” Nami pointed out, Robin nodding with a soft hum beside you in confirmation, “You wanna leash him, I'm pretty sure Sanji or Zoro might have something you can use. Or maybe Franky could make something for you-.”

“-You’re making it worse,” you growl at her. Her laugh once again rang melodiously through the top deck and down to the joint crew now being reprimanded by Bartolomeo.

“Don't you want him to be your ‘good boy’?” Robin probed you, “Have him sit by your heals and do little tricks to earn a reward?”

“Robin, damn it-!” you again groaned at her, “Not. Helping.”

“Would it help if we watched the door for you?” she shrugged nonchalantly, “Have you and Bartolomeo in a room together for you to invoke some discipline on the needy pup?” You turn and glare at her, causing her to place down her drink to raise her hands in submission.

“This was not meant with disrespect, love. I mean it,” she nodded at you, turning to Nami and nodding at her too, “We've all been pent up for a while, and you and the captain have chemistry together. Your auras align, and I'm sure he would want to continue exploring that with you.”

“Oh yeah? And what am I going to do?” you flail dramatically. Gesturing down to the bottom deck where Bartolomeo was gazing at you like a devotee up at his idol, you continued, “Go and say: ‘Alright pup, come and show me what a good boy you can be and follow some orders in my quarters’? Be real, Robin.”

“That's precisely what I'm saying,” she nodded at you, gesturing down to the base of the Thousand Sunny and shooing you with a soft flail of her hands, “Now off you go. Get your good boy.”

“Oh, fuck,” you whined, immediately feeling compelled to rise to your feet and leaving their company, “You're both so mean to me. I hope you're happy.”

“Not as happy as you're about to be-,” Nami snickered, only to be silenced by a scowl you sent towards her.

“I’m going to my quarters,” you growl at them both before taking a few steps towards the deck and peering down, “Let me have my fun.” Pursing your lips, you exhale a soft whistle to gather the attention of the cannibal on the surface below you. Clicking your tongue at him, you caught his eye and bobbed your head towards the hallway beneath the ship.

“That was always the plan, love,” Robin smiled at you. “We’ll make sure nobody bothers you until you're needed, which won't be for a while, will it, Nami?”

“Nope. Weather is perfect, and land isn't in sight for about four hours or so,” she nodded at you, “Go get that big puppy to learn some tricks. He looks like he'd be an animal in bed, and with a title like ‘cannibal’, you just know he eats well.”

With another exasperated sigh, you fled to the bottom deck towards the corridor where Bartolomeo was waiting for you. He was antsy, rocking on the balls and heels of his feet while avoiding your eye contact. Gently reaching towards the larger man, you flick at his chin to raise his eye line to your face.

“Does the offer still stand about being a good boy for me?” you tilt your head and dart your eyes between his. You hoped the tension you felt earlier was not unrequited, your pussy already beginning to gather a wave of arousal at your slit.

“Anything you want me to be,” he confirmed in a repetition of his earlier sentiment, biting his lip and gazing innocently up through his eyelashes at you. “Let me be your little pet. Collar me, leash me. I'm yours.”

A soft whine caught itself in your nasal, guts clenching in thick knots at his admission. Reaching forward, you take him by the hand and begin leading him towards your room.

Opening the door, he has a moment to take in the most hidden and intimate look at his second favorite Straw-Hat after Luffy.

The scent, the colors, the presence: the you. Everything was you, and he needed to commit each crevasse to memory in case you asked him to leave. While he was distracted, you reached below your bed and found your hidden lingerie collection and chose the items you thought he might enjoy.

While you would prefer to collar and leash him properly, give him a pretty name tag with your name on the inside of the material, you made do with an intricate slipknot to lovingly place over his neck made from a garter and a small length of rope used for bondage as a makeshift leash. Stripping yourself hastily from your clothes, exposed and completely bare, you finally turned and sat down at your desk and hooked one knee over the other.

He took another look at your bed before he finally turned away to view what you were doing with the rope. Turning towards you, his eyes grew so wide he felt they might flee from their sockets and roll onto the wooden floorboards.

“Well, don't just stand there gawking,” you rolled your eyes and revealed the little collar and leash, “Come here and let me put this on you.”

“Hhhgnm-...” Bartolomeo whined for you, dropping to his knees and wriggling along the floor while humbling himself before you. Once at your ankles, you leaned forward, giving him an eyeful of your exposed breasts and pebbled nipples as you drew the garter over his neck. Tugging on the leash, he played along to your motion and fell into your shin.

“Gonna be a good puppy and get a treat?” you tilted your head, gently parting your thighs and removing your knee from its place laced with your other, “Show me how much of a good listener you are?”

Bartolomeo felt as if he had ascended to another plane. A Straw Hat was giving him a behind the scenes tour of their quarters, and inviting him to be blessed with the opportunity of making them cum. He felt like his heart could explode, his panting breath picking up in intensity as he almost hyperventilated in glee.

“Barto…?” you softly checked in with him, “Is this too much? Would you like me to tone it do- OH FUCK-!!”

Barely giving you a moment to expel the words of concern, Bartolomeo surged forward and began nuzzling and whining against your cunt. His lips were pursed as he kissed every inch of skin greedily, tongue darting out to flicker at your crotch and taste your skin.

“Barto, w-wait-!” you attempted to reign him in, tugging the stretchy collar and trying to pry him away from your exposed area. In lieu of pulling him back, your grip on the collar only made him want to try harder to lick and suck your skin. Just as you pulled once more to pry him away, Bartolomeo managed to flick his tongue over your clit which had you cry out for him.

“Oh, fuck-!” you hissed down at him, “Barto, please make me cum?” You hooked your thighs over his shoulders, trapping his head between your thighs and angling his larger head to get a better angle on your entire pussy.

With one hand on the leash, you drew down your other and gripped his green hair while bucking up into his face.

“More on my clit please, pup,” you directed him, grinding your pussy against his eager smile. He immediately drew his lips up and circled your clit with a soft purse. Messily sucking on your clit, he parted his lips and kept the top lip rubbing the small bud while his tongue flicked and slithered against your slit.

“Mmm-! Fuck, good pup,” you whined, contorting your face in a pleasured scrunch and grinding into his lips. “Good listening. K-Keep going.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes never left your face, mapping and committing each motion to memory and whining into your pussy. His cock felt painfully hard beneath his pants. Already dampening the crotch of his patterned material, precum leaked from his small slit at the top of his cock at each small utterance of praise.

“There you go, good pup,” you keened for him. Your pussy was so wet, and with the additional combination of Bartolomeo's enthusiasm, you felt your ecstasy building rather quickly. It had been so long since you had a moment alone to think for yourself, let alone touch yourself, and it was beginning to show with how needily you groaned and whined for Bartolomeo.

“Mm, keep going. S-So close, puppy,” you praised him. Your grip grew firmer on the leash, fistfuls of green hair now burning at each follicle in a way that had Barto rocking and humping his pants while consuming you vigorously. He loved each moment, and he knew he was going to cum untouched as soon as you exploded over his face.

“Oh, baby, you're gonna make me cum,” you whine, feeling neediness continuing to take over your motions. He hummed desperately into your pussy, hoping you like the vibration he adds to your experience. He lulled his tongue out lazily, and bobbed his head messily up and down, while paying attention to your clit and slit.

You could ask Bartolomeo to do anything, and he would do it no questions asked. He would fuck your asshole with his tongue if that's what you wanted, have you sit on his face and ride him if you preferred it. All that mattered to him was making you cum. He needed to make you cum like the way his body needed water.

“Mmmfphmmm-!!” Barto babbled enthusiastically into your pussy, swiping his tongue against you with a ‘plap, plap, plap’. While the language was incoherent, the message was the same.

‘Cum for me.’

The pit in your stomach tightened to a point you felt it could snap, prompting your pitch and praise to get both higher in frequency and pitch.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck-! Barto, you're gonna make me c-cum-!! Oh, fuck. I'm cumming-!” You messily rode his face, holding onto the leash of your green-haired puppy while screaming for him. The world shattered like glass, your ecstasy cresting from your chest and swelling your bloodstream with pure bliss. Clear cum drooled out from your slit, Bartolomeo eagerly lapping it up while you chased your high.

As soon as you cried his name and warned him, he couldn't help it. Hot bursts of untouched release painted the insides of his pants and briefs as he muffled what sounded like your name into your pussy. Bucking wildly while sucking on your clit, he rode through his untouched high with his tip squished against his tight pants.

Coming back down from the crashing waves of bliss, you released the leash and his hair, peering down at him with a lazy glow illuminated in your skin.

“Good puppy,” you giggled at him, causing him to groan lovingly at the praise, “Lap it up, baby. Gotta get all cleaned up before I take that pretty cock you're hiding from me beneath those pants.”

Where Bartolomeo would usually say: “I don't think I can cum so soon, I just creamed my pants at the thought of you cumming in my face,” these were not usual circumstances. He was with his second favorite Straw-Hat, and he was not going to disappoint you.

However long you were willing to spend with him was a blessing from the gods, and he would be held at your mercy until you were ready to tell him to stop. You were a goddess to him, and he was a zealot to your altar.

“Good puppy,” you praised him, scrunching up your nose and cooing down at him. “Now get on the bed. Behave for me.”

“Yes mistress,” he whined at you, giving you needy kisses to the thighs and aiding you into his arms to bring you to the bed, “I'll keep being your good puppy for you. I can listen.”

You couldn't help the small whine that fled your throat, truly relishing in his complete and total submission to you. You then caught yourself wondering how much you could get away with by calling him your good boy. Would he let you peg him? Would he let you tie him down? Would he let you ride his face? Would he let you bite him? Would he let himself bite you with his sharp teeth if you asked him to?

All of those questions would find their answer over the next three hours of senseless and animalistic ravaging taking place on your mattress, followed by such sweet tenderness you had never known prior.

He was so sweet to you, and you praised your good puppy until you both fell asleep in the arms of one another.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel

🎶"Happy Birthday to Me"🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[theloveinc]

jason todd x reader - boobies and entrails, entrails and boobies. 1.3k

(warnings: afab!reader who has bio baby and is called "mama," mentions of giving birth and post-birth body, nipple worship, kinky and weird SORRY i went insane, one instance of gore, jason is pretty teasing and suave, but so are you. mature themes, be warned.)

Jason and his staring problem—

At you, mostly (he gets it from the whole “being a vigilante” thing, he says when you point it out. It has to run deeper than that, though—because it’s not just tactical scans and daggers you catch him shooting, but the most heinous pair of bedroom eyes, as well, even in the most public of places), but also… at every single thing around you, too. Not a single trip out of the house goes by without him inspecting the scenery, the bus, the people around you both with those searing blue eyes. If he were anything like Superman, your whole neighbor and everyone in it would’ve been burnt to a crisp before you even managed to move in.

But also, Jason and his staring problem now that you’re lactating, as if he’s always desperately waiting for the moment your shirt comes off for whatever reason, to feed the kid or you to change your clothes. 

(He knows it’s perverted, but it’s tender in a way, too, and there’s nothing he likes more than being tender with you, having you in ways no other person can.)  

In fact, the cosmic energy of his ogling problem is probably the reason that you’re leaking through your shirt right now, breasts stiff and heavy from waiting for your baby to wake up from their snooze to be fed, and from the intensity of your lover, just watching, just waiting–

(He claims that it’s simply because he’d hate for anything to happen to either of you in such a vulnerable moment, that he can’t stand the thought of any kind of disturbance during baby’s feeds, even if it’s just the doorbell, the fridge’s automatic ice machine, or the sound of sirens outside.)

But just like their father on the nights he isn’t tossing and turning and sweating, your baby is a heavy sleeper, doesn’t exactly snore (yet) but you can always hear their little puffs of their breath through the monitor at night. It’s… cute (just like Jason is, when he’s able to fully relax). 

You’re only just coming out of the nursery when you catch sight of the stains in the hallway mirror–right where your nipples sit, over the large Wayne Enterprises logo of your shirt–cussing because now you’ve gotta change clothes and you're unsure if your raw nipples can take the friction of another bra and t-shirt sliding over your chest. 

Jason hasn’t exactly hid the nipple cream, but he keeps it on his side of the bed so that he can do the honors of applying it for you, which would be weird, but…you’ve seen his entrails on multiple occasions, plus you birthed his baby and the entire time, he had his head between your legs to watch. That aside, however, he actually knows what the hell he’s doing, cupping and kneading your chest before bed each night, one last round of filling up your pump for his shift to feed the baby before licking up the rest himself. Then, he’s slathering you in lotion, fully assured that you’re empty and content enough to sleep until it’s your turn for the baby.

(You’ve found that you’ve come to love his calloused and rough hands even more than you did previously: the ridges and notches of skin scratching every itch, feeding every urge, and serving to answer to your every need, grounding you in ways you often don’t always notice, but instead, always feel.) 

But then the man himself is appearing in the threshold, acting smug and surprised to see you as though he wasn’t already on his way to pester you in the nursery, where he’d likely pull you from your fussing with folding and refolding the baby clothes so you could sit on his lap in the room’s armchair and eventually fall asleep with your face in his neck. 

And he’s walking up and pressing his belly to yours, your sore tits nudging against where he is most firm and they are swollen, causing you to inhale sharply, huff just a little out of surprise—

Before you realize Jason’s cornered you on purpose.

(You can’t escape those eyes, not even for a second, always catching the smallest of things; the dribble of spit about to land on your shoulder when you’re burping the baby, the air bubbles that haven’t quite yet settled in a freshly made baba, the single loose thread about to unravel their little crocheted hat.)

One side of his lips tilt up, and you glare—not annoyed so much as unimpressed by his scheme. You’d much rather his initial plan, or the one that ends ups up with you in your own bedroom, taking advantage of the next 45 minutes without a baby in either of your arms, than be out here, cranky from the chill of your milk cooling on your shirt, leaving wet marks your husband will both enjoy and tease you relentlessly for (both verbally and physically). 

“What?” you mutter, trying not to shirk away from his prying gaze, unpacking you the way he’s always been able to (even now that the two of you have softened in ways only parenthood can allow for), with caution and vigilance lingering in every small movement.  

“Nothin’,” he smiles, leaning in to press his nose to yours, hands wrapping around your hips to cup your ass and pull your hips to his. You can feel the outline of something in his pants–not yet fully tented, but still chubbing with heat, and you barely brush against it when you move to curl your fingers in his belt. 

“You’re lying.” 

(Jason seems to like this domestic life he has with you, a little more than he cares to admit–out loud, at least.) 

“Just wanted a kiss, maybe,” he feigns innocence, teeth visible through his sly grin. “‘not gonna make me ask for one, are you?”

You exhale sharply, and though you raise an eyebrow, you also lift your chin, welcoming the way his mouth settles heavy on yours, curving against your lips, pressing them open wetly until your eyes are closing and you’re leaning into his frame where his arms are waiting to pull you as close as possible.

Jason pulls back, but doesn’t quite recede from you; his eyes dark and pretty eyelashes heavy in the low, evening light of the hallway…so you wait (letting him give you more delicate pecks on the mouth, cheeks, eyelids, in between each of his breaths) and wait and wait, til his hands finally start to creep, up from your hips, where his thumbs tickle your belly, still soft and wrinkled from your labor, to your waist where they begin pushing up your shirt. He fingers the low edge of your nursing bra, tickling the soft underside of your boobs as he begins to move the band upward. 

“Todd…” you warn, fidgeting in his hold as his form, his hands, his eyes overtake you, slowly stretching the elastic up and over, until it has crumpled the fabric of your t-shirt against your collarbones and your tits are free.    

Still, his eyes only crinkle at the sides, as they have started to do more and more the longer you’ve been together.

“You’re leaking, mama,” he whispers, moving his hands from your bra to where you’re now exposed, heated flesh going chilly from exposure, warming where he cups 

“And?”

He smirks, “‘just wanna help, is all.”

One of his fingers glides down your nipple gently, and milk starts to bead when he presses (not hard enough to bruise, but enough to have you keening, your at least for a second, til his hand is swiping your skin and he’s sucking the fatty drippings into his mouth and sucking. Hard. 

“Yeah?” you breathe, staring into his eyes, watching just the same. “Then why don’t you go and get my pump?”

(He does, obediently, not before turning back to give you those eyes one more time, as if to say, later, soon as baby is fed–

And boy, does he make good on the wordless promise: Jason has you howling on his thigh later even with a mouth full of milk.)

[ohgodthevoices]

hey swaggy author, i would absolutely LOVE if u did a tsukishima fluff + angst 🤭 smtg like the osamu timeskip one with the themes of childhood best friends and development of feelings once they're like older 🙂‍↕️🙏

omg i never wrote for tsukishima and im scared it'll be ooc but here we go ill try my best 😭

Tsukishima kei x reader

tags : fluff , a lil angst , he’s not good with feelings , childhood friends to lovers , gn!reader

you and tsukishima kei had been inseparable since chilhood. you were there when he got his first dinosaur book , sitting cross-legged beside him as he rambled about prehistoric eras with excitement only a kid could muster. he was there when you scaped your knee falling off your bike offering a "don't be dumb next time" as he handed you a band-ai

your friendship was nothing too loud , sitting next to each other on the bus , sharing earphones and bickered over song choices or staying up on call when one couldn't sleep and the other was studying.

but somewhere along the way, somwhere between your first and second year of highschool , something shifted.

it wasn't obvious at first , maybe it was the way his gaze lingered a second longer when you laughed, or how your heart stuttered when he absentmindedly fixed your scarf on a cold day. small, almost imperceptible moments stacking up, like a slow-building crescendo neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

when summer was finally here, your joy was quickly met by confusion when tsukishima started leaving you on read longer than usual, it was the way he stopped comming to your place to pick you up for your weekly saturday morning coffee date , the way you'd see him with yamaguchi after he told you he couldn't go out today, the way he stopped answering you calls when you wanted to give him a haul of what you bought.

you decides to brush it off , ever since the start of your first year , tsukishima has been getting closer to his new volleyball teammates , maybe he had decided to change friendgroups , maybe you weren't enough for him anymore...but then days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and it was already the first day of your second year in highschool

obviously you didn’t know the way he felt about you, that him distancing himself only equaled to his realization of his growing feelings for you. he couldn’t accept it, him liking loving someone ? and that someone had to be you ?? that just couldn’t be good. so the only logical solution to him was to disappear, maybe that way the way he was feeling would disappear too…

but tsukishima only found himself seeking you even more, he was seeking your presence , your unfunny jokes , your stupid smile that he just loved to see , he tried distracting himself with practice and hanging out with his teammates, he thought he’d get used to the feeling of something missing when you weren’t here. but boy was he wrong.

now that second year tsukishima stood in front of you in silence, his arrogance was quickly replaced by vulnerability as soon as he locked eyes with you, his best friend next to him quickly got the notice and left the two of you alone in the school’s empty hallway , he suddenly didn’t assume all those unanswered calls and texts , tsukishima opened and closed his mouth as if looking for the right words “i know i acted like an idiot.” he was gonna put his pride to the side for this, for you.

he told you everything— from the reason to why he ghosted you to how he realized he liked you, and you didn’t say a word until he finished , you had known him for so long yet this was the first time you saw tsukishima nervous, actually expressing how he feels. when he was done , he looked at you with an intense gaze waiting for an answer , anything— but you laughed, not because you were going to reject him but because he looked so out of it. of course he got pretty mad at your reaction but you didn’t reject him.

tsukishima preferred to keep your relationship on the low, he didn’t want it to be private, he wanted people to know you were off limits, but he hates showing off. but that changed over time, he was glad you continued to grow up together.

tsukishima thought it was endearing that the person he played hot wheels with was actually driving a car now, that he went from eating pretend food you made in your play kitchen to actually coming back to you and savoring the nice warm meal you made him.

both your families were over joyed when tsukishima finally agreed to let them know you had been dating for 3 (almost 4) years , your families were already pretty close thanks to your mothers being best friends but now they were even closer, holidays were spent together and dinners that were actually enjoyable were hosted more often.

he’s the type of boyfriend to be very attentive, very teasing, his teasing isn’t as mean as it was back in highshool, but he liked how affective it was on you. he’d tease when you mess up a word and kiss you if you got annoyed. tsukishima’s way of showing his love for you is act of service omg he just does everything for you and if you dare tell him “i could do it myself yk” he will hit you.

he still has the stupid little playlist you made him back in your first year of high school that he listens to when he gets nostalgic or when you argue.

a/n : HEY I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG 😭😭🙏 i’m catching up on all the requests istg

[sunnypopoki]

— MUZZLE : P.7

(Yandere Mafia Husband x Female Reader)

SYNOPSIS: Your husband has been suspicious lately. Going out for days on end, answering suspicious phone calls, being extra clingy when he can... is he cheating on you? Little do you know, it's nothing like that. The world of the mafia is unforgiving.

TW: INSECURE REALISTIC FEMALE READER, FOUL LANGUAGE, MARRIED RELATIONSHIP, YANDERE CONTENT, MATURE THEMES, OVERTHINKING READER, AFAB READER, ETC.

THIS STORY HAS YANDERE CONTENT. THAT MEANS THERE WILL BE MORE MATURE CONTENT. THIS IS IN NO WAY A STORY MEANT TO ROMANTICIZE YANDERES, SO PLEASE DO NOT DO SO EITHER. PLEASE DO NOT COPY THIS STORY. ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED TO POPOKI ON WATTPAD, QUOTEV, AND TUMBLR.

P.6 / P.8

Promises were said to be sacred, but after the following days, you gave up on thinking on such a childish claim. You were walking on a tightrope and before you knew it, you finally started to hear it withering below.

Kieran did his best to stay true to his word but in the end, it was nothing more than a fruitless dream said in the heat of the moment. He ended up picking up his phone calls and you ended up sleeping alone. You were losing the energy to care even if your heart throbbed at the thought.

Stepping off the bus, you pulled your bag up your shoulder and sighed. Kieran took the car that morning to work and so you were forced to take the bus to get to college. If he knew, he'd most likely apologize over and over again, and then never let you ride the bus again. He was always finicky about public transport.

You hopped around the puddles left from the early morning rain.

Ever since the breakdown in the car with Kieran, even to go as far as snapping at Danny, you've done a lot of self-reflection. And you mean a lot. While you were going to school for psychiatry to become a therapist, you weren't the best at regulating your own emotions. It was easier to point out other people's issues rather than pointing out your own.

Maybe I do need to look into seeing a therapist, you thought. It would be better than snapping at people.

Because in truth, you felt guilty. Very guilty. Not about everything else that's going on—but because of how you treated Danny. Everyone knows that it's easier to look back on your mistakes after they pass, and now that you were looking back on that lunch, you saw a lot of things that you could have done differently.

Like the fact he actually did care. Sure, you didn't realize it then, but now you could. How he tried to comfort you when you were spacing out, how he asked how you were doing, telling you that he trusted you enough to want you to work with him.

"He probably wouldn't have told me about my dad if he was working for him," you mumbled under your breath. "He wouldn't have even brought him up. If he wanted to manipulate me, there was no reason to bring up my father."

You assumed the worst. You assumed Danny was just like your dad, just because he happened to be a businessman too. How sad, right? You were so stuck in the past that it was hard to appreciate the love you had now.

Danny wasn't a bad man but you were so quick to assume he was even though you hadn't seen him in half a year. You acted just like how your father treated you; cruel, judgmental, selfish. You didn't take into account what Danny felt. Maybe he was just as anxious as you, he always did have social anxiety in school, even with his good grades.

For someone who wants to become a therapist, you were pretty quick to judge an old friend just because they talked about a topic that made you uncomfortable. How would Danny know it made you uncomfortable? It wasn't like he could read your mind. He hadn't seen you in six months and you expected him to still know everything about you?

You bit your lip. Damn it. Why did a throw a tantrum like that? I even yelled at Kieran.

Guilt was like a sword doused with poison. The moment you realized what you did after some self reflection, there was a sharp pain in your chest like a blade plunging into your heart. Then there was the creeping sensation of nausea each time you thought about what you did, getting worse and worse with each day that passed.

You hopped over a pothole on the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding pedestrians walking down the street. "...Should I message Danny and apologize? What if he doesn't want to hear it though?"

It was hard not to run away. It would be easier to pretend it never happened, to act like he was in the wrong, but in truth—both of you said things that weren't nice. Both of you hurt each other. It wasn't black and white and you realized that, but in that moment, you were selfish enough to think that you were the good guy and he was the bad guy.

"If I don't apologize, I'll continue to feel bad... but he might hate me now. What if he hates me? What if he'll hate me either way?"

Oh yeah. You needed a therapist.

Sorting out your brain was like an impossible puzzle. It was hard to see all the pieces when you didn't have a full view of the table, but with a therapist, they could help sort it out. And maybe they could help sort your thoughts about Kieran too. You slowly wrapped your arms around yourself and frowned.

Each time you had a bad thought and you tried to push it away, it came back ten times more forceful. It was hard to stop thinking. Maybe you had OCD... or just extreme anxiety... or some other undiagnosed mental illness?

I don't want to think about this.

But here you were, continuing to think about it.

You looked over when a dog caught your eye. It rolled over in a patch of grass on the side of the road in front of a storefront. Its hair was soaked with damp grass and dirt, speckled with crunched leaves and twigs. It was having the time of its life. Tailing wagging and panting loudly, you smiled softly when it started rolling over again.

You know what? Maybe a pet would help you sort out some of your issues. Going to bed in a cold bed would be impossible with a puppy cuddled up next to you. Taking care of something would help you distract yourself from all your thoughts too. Like an emotional support animal.

What type of dog would Kieran like?

Your jaw clenched up. Danny made you feel bad, but how you acted with Kieran made you feel sick to your stomach. You yelled at him. You yelled at him like your dad used to yell at your mom. Did he get scared? Is he hurt? You didn't know, since you avoided him ever since then.

You weren't a good friend and you weren't a good wife either. You yelled at him just because you were emotional, fuck, there was no reason to raise your voice but you did. So what if Kieran was distracted at that moment? That didn't give you the right to scream at him.

Maybe I'm turning into my dad? The thought made your blood turn cold. What if I picked up some of his traits with how he treated Mom?

Your father was an abuser. Not only towards you, but his wife as well. You were a child she didn't want, but he forced her to have one nonetheless; being a child of rape didn't help the family bond at all. The moment you were born was the moment everything went downhill. Your father wanted a boy but you weren't one, so he blamed and hit your mother for it, taking his frustrations and cruelty on you when he wanted to.

Your mom didn't love you. Over time, even if it was hard, you realized that you didn't blame her.

Imagine how hard it would be to bond with someone knowing that they shared the same blood as the man who abused you.

You stomped down the streets. The world was spinning, your throat closed up. What if you were abusing Kieran and didn't realize it? What if you were neglecting him? There was the possibility you weren't doing everything subconsciously, right? You yelled at him. You doubt him. You sneaked to look at his computer when he wasn't home.

You were the walking, breathing, sighing incarnation of your father.

No, no, no. Don't spiral, (Y/N). You know that you're spiraling so stop it! You mentally scolded yourself, clutching your bag tighter to you. I need to find a therapist, someone who can help me.

The city was blaring and it was hard to hear your own thoughts. Therapists were always hard to find; either it's because they were too expensive, or too booked, or too far away. You personally weren't a big fan of doing therapy through video. You were more of an "in-person" type of person, if that made sense.

Maybe if you were lucky, you'll find—

"Shit!"

You had only a split second to look up and realize someone turned around the corner you were walking past. Only a split second to dodge. But that was impossible, you weren't Superman. Your nose slammed into his chest and your feet stumbled back, barely managing to catch yourself so you didn't fall to the ground.

The man's hands were full and he struggled to balance himself. Your arm shot out to catch him, or maybe just grab something out of instinct, but it was too late—he crashed. His coffee splattered all over and his sunglasses skidded across the cement.

Realization hit you like a truck.

"Fuck! I'm so sorry!" you fretted, quickly helping the man up from the sidewalk. Cold sweat made your palms damp and your cheeks were burning hot. "I wasn't looking where I was going, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Just as quickly as he fell, the man hopped back up with ease. He grumbled curses under his breath in another language, fixing his orange and red sweater, while he put his sunglasses back on. Luckily those weren't cracked, they looked expensive. No way would you have been able to pay those off.

You bent down to grab the empty coffee off the ground. Talk about guilt, you felt extremely guilty now. How did you not see him?! You should have been paying attention, not absentmindedly walking down the streets like a doofus! Now look at what you did; knocked down an innocent bystander because of your stupidity!

"I'm so sorry! Uhm, I can—I can buy you a new coffee," you stammered.

He whipped back around. You could barely see the heated glare behind the tinted lenses, his Italian accent harsh. "Bitch, fucking watch—"

He froze when he saw your face. For whatever reason, he looked like he had a scary realization of impending doom right when he saw you. Like the music for Jaws just started playing and he was looking down the mouth of a great white shark. The blood on his face drained to his feet and he licked his chapped lips.

You, on the other hand, took his expression as unbridled anger. He had every right to be angry. You'd also be pissed if someone knocked into you and made you spill your coffee and all your belongings. Especially since he looked all out together nicely, you probably just ruined his cool 'vibes'.

His dreadlocks were pulled into a pretty bun. You noticed the silver charms in his hair, matching the designer watch on his wrist. Even his orange-tinted sunglasses matched his orange and red sweater. He looked like he took an hour to organize his outfit for the day. Thank god the coffee didn't get all over the front of him. You hadn't a clue how much his sweater and pants cost, but based on that watch, you didn't want to look at the price tag.

If only you had a hole that you could jump and hide in forever. "I'm so sorry! Wait, here, let me..."

You turned out your wallet and pulled out twenty dollars. That had to be enough for coffee and a little something extra from the cafe nearby, right? You'd be fine. Ten dollars being left in your wallet was enough to buy a small sandwich on campus for lunch. It was your fault for forgetting your debit card back at home.

"Here, sir! Uhm, please take this. You can get yourself another coffee and something extra from the cafe nearby. I am so sorry."

The man rubbed the back of his neck, not reaching for the money. He didn't even glance at it. "Oh—uhm—It's okay. I don't need it."

"No, please, take it. I won't be able to forgive myself if I just ruined your morning like this," you confessed. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I'm sorry."

He was hesitant. You weren't dumb, you could tell he looked uncomfortable around you. There was the possibility that he was so angry that he was trying to hold it all back, making his movements almost robotically evasive. With muscles like his, he could easily hurt you if he wanted, but instead, he was acting like he'd get seared if he looked at you.

You prayed to god that he didn't explode and scream at you. You didn't think you'd be able to handle that this morning.

"I don't need the money. Ah... it's just—uhm, it's just a mistake. We all make mistakes."

But I'll feel like shit if you don't take it.

His complete 180° attitude was jarring. One moment he was glaring at you and calling you a bitch, now he was saying it was a mistake. Was he just trying to keep face?

You caught a glimpse of something black in the corner of your eye. Turning around, your face drained when you noticed his phone on the ground. His phone was cracked. Your mouth opened in horror and you choked, noticing that it was a newer brand.

How much were those phones? 2,000 dollars? You'd have to sell your soul to get him that type of money.

"Oh my god! I'm so fucking sorry! I didn't realize I broke your phone!"

He blinked. "Huh?"

Looking down to where you were staring, he finally noticed that his phone was on the ground, the screen destroyed. It stared back at him with cracked glass and a chipped case. It was just a small tumble! Why did it look like it went through the Himalayas?!

There was a long pause. The man cleared his throat, rubbed his face, bent down, and grabbed his phone. He tapped at the screen but it didn't come on. Again, it didn't turn on. And again, nothing. He didn't look as angry as you thought he'd be, but that didn't smooth your nerves.

"...uh, It's okay. I can—"

"It's not okay! I'll—I'll pay for it. Uhm, I don't have the money with me now, but uhhhh..." you pulled out a notebook from your bag and tore a piece of paper, "please email me here, since your phone is decimated. Fuck, I am so sorry. I'll pay you back I swear. Promise."

He didn't take the note or say anything. He stood there awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something under his breath. He looked fed up. Oh no. You screwed up big time. You made him fall, lose his coffee, and crack his super duper expensive phone.

"...do—do you not have an email? I can uh, I can give you my phone number if you have another phone to reach me," you asked, clutching the paper tight in your hands. "I—I don't have the money now but I swear I'll get it! How much was it? 1,500? 2,000?"

The man cleared his throat. There was another long pause before he hesitantly glanced at me. "I'm not upset. I just have a question. Are you... uh, (Y/N)?"

If there was a magic word to put all your defenses up in a heartbeat, it would be your name. It wasn't like a lot of people knew it. You didn't flaunt it on social media and you weren't famous, you didn't have a lot of friends either, so it wasn't like it was normal for a random person to know your name on the street. Your muscles wound up. Maybe this man worked for your father? It wouldn't have surprised you if he sent someone to stalk you.

You glanced around. There were no suspicious fancy cars on the street, or suspicious people that looked like they were watching you.

Repaying the phone didn't seem to matter all that much anymore.

"...yes? How do you know my name?"

He bit his lip and glanced around as if he was scared some monster would come out of the shadows and attack him. He looked more paranoid than you did. "Uh... sorry for randomly asking that. However, I'm a friend of your husband, Kieran."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You've never heard of him or even seen this guy before. Maybe he was a client of Kieran's? A writer or journalist? A fellow editor? If you had to put it nicely, the man in front of you didn't look like he had the patience to sit down and edit written work. With bulky muscles like that, you'd expect him to be a wrestler or full-time bodybuilder.

The man cleared his throat and pushed back the money you gave him, along with the torn paper. "As Kieran's friend, I can't take his wife's money. I can buy some coffee and a new phone easily." 

Seriously? Easily?

"But if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you about something," he straightened his back up and there was a spark of confidence in his eyes, along with some determination as if he made up his mind about something. "Could you sit with me at the coffee shop now? I have concerns about Kieran."

This was weird. This entire ordeal was so weird that it almost didn't feel real. Let's put it into perspective; you bump into a man and he calls you a bitch, then changes and starts saying you made a mistake, asks for your name, claims to be your husband's friend, and then asks to talk to you over coffee? So yeah, weird.

You were about to say no, but then stopped yourself when you remembered you were in his debt. You just broke his phone and made him spill his coffee, the least you could do was pay for his coffee while he talked to you about something.

Even if it was weird, it wasn't like you were going somewhere where it was just you and him alone. He couldn't possibly kidnap you inside a coffee shop next to a busy street in the city. You examined him head to toe. He didn't look like he had any weapons, and if he was a friend of Kieran's, you doubted he'd harm you.

Your college class could wait. Luckily your professor was kind enough to know you weren't the type to ditch class willy-nilly.

"Okay, but I'll pay for your coffee. It's the least I can do," you stuck your hand out for a polite shake, "what's your name?"

The man took your hand. "Mathew."

"Nice to meet you then."

It was awkward, so you didn't say a thing as he started to blabber and lead you to the coffee shop that was close by. You didn't know what to say. Should you compliment his clothes? Ask how he knew Kieran? He'd most likely elaborate over coffee.

You had so many questions you wanted to ask him. Just why was he wanting to talk to you was the big question. It wasn't like you were a super genius and you didn't know a lot about Kieran's schedule, so he could ask about that. You doubted this man knew anything at all about you except your name.

The walk to the coffee shop was a long one. Well, it was realistically only two minutes of walking, but the mental time there was forever. The man blabbered about random things to pass the awkward wall there; the time, the weather, the news. He didn't mention anything about the most recent murder case which you were grateful for. You already had so many things on your mind, you didn't want to think about that.

The door to the coffee shop chimed when the both of you walked in. A young waitress perked up from where she slumped against the counter and quickly rushed to give us a booth.

Finally, things are moving along.

Mathew slipped inside his seat. Unlike the restaurant you ate at with Danny and Kieran, this place was cozy and right up your alley. The smell of coffee beans filled the room and the rays from outside poured through the window, warming up the table. He ordered a black coffee and you ordered an iced caramel latte. You didn't even like lattes all that much, but it was the best thing on the menu.

Mathew smiled. "This coffee shop is very cozy, don't you think?"

"It is."

"It's perfect for a date. Have you taken Kieran here before?"

"No, I have not."

He didn't seem bothered by your robotic responses. It was like he already knew how you'd react to him. He didn't push for any more questions, instead, he waited for you to ask the question you've been dying to ask ever since he told you he was Kieran's friend.

"...So, Mathew, how come has Kieran never told me about you before?"

Mathew tapped his fingers against the table. He had horrible posture, leaning back with a nonchalant air surrounding him. He didn't seem angry or nervous anymore. Maybe it was just possible that he had mood swings. That made more sense than whatever weird explanation you could come up with inside your head.

"I helped raise him, I met the kid back in Russia," he stated and your eyes widened. So he's a very old friend of Kieran's.

"Wait. So you know his family? His parents as well?"

"Yes. Mr and Mrs Morosov helped me back before when I lived in Italy. I became a close friend to them and grew up with Kieran, even though me and him aren't close in age at all."

You squinted. "But you look his age?"

Mathew blinked. His lips curled into a charming smile, his eyes crinkling around the edges when he laughed. "Oh really? It's always flattering to hear a pretty woman compliment my youthful appearance. Thank you, but I'm twenty-nine."

Your cheeks warmed up. He really did look young, as if he drank from the fountain of youth itself. His face was incredibly smooth (more so than yours) and you wouldn't be surprised if he suddenly told you he was an actor forced to play younger roles in movies. It was always heartwarming to see someone smile so genuinely. It was a good thing that he took that comment as a compliment, you didn't want him calling you a bitch again.

"I think that's why he hasn't told you about me," he confessed and shrugged his shoulders. "We aren't close in age, our interests are different, and he's a married man. I'm too much of a partygoer for him to hang out with me."

That made sense. Kieran has never been a party man of any sort, especially not when he was younger. Sure, he was reckless and a troublemaker, but his trouble wasn't extroverted. He'd much rather sing to himself in the shower than go to karaoke and drink with buddies. He was a risk taker who avoided risks that meant talking to others.

"I see... and I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I'll be blunt, why do you want to talk to me?" You asked, crossing your hands on the table. For some reason, you felt anxious.

Mathew's slowly smile fell. He cleared his throat and fixed up his posture. "Well, it's about Kieran.”

"Oh."

This could be one of many things. Mathew could be here to snitch on Kieran about all the things he has been up to behind your back. He could tell you about a secret mistress, he could tell you about being in a gang, he could tell you about any secret that you didn't know of.

The dread you've felt this entire time trampled over you. Was it finally time? Were you finally going to get all the answers you wanted? Did you even want to hear it now? Bile rose in your throat.

"I need for you to talk to Kieran about something. He's been acting weird lately, and he trusts you more than me, so—" Mathew cut himself off when he saw your blanched-out expression. His lips pursed into a thin line. "Spit it out. You're thinking about something already."

Perceptive people always unnerved you. Swallowing down your thoughts, you wondered if he was trustworthy enough to share your worries with.

The waitress came back with the drinks. A mug was pushed in front of Mathew and he took a greedy gulp, while you nervously played with the rim of your cup. You watched the ice tilt in the coffee.

"Well?" he raised an eyebrow, "If you're thinking about Kieran, we might have the same concerns."

That was true. This man was a friend of Kieran's, and you trusted that without a doubt. He even knew his parents. Maybe this was the leap of faith that you were waiting for. Even if you were nervous, you had to be at least a little brave. It wasn't like you were speaking to Kieran right now.

"...you promise you won't share any of this with Kieran?" you asked.

"Swear on my heart."

"Okay, good," you ignored the trembles in your fingers and quickly took a sip of your coffee. It wasn't that good. "Uhm, well... my concerns are—uh how do I say this?"

Mathew deadpanned as he took a huge swig of his drink. "Bluntly. Always works for me."

I hesitated. "Well then, okay, uhm—I think he might be cheating on me with someone named Sam."

He coughed. "What?"

It was like magic. The moment the words left your lips, you were spilling out your guts to him. Laying out every worry, every secret, every insecurity for him to see. Screw a therapist, now a stranger could see all the puzzle pieces on the table. You couldn't stop yourself.

"I know! I saw on his computer that he was talking to someone called Sam. Like, it could be a boy, but it could also be a woman. I know, it's bad and a shitty thing to do as a wife, I feel bad for snooping but he kept being weird and so—"

Mathew raised his hand and you buffered, but before you could blabber some more, he said, "Slow down. What are you saying?"

"I—uh.. well, I think Kieran is cheating on me with someone named Sam, and I feel bad because I snooped through his laptop—"

"You don't have to feel bad. I'd do the same if my partner or spouse was acting weird and not sharing things."

Your jaw dropped. "...you would?"

Mathew wasn't as judgmental or disgusted as you thought you would. He looked normal, like you didn't do anything wrong. He shrugged.

"Yeah? It's normal. I mean, it's not like you're suspecting him without evidence," he shrugged. "Have you asked him about it? Bluntly? You know, communication is key, or whatever the fuck therapists say."

He was right. Communication was key, that was how so many healthy relationships prospered, but in this situation—communication was scary. You didn't want to think about all the times when not communicating led to toxic situations. You running from the store out of spite, you yelling at Kieran, and you avoiding him. God, there were so many things.

You swallowed the bile in the back of your throat. You felt like vomiting. Why did you have to think about this right now? All you wanted to do was go to your lecture peacefully and come home.

"I'll take your silence as a no. Why haven't you?"

His words felt like a slap. "...I mean... like, what if he... is?"

Mathew was silent for a bit. He stared at you, examining your expression, doing his best to read what you were thinking. Finally, he let out a long sigh and motioned at you. "Then he is. It's shitty, it's fucked up, and he's a douchebag."

Damn, he wasn't lying about being blunt. You held back your excuses. You weren't sure why you immediately wanted to make defenses for yourself and Kieran. If Kieran was cheating then yeah, he was a douchebag, so there was no reason to form up a defense for him. So why did you want to?

"Well..."

"Listen to me, kid. Whether you ask him or not, nothing is going to change unless you confront him about it. If he's cheating, and I'm saying if, then he's gonna cheat whether or not you ask him. That's how cheaters are. Wouldn't you want to know either way?"

"I..." you were at a loss for words.

You didn't like the fact that he was right. He was staring at the most obvious things, but they felt so new and fresh compared to what you normally thought. Like he was shoving a cold drink in front of you and forcing you to chug it down, it was numbing to the brain.

Mathew rubbed his face and waved his hand around, trying to get his point through your thick skull. "I don't think he is, if you're going to ask for my opinion on the matter. It's just, that he has had some... issues lately. To put it lightly."

You frowned. Concern shoved the negative thoughts out of the way.

"Issues? Is he in danger? Or trouble?"

He shook his head. "Family issues. Papa Morosov has been gunning for his ass."

That didn't explain the constant disappearances from the house in the middle of the night. Especially for those long multiple-day trips he always took. But maybe it explained the cuts and busted knuckles? You hadn't a clue. Mr. Morosov wasn't in the States, was he? Mrs. Morosov would most likely want to see you if he was since the two of them always traveled together no matter what.

But you were confused. Mr. Morosov was a kind man, so why was he gunning after Kieran? And what for?

You didn't know much about Kieran's family life. He didn't talk about his experiences in Russia all that much, or London, and you now had a gut feeling it was because of his parents. You just prayed they weren't using him. They didn't seem like the type, but now the thought was there, and that meant it would go away.

"I see..." you drawled, looking down at your hands. Your nails picked together. This day started weirdly and you weren't sure what to feel about it.

There was some closure knowing that Mathew didn't think Kieran was cheating on you. If it was about his father like Mathew mentioned, would that make you feel better? You wanted Kieran to feel better, to pay attention to you, and to be happy. If his father was getting in the way of that, what would you be able to do to keep him safe? What would you be able to do to keep him sheltered from all that?

You couldn't make decisions for Kieran. That was impossible.

But, but, if he was truly getting targeted by his father for things out of his control, you'd have to do something. Use your influence as his wife to help him in some way. Then there was the other option of him cheating on you... you'd rather think about the other.

"Can I give you a piece of raw unfiltered advice?" Mathew blurted.

You looked up. "Go ahead."

"Avoidance isn't a cure to hard situations. Whether or not you're there, it's happening. The world doesn't stop just because someone pretends it is," he pointed at you and you felt your body run with chills. "It's time for you to stop avoiding, (Y/N). Time doesn't stop for you and Kieran just because you want to stay in a time when things were easier."

Your body locked up. He stared deep into your eyes, harsh and unsettling, but you supposed the truth always looked like that no matter what form it took.

A small bell went off in your head. So that was what you were trying to do. You were trying to stay in the past when things were easier, when you were a kid. You did it with Danny too. You compared Danny to his past self, but how many times have you compared Kieran to his past self as well?

"You just need to realize that relationships don't stay the same. You aren't teenagers anymore, you're adults, you're married, you have your own house. Understand?"

"...yes," you nodded slowly, ignoring the burn in your eyes. "Thank you. But let's say I do confront Kieran about... everything. I don't know—where should I—well, what I'm trying to say is, how should I talk to him?"

Mathew looked at you like you had three heads. "Just talk? Don't beat around the bush for his feelings."

You scratched at your head. "Well, I know that, but I mean—how should I bring up with him? Without hurting his—"

"What did I just say?" Mathew huffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. You flinched. "He's been neglecting your marriage, leaving at night, and you're worried about him being hurt about the consequences of his actions? If he gets his feelings hurt, then boo-hoo. He's a grown man neglecting his wife, he can fucking handle it."

Your lips zipped shut. "But—"

"Ask him, 'Are you cheating on me?' That's it. Five little words that form a little sentence."

It was easy when he put it like that, but each time you tried to say those 'five little words' in the past, you always clamped up. Every. Single. Time. You were starting to believe that you couldn't say that at all, maybe you were cursed and you weren't allowed to say that sentence at all.

Mathew watched your expression and his lips quirked into a goofy smile. "You rambled to me after you bumped into me, you can ramble to him. Just don't break his phone."

Your face turned hot. "I'm still so sorry—"

"Geez woman. It was a joke," he snorted and stretched his arms behind him on the booth, his smile growing. His orange sunglasses lowered on his nose and you watched his dark eyes spark with mischief. "I'd suggest joking with him when you confront him. He won't be able to lie when he hears how uptight you are."

You gaped. Did he just call me uptight?!

"Well excuse me! I'm just responsible."

"Oh? You are?" he grinned, "responsible enough to walk in a straight line without bumping into someone?"

He was quick-witted. He shot out comebacks without thinking, teasing you without a care in the world. He reminded you a lot of Kieran in that sense, only Kieran was a lot softer when it came down to teasing you. Mathew was a lump of coal, Kieran was a lump of charcoal; similar but not the same at all.

"Oh shush! I said I was sorry," I crossed my arms. "Plus you called me a bitch at first so I have every right to be uptight."

"Well, you are one."

"What?!"

He burst out laughing. His head flew back and he cackled like a madman, slapping his leg under the table. People in the coffee shop glanced at him, but he seemed to ignore all the attention, wheezing between words. "I'm kidding! My god kid, your face was glorious. Swore a fly almost flew into your mouth with how fast that jaw dropped."

Your face was burning. People always said that older brothers teased their sisters like this, and it honestly felt like it. It made sense. He was like an older brother to Kieran in a way, and now he was meeting someone who was technically like his sister-in-law. Your lips twitched up into a smile.

"Shut it. People are staring at you, I hope you know," you rolled your eyes.

"Let them. They all want me anyway."

You snorted. Mathew finished the rest of his coffee and glanced at his clock, smiling ear to ear. There was a sense of smugness around him.

"Ah. It seems I have to go. I don't want my boss beating the shit out of me for being late," he snorted. It looked like he actually believed his boss would beat the shit out of him. "Don't worry about the money, kid. I'll handle it. I'll pay for your coffee as well."

"Oh no, I can pay for my own stuff!"

"Nope!" he popped the 'p' and slid out of his booth, jumped on the balls of his feet, and rolled his shoulders back. "Now what do you say to people after they make you feel better after a depressive episode?"

So that was his goal for teasing you. It worked, you didn't feel as glum and beaten down as before. There was this sense of relief hanging over your head; with all your worries laid out, and some advice that helped you realize your own thought processes, and his abusive teasing, you felt a little better.

Not perfect; but lighter.

"I—thank you," you smiled softly. "Truly. You've helped a lot."

Mathew snickered. He said nothing before waving nonchalantly and skipping away as if talking to you made his day ten times better. How did we get from him calling you a bitch to him skipping away with a smile? It was like he came out of an old cartoon and he was the trouble-maker coyote.

You looked down at your cup. The ice was melted and the table was still warm. You failed to realize that Mathew never had a chance to share what he originally wanted to talk about. Your smile slowly fell and you took a deep breath, steadying your thoughts.

Maybe you'd talk to Kieran later.

Just maybe.

Check out my new story, DEAD & DONE!! It’s a yandere reverse harem x female reader. If you like this story, you might like this other one. It also has organized crime, gangs, and shady stuff.

Links: Wattpad, Quotev, Buy Me A Coffee, Discord Server.

I’ve thought about opening writing commissions; what do yall think? Tell me in the comments.

[redflagshipwriter]

Snatching Snitches 7

MASTERPOST

Rachel stopped for a moment in the doorway and looked at the ghost-patterned wall paper and throw pillows. “That’s really… on theme.” 

Danny and Jazz shrugged. “It’s visual white noise to me,” she said. “Have a seat, be careful of that light, though.” She pointed at the hanging light over the sofa, which never bothered Danny because he wasn’t tall enough to hit his head on it. He scowled a bit about it as he slunk to the armchair next to the sofa. When was it going to be his turn to get a growth spurt? It was like he wasn’t even a Fenton. He was short and he was dumb as a rock. He sulked a bit.

Something crunched when Rachel sat down on the sofa. She froze and then reached underneath her leg. She withdrew a broken potato chip. “Is this yours?” she asked dryly.

Danny reached out and took it to be polite. “Thanks.” He considered it for a moment and then ate it, because Jazz was already using her scary face on him, he was caught. “Breakfast,” he explained philosophically. There would be a lecture later. He licked the salt off his fingers and then flung his legs over the side of his chair. 

Damian looked like he was in actual pain. “I have been concerned for your welfare,” he said delicately. “You might realize that I feel a duty of care for you, as well as a certain concern.”

Danny grimached. “That makes sense!” He wriggled his way into the seat a little further. “Um, I probably should have said something before I left. I apologize.”

“None is needed.”

“How did you find him, though?” Jazz pressed. She had her pleasant face on, but Danny knew her well enough to see that she was tense. 

“By the utilization of closed circuit cameras, I was able to confirm that Sni-Danny boarded a bus at the Gotham Depot to a center in Chicago and transferred there to a bus that went to Amity Park.” Damian inclined his head at Raven. “I was able to receive more specific information from my associate, here.”

“...She just looks like a normal goth loser,” Danny said doubtfully. She dressed like Sam, and that was really uncool for an adult. “What, did she do a ouiji board reading or something?”

“Something like that.” Rachel gave him a sharp smile. 

“I knew from the start, of course, that you were no mundane feline,” Damian assured him. The words came out in a practiced rush. “The supernatural nature of your arrival in Gotham city seemed to confirm that Amity was your origin, given the environment here. So I have sought you out to take you home, to safety.”

That was touching and scary.

“Right.” Danny said slowly. “That’s impressive.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “But as you can see, that was a fluke. I am actually a human boy, in good health.” He held out his hands to demonstrate that they were not paws.

Damian stared at him a long time. “Danny,” he said gently. “When you came to us, you had worms.” His large green eyes were wounded, as if he felt pain for Danny and his worms.

Rachel startled and smacked her head on the floating ghost pendant light that was over the sofa. 

While she cursed, Jazz sniffled. “I admit that the lasers do not inspire confidence,” she said piously. Danny rolled his eyes. 

Damian cut her off. “The lasers would be acceptable if they were calibrated appropriately,” Damian said. It was positively scathing. His face was a little thundercloud, screwed up with violent disdain. “They should never endanger residents. I would never allow such a thing in Wayne Manor.”

“Unfortunately, it really isn’t your business.”

Everyone looked at Jazz. She had her haughty face on, the one that said, ‘I was a varsity cheerleader for two years until I decided I had better things to do. Please understand how far above you I am.’

(maybe Danny projected meaning into that a little)

“You are an elementary school student. I checked. Although I have to say I am impressed with your published paper about igneous rock. It is extremely commendable that you got published in an academic journal at age 10. I didn’t get published until I was 15.” The worst thing was that she was so sincere. “You cannot adopt Danny, even though you adopted him as a cat, because a child cannot enroll another child into school. And Danny has to go to school,” she said firmly.

“Yes!” Damian looked sort of scarily intense. He leaned forward, eyes glinting.

“The situation is not what we thought,” Rachel said in an undertone. “Maybe we should talk about this, Damian.” 

He looked at her and then clearly disregarded her. “Danny will not be adopted by me,” he said stubbornly.

“Damian, please.” Rachel looked stressed. 

“He will live with his real father, Dick Wayne,” Damian announced triumphantly. “It will not surprise anyone to discover that he had a secret child with a bewitching redheaded woman with far more education than he. Danny will live in Bludhaven and have the best tutors, and I will visit him every day to apply flea shampoo and care for his nails.” Damian clenched his hands into fists as he vowed.

Danny fell off his chair with a thump and hit his head on the carpet. “What?” It came out as a squawk.

Jazz’s mouth fell open. “That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered.

“Is that why I’m not good at science?” Danny vaulted up, eyes wild. He felt his hair flying around his head with static. “And why I’m weedy and weak?” He rolled up a sleeve to jab at his arm demonstratively. “Look at me, Jazz, it makes sense! I’m not strong or smart like a Fenton, and it’s because of Dick Wayne’s genetics!” He fell back down, shocked. He stared at the ceiling in disbelief. 

“Yes, that’s it.” Jazz put both of her hands on her face, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Dick Wayne is responsible for your failing grades in math, not that you sleep 4 hours a night and eat garbage and never study.”

Oh. Fuck. Danny felt his eyes widen as he put together a puzzle. “Is that what’s wrong with Dani?” he asked. “Vlad was expecting-”

He cut himself off. Everyone else had a pained expression because they thought he was speaking in the third person. “Not me, Danny with a Y,” he explained. “Dani with an i, my semi-successful clone made by Vlad Masters to replace me.”

“...with Vlad?” Jazz looked disgusted. “Vlad made himself a child? He is not parenting material.”

“Another?” Damian said sharply. “There is another baby?” He looked at Rachel urgently.

“Yeah, she’s like 3 days old now. Vlad kicked her out yesterday,” Danny explained distantly. Oh, man, it was all coming together now. "That's why she's so flippy!" 

Jazz let out a long sigh. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “Danny, they’re lying. And they can get out of our house.” She put her hands on her hips. “Dick Grayson is not your Father, you are not dumb, and Dani did not inherit acrobatic tendencies from anyone but you. You’re a cheerleader.” That last bit came out positively scathing.

“A male cheerleader,” Danny clarified quickly.

“Yes, I assumed so,” Rachel said. She looked like she had a headache. 

“I will support you no matter what subtype of cheerleader you are,” Damian said stubbornly. 

Jazz took a deep inhalation. “I respect that it has nothing to do with you as a person, and I believe you are as qualified for cat ownership as anyone else,” she told him. “But I am not trusting the Wayne family with my little brother.”

Danny blinked at her. Damian looked confused for the first time in their acquaintance. 

“Because of Jason Todd,” she said, raising her eyebrows and dipping her chin pointedly.

Danny looked at everyone’s face. “You said that like we would understand it.”

He said that at the same time that Damian said, “Understandable, I will keep them apart.”

“Bruce Wayne’s first adopted child, who died under extremely suspicious circumstances!” Jazz full-on scowled. Then she blinked as she processed what Damian had said. “Wait. What?”

“Oh, he is dead,” Damian said, as if he had just remembered this information. He cleared his throat. “No ill fate shall befall Danny,” he said. “I will cut the hamstrings of his enemies.”

Danny thought speculatively about Dash Baxter. He raised his hand to ask a question.

“No, Danny,” Jazz said.

He put his hand down, but Danny had to argue. “He put my head in a toilet this week. That’s the action of someone who might not deserve hamstrings.” 

“That’s unfortunate. Nevertheless.” Jazz cleared her throat. “Ever since I realized that you got turned into a cat and stole Tim Drake-Wayne’s phone, I have been looking into the family.”

“Tablet,” Danny corrected. “I used his tablet.”

Rachel put a hand on her chin and just watched. She looked incredibly old and tired, like, at least 36.

“I found a forum that talks about the mystery, and I have seen some very convincing information,” Jazz continued. “I am not convinced that Bruce Wayne is not responsible. I am sorry.” She rounded on Danny, and she was genuinely apologetic. “I can’t allow you to get adopted by anyone who might have allowed via incompetence their child to get murdered by a rodeo clown.”

“He is not a-” Damian cut off his outrage and took an extremely audible inhalation.

Danny put his hands up. “Hey, we don’t need to be hostile.” He felt his shoulders hunch up. “Mr. Wayne seemed alright,” he said vaguely. “He did kick me the once, but I think it was incompetence- oh, that’s the thing you said,” Danny said, realization dawning as soon as he said the word. He frowned. “Hm. Did that support your point?”

“He what,” said Damian. He went white with fury. “Excuse me. I need to make a call.”

“You two can just leave,” Jazz firmly said. She stood up to usher them out. “Thank you for checking in on Danny, but it’s time for you to go.”

[bandgie]

hiiii is ok if i request a stoner smut😭 ( with either han,chan or felix) like y/n and him are smoke buddies and in one of the sessions things get a little hot and heavy 🥲

it’s ok if ur uncomfortable but if you’re not i’d love to see it

-anon 🍃

a/n: yes?!? oh my god?? why give me 3 options when I can do them all?? at the same time??

synopsis: You warned your smoking buddies that you get a little...different when you're really high. They don't believe you though, and smoke you out anyway. Neither of you can decide if it was worst mistake or best decision of your lives.

warnings: MDNI 18+, heavily under the influence, 4some, brief pussy play, no protection, cumming inside, pussy eating, mxm themes!!!, squirting, double penetration, blow job (m!&f!), multiple orgasms (f!), I went crazy with this one I ain't gonna lie

2.6k words

"Oh dude she's gone."

"You shouldn't have smoked her out man."

"She wanted me to!"

You can distantly hear the three of them arguing. Han is, once again, thrown under the bus as Felix and Chris blame him. To be fair, everyone's high out of their mind. Whatever Felix bought back from California hits.

Han is warm as you snuggle against him, his heartbeat irregular as he keeps defending himself. When you told them you get a little excited when you're super high, they thought you'd be bouncing off the walls. Instead, they had to keep you from clawing Han's cock out to bounce on that.

"I'm not even that high," you speak up for yourself. "I just want a little fun, that's all."

Chan scoffs, bloodshot eyes looking at your droopy ones. "You are that high, actually. The sober you that I know would punch Han before he even thought about touching you."

The image of slapping the man you're sitting on makes you laugh hysterically. You're gasping for air, clutching at your chest as you cackle. Your exaggerated laughter makes Felix chuckle, and it doesn't take long until all four of you are on the verge of throwing up from giggling. 

"But I like the way he feels," you manage to speak after your chest heaves. "Hannie's so soft and warm, it feels so good." It's not smart of you to talk like that when Han's cock is underneath your ass. You can feel like twitching in response. 

You softly grind your ass against it, humming. "You like it too, huh Hannie? Do you want to touch me?"

"Hey. That's enough," Chan's voice is stern, but you don't miss how his eyes drop to your bare thighs. Han freezes under you, scared that moving might make his cock hard. 

You roll your eyes and grind against Han again, hearing him hiss. "For fucks' sake Chan, I'm high, not drunk." There's not a care for the aftermath in your head. It feels as though there'll be no repercussions, that time has frozen still for you. For this moment. 

Still, Chan shakes his head. "Doesn't matter, you're not in the right mind."

"If you don't wanna fuck me Chan, Hannie will." You turn your attention back to Han, who's struggling under you. He's hard now, but his hands stay placed on the cushions. "You'll play with me, right Han?"

His eyes dart from yours to Chan's, unsure. "I dunno. What if you get mad at me in the morning?" You coo at his uncertainty. Reaching for his hands, you place them on your hips. His fingers dig into your soft flesh, pulling you closer to him. 

"I would never be mad at you," you promise. "Just touch me."

That’s enough permission for Han. He parts your thighs while Felix and Chris are front-row viewers. Getting high was just an excuse, you've always wanted him to touch you. For all of them to touch you. It's why you didn't wear any shorts under your skirt. A black thong barely covers your cunt, and Han is quick to play with it. 

His fingers slip behind the material, finding your clit easily. He gently rubs you in circles, moaning in your ear. Han slips his hand out and places it over your underwear, rubbing that instead. 

It makes you whine, bucking your hips in protest. You're about to complain when you catch the other two boys staring. Felix is on the edge of his seat, staring at where Han touches you. Chan is the opposite, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back in his seat. He looks irritated but there's dark arousal in his eyes. 

You let Han make a show of you, getting you to drip down your ass. 

"Fuck," you hear Felix swear. His voice sounds deeper if that was even possible. His lips are wet from how constantly he's licking them, but he makes no move towards you.

Han pinches your clit. The sudden grasp makes you whine, hips lifting in the air before he forces you back on his lap.

"I don't have a condom," he whispers in your ear. You shake your head aggressively, "I don't care. Put it in."

Chan opens his mouth to say something but snaps it shut. His jaw clenches as he watches Han slips his hand between the two of you, releasing his throbbing cock. He doesn't want to hear you complain in the morning about this, it's your fault. 

Han pulls your panties to the side and slides his cock against your folds. You arch your back into him, moaning. You look down to watch his dick collect your juices, lewdly making noise. Then he angles his cock down, catching your entrance.

You have to slightly lift your hips when his tip goes in. The stretch is far from painful, and it feels like you're on cloud nine. You slam your hips down on Han impatiently. He whines behind you, body shaking and his arms wrap around your waist.

It's a struggle to keep your legs open for the other men to see, but you hook them over Han's legs for support. Han starts slow, unused to the feel of your cunt. He groans in your neck, biting your skin. "Fuck, that's good pussy."

You only hum in response as you feel Han fuck into you harder. It sends overwhelming shocks of pleasure throughout your body. Your mind grows hazy, vision blurring. You've touched yourself while high, and that alone was a trip. To have someone bury themselves deep inside you, to feel their hot dick slip in and out of you, it feels like you're at a constant high. 

Felix is the first to break. He stands to his feet quickly and takes long strides toward you. Han slows his thrusts, unsure if Felix wants a turn with you already. He grips you a little tighter, possessively. 

Both of you are shocked to see him fall to his knees in front of your pussy. He pushes the thong further out of the way with his thumb, looking up at you. 

"Can I?"

You're nodding before he even finishes, "Fuck yes." 

You cum at the feel of Felix's plush lips. Your walls clench and grip Han's cock tightly, making him thrust into you deep. Felix has to keep his hands on your thighs to keep you still. It's obvious you came with the high-pitched moans and convulsing body, but neither of them made a move to stop. 

"Shit, I can feel her creaming on my cock. Fuck, Felix lick me too," Han rasps out. 

Felix is quick to comply. You feel his tongue dip past your pussy presumably only onto the few inches of Han's cock that isn't in your pussy. Han trembles behind you, hips stuttering into yours. Felix reaches back up to your clit, running his lips over your nub before he lightly sucks. 

You don't have much energy to grind on his pretty face, so you lay there pliant as Han fucks into you earnestly and as Felix gently eats you out. You bury your hands into Felix's green hair, desperate to grip onto something.

The hot sensation builds in your stomach again, this time much more intensely. Han can feel the clenching of your walls, the added wetness your pussy drools out. The pressure in your tummy feels different, hotter, and unstable.

"Felix!" You cry out. "I'm gonna cum again! Fuck, I think I'm gonna squirt!"

You think he might back away, but he buries his face deeper, sucks a little harder. "Give it to me baby, I want it all over my face."

The force of your second orgasm makes Han's cock slip out. Felix's face and Han's thighs are victims of your release. You coat them sheer with your orgasm, watching how Felix keeps his mouth open to drink your release. 

He gulps down the remaining spurts of your pussy, a smile on his face. "Yeah, Han. That's good pussy alright." Felix stands, looking down at your wrecked state. He bends down and kisses you roughly, making sure you can taste yourself on his lips. Then he moves behind you to kiss Han who already has his tongue out. Both of them moan in the kiss, making your pussy throb even more. 

Felix unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants just down enough to reach for his cock. You drool at the sight, moaning softly. He pumps himself a few times, then taps his tip on your swollen clit. 

"Think you can handle two at a time baby?"

Before you can even think to answer, Han butts in. "You should be asking me that. I don't think I'll last much longer." The two of them laugh, and then Felix looks back at you. "Can you?"

Biting your bottom lip, you nod. "Yeah, just go slow." Han and Felix nod in unison, "Of course baby." 

The two of them angle their cocks into your slightly gaping entrance. Han pushes the tip of his cock in first. Felix follows quickly after, pressing his tip against Han's. You let your head fall back between Han's neck and shoulder, relaxing your body. It's quite easy since you are already elated, but there's still a painful stretch as they slide in.

You hiss when they stretch you out, their cocks halfway in. Han tightens his grip on your waist and pecks your forehead. Felix soothingly runs his hands against your thighs and kisses your exposed neck. "Doing so good, you're almost there."

Their comforting touches encourage you to try harder. They sink further in and you gasp. 

"Chan," Han calls his hyung who's been overly silent throughout the whole thing. You almost forgot he was there. 

"What?"

"Think our baby needs a bit of help. Come on."

Chan shouldn't help. He told you many times this was a bad idea, but no one listened. Still, watching your teary eyes get to him. The way your face contorts from discomfort. You looked so pretty cumming over Han's cock, he can't imagine what'd it be like to cream over both. 

He finds himself standing and walking over to you three, standing beside Felix. 

"Mate, you need to Han bottom out first. Here." Chan hands one hand on Felix's waist while the other guides your stomach downwards. Han moves his hips up, slowly filling your walls. You squeal and tremble, but it's bearable. 

"There you go," Chris coos. "Make sure you go deep Han. Felix needs as much room as he can get."

Han obeys his friend, making sure to bury himself to the hilt. You feel him push past what you thought was possible. Your legs threaten to snap shut, but Felix's iron grip keeps them open. Han can feel how tight your pussy is, how good it feels to rub against Felix's cock.

Chan taps the green-haired on the waist, "You're good to go."

"Oh," your eyes roll back to your head. Your lips spread deliciously when Felix pushes the remaining inches in. You can feel how your clit slightly rubs against his girth, making extra warmth flow out of you.

Your reactions make Chan chuckle, smiling for the first time in what seems like hours. "Feels good huh? Taught him well." He playfully slaps Felix on the ass. 

The two of them feel heavenly in your walls. All three of you are a moaning mess, content with staying still. It's not until Chris clears his throat that Han begins to move. Shallow thrusts into your pussy that make the trio whimper.

Felix moves with longer strokes. They don't match each other's thrusts, but the speed is the same. One goes in while the other goes out, then sometimes it's at the same time, then it's everything in between. Your walls loosen after a few testing strokes, and they're fucking into you roughly in no time.

Chan tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, getting a good view of your face. It's then that you notice his hard-on, how painful it must be in his jeans. Wordlessly, you open your mouth, tongue lolling out. Chan laughs at your directness, "You sure?"

You respond by using your weak fingers to unzip him, "Yesssss."

He laughs again and helps you undress him. His cock is the biggest of the three, in girth and length. You're thankful he isn't in you, there's no way you could've handled it. Chan taps the head of his cock on your lips, smearing his pre-cum. 

Then he pushes in gently, not to disrupt the boys using you. He's hot and heavy on your tongue, slightly salty. Truthfully, getting as high as you did always leaves you with a dry mouth. You find it difficult to provide enough spit for Chan's cock.

He doesn't complain though, and never pushes you past your limit. Chan uses his hands to jerk what you can't fit in your mouth. You want to protest and say you can do it yourself, but with how good Felix and Han are fucking you, it seems impossible. 

Han's cock twitches inside you, a warning for his orgasm. "I'm gonna cum. Fuck baby I'm gonna cum in you." 

You hum around Chris's cock in response, and soon enough you're filled with Han's cum. It's warm in your stomach and you feel it pool onto the sofa. Felix moans at the extra lubrication, finding it hot to see him fuck the cum out of you. 

Han's cock stays inside of you. He likes to think Felix and you help ride out his high. He turns his head to watch you suck off Chan, groaning. Han opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, looking up at Chan expectedly. 

The eagerness in Han's eyes has the older man raising an eyebrow, but he indulges nonetheless. Chan slips his cock from your mouth and places it on Han's tongue. 

Han is in a better condition to suck. He even does the honor of spitting on Chan's dick. He licks and takes his cock almost to the hilt before gagging. The sight makes Chan moan, and he puts his dick back in your mouth. Your lips are much softer and your mouth is hotter. Han's is wetter though, and much more usable. Chan settles for using both of your throats.

You're thankful for Han helping, it's hard to focus with Felix still pounding away. His fingers are for sure going to leave a bruise, and your pussy may not be the same after this. With your warm pussy and Han's cock, Felix can feel his balls tighten and how his hips lose their momentum.

He doesn't warm you when he cums. There's just his deep, consecutive moans as Felix fills you to the brim. Your legs tremble, and you're cumming before you're aware of it. Chan has to use Han's mouth more often as you moan and whimper through your orgasm. 

Felix rides his high out when Chan forces your head to face his cock. He jerks himself quickly, tapping his tip on both your and Han's tongues. Chan cums on both of your faces, hot spurts landing on your cheek and lips. 

Your tongue pokes out to get a taste, moaning. 

Felix finally pulls out, making you whine. Han follows suit, letting his soft cock leave you empty. Chan lets you give his cock extra kisses while Han unwraps an arm from you to wipe his face. 

Chan has to pry you away from his dick, chuckling when you protest. He tucks himself away despite your complaining. 

The four of you untangle from each other. Though the couch is small, all of you manage to snuggle against one another with you and Han in the middle. All of you are shining in afterglow and cum, with complete disregard for how you might react in the morning. 

Han picks his head up to overlook all of you, a playful scowl on his face. "And you were mad at me for smoking her out."

a/n: man i...I dunno what to say. this is totally self-indulgent. the way I need this to happen. thank you anon 🍃, I truly needed this