#its like. it feels only a few steps under if it were real | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elikajinnie · 4 months ago

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Cold Touch, Sharp Mirror - P.S

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Sunghoon X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Death, Murder, Suggestive Content, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Chasing, Fixation, Temperature Play?

Synopsis: You’ve always liked snow, but you never liked the idea of being chased through it—too loud, too slippery. Luckily, the Entity’s maps were more muddy than snowy. That is, until a new killer arrived, bringing with him a snowy map. And it seems like he’s fixated on finding the perfect beauty to complement him and you're exactly what he’s looking for.

a/n: im so happy my pookies @aceheexx and @concerned-terrapin got dbd :3 also i went a bit overboard with the ending???

heeseung version | jay version

now playing: like a dream by thomas larosa | frzzn by ozzie | chills -dark version by mickey valen

Now, normally, you loved snow. Back before you were taken by the entity, you’d always be thrilled when it snowed—watching the snowflakes drift from the sky, each one unique and delicate, settling on the ground and transforming it into a soft, white wonderland. It felt comforting, like nature’s own little gift. But time doesn’t follow the same rules in the entity’s realm. Seasons don’t change, and winter becomes a distant memory, a concept rather than a feeling. You haven’t felt real snow in what feels like forever.

So, when you first saw it again you felt a flicker of joy. You landed on the ground, expecting that chill on your skin, the cold air filling your lungs. But instead, you were met with something... wrong. The snow didn’t fall naturally, but seemed to be pasted onto the world, cold only in appearance. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t alive. The snowflakes didn’t twirl through the air, and the ground beneath your feet felt too solid, too still. No crisp bite in the air, no damp chill seeping through your clothes. Just a hollow echo of the winter you once loved. The excitement quickly faded, replaced by a bitter disappointment. It wasn't real. It never was.

You didn’t expect much when you were called for a trial. They were all the same at this point—different maps, same routine. But as soon as you arrived, something felt… off. The air was sharp and biting, your breath fogged in front of you, and a chill ran down your spine as you took in your surroundings. You were standing outside a massive manor, its roof blanketed with thick snow and sharp icicles hanging from the edges like teeth. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, it was quiet and the crunch of snow under your boots felt too loud. You hugged yourself against the cold, shivering as it nipped at your skin.

This was new.

Your eyes scanned the manor, its grandness both stunning and foreboding. You didn’t recognize it from any previous trials, and that only made your chest tighten. This map was new. And if it was new, there was only one explanation.

A new killer.

You took a hesitant step forward, your nerves on edge as you climbed the steps to the manor’s entrance. The door creaked open with little effort and your heart sank as you took in the strange décor. The walls were lined with mirrors—some shattered, their jagged shards glinting menacingly, others cracked just enough to distort your reflection. A few were pristine, their surfaces smooth and unbroken, but something about them felt wrong. The reflections didn’t look quite right.

Your breath came out in quick puffs, the cold seeming to seep through the walls themselves. You forced yourself to keep moving, knowing you had to find a generator. The sooner you started, the sooner this trial could be over.

Your search led you to a massive ballroom, and your breath caught in your throat. It was unlike anything you’d seen before. The floor was a sheet of ice, polished to a mirror-like shine, and the room seemed to stretch endlessly. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, but instead of glass, it was crafted entirely from icicles, their razor-sharp points glistening as they swayed ever so slightly. The windows—or where the windows should have been—were replaced with cracked mirrors.

You stepped carefully onto the icy floor, your boots slipping slightly as you made your way further in. The cold seemed to deepen here, clawing at your skin and making you shudder uncontrollably. You glanced around, half-expecting to see a generator, but there was none in sight.

You huffed in frustration as you slid across the icy floor, your footing unstable. The sharp cold gnawed at your fingers and toes, even through your clothes. Just as you steadied yourself, a scream tore through the air, slicing through the quiet like a blade. It was distant but blood-curdling, the cry of a survivor encountering the killer.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you moved forward, walking through a pair of wide, icy double doors that led to a balcony. The scene that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.

Below you stretched a massive, frozen garden. Rows of tall hedges loomed like the skeletal remains of a long-dead maze, their branches brittle and crusted with frost. The labyrinth twisted and turned, the pathways obscured by fog that clung to the ground like ghostly tendrils. Scattered throughout the garden were ice statues—figures frozen mid-motion—but the distance made it hard to tell if they were just art.

Movement in the maze caught your eye. You squinted and leaned over the balcony’s edge. It was Nancy. She was running through the labyrinth, her hands flailing as she waved desperately in your direction. Panic was written all over her face, her wide eyes darting between you and something behind you.

It took a moment for you to process what she was trying to convey. That’s when it hit you—a cold breeze that wrapped around your body like icy fingers. Your breath caught as you shivered violently, your teeth chattering. Slowly, as if against your own will, you turned around.

And there he was.

A tall man loomed behind you, unnervingly still, his presence so cold. He was clad in a tailored suit, though it was torn and frayed in places. An icy sheen coated the fabric, frost clinging to him as if he were part of winter. His hair was white, and the tips seemed frozen, as though frost had begun to consume him from the edges.

But it was his face that sent chills down your spine.

The left side of his face was hauntingly beautiful—sharp, elegant features carved from pale skin, veins of icy blue tracing faintly on his neck. His lips, pale and slightly blue, parted slightly as a frosty mist escaped with every breath, and his eye, an unnatural, glowing blue, fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you in place.

The right side of his face, however, was hidden beneath a mask of cracked mirrors, the shards reflecting distorted images of yourself. The fragments shifted slightly, catching the dim light as if they were alive, twisting your reflection into a grotesque parody.

In his right hand, he held a massive shard of glass, its edges jagged and sharp, covered in frost that glittered like deadly diamonds. Ice crawled along the surface, spiraling down to the hilt where his gloved hand gripped it tightly. His other hand, bare and pale as death itself, hung loosely at his side, frost coating his fingertips.

He tilted his head slowly, the motion unnatural. You couldn’t tell if the sound you heard was the creak of his neck or the faint crackle of ice forming in the air around him.

Your breath hitched as you took a shaky step back, the icy floor beneath you making it nearly impossible to find stable footing. The cold wasn’t just external anymore; it was inside you, crawling through your veins almost like a parasite.

The killer took a step forward, the shard of glass dragging across the ground, leaving a thin trail of frost in its wake. The sound it made was sharp and grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

The only thought screaming in your mind was run.

And you didn’t hesitate. Your survival instincts kicked in, and you pushed off the icy floor, sliding awkwardly toward the edge of the balcony. Without a second thought, you vaulted over, your heart leaping into your throat as you braced for the impact below. The landing was rough but the adrenaline forcing you to ignore the ache.

As you straightened up, you glanced back over your shoulder, just for a split second, and froze.

He was leaning over the balcony, his hand resting on the icy railing, his head tilted again. He wasn’t rushing after you. He wasn’t angry or even fazed. Instead, he watched you with a cold calmness, like a predator confident in its prey’s inevitable capture.

That made it worse.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Turning on your heel, you took off running into the labyrinth, the snow crunching loudly beneath your boots. Every step a reminder of how exposed you were.

You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Away from him. Away from the cold and the glass shard that promised pain and death. Your breath came in quick, visible puffs as you ran, your lungs burning from the freezing air.

The labyrinth was a maze in every sense of the word, the fog making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. You turned left, then right, your boots sliding on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow. Your mind raced as you tried to recall the layout you’d glimpsed from the balcony, but it was no use. Every path looked the same—dead and endless.

Another scream rang out, sharper and closer this time. Your heart sank. You couldn’t tell who it was, so you forced yourself to keep going, your legs burning with the effort of running on the uneven, frozen ground.

Your legs burned, your lungs screamed for air, and the cold gnawed relentlessly at your skin. You finally skidded to a halt, leaning against the icy hedge for support. The snow beneath you crunched as you shifted, each breath coming out as shaky puffs of mist. You sniffled, shivering as you tried to gather your thoughts.

That’s when you saw it.

To your right, standing innocently against the frozen hedge, was a tall mirror. It was pristine, untouched by the cracks, the frame was silver, almost shimmering, and frost curled delicately along its edges like it had been painted there. The glass itself was so smooth it reflected everything perfectly, capturing your wide-eyed, disheveled image with startling clarity.

You tilted your head, your breath hitching as you stared. It had been so long since you’d seen your reflection—so long since you’d stopped to even think about what you looked like. The sight was strange, foreign even. You didn’t recognize the exhausted, frost-bitten figure staring back at you, but something about the mirror pulled you in.

Your feet moved before your mind could stop them, carrying you closer. You stood before the mirror, your breath fogging the glass slightly as you studied yourself. Hesitantly, your hand lifted, trembling as your fingertips hovered just above the icy surface. You shouldn’t touch it. You knew you shouldn’t. But something about it was calling to you, drawing you in like the lure of a siren.

The instant your fingers brushed the glass, it happened.

A sudden force yanked you forward, your breath stolen as your vision blurred. You didn’t even have time to cry out as the cold wrapped around you, dragging you into the mirror. The world flipped and spun, shards of glass and light flashing all around you. Your reflection fractured into countless pieces, each one distorting your image—your face twisted, stretched, broken in ways that made your stomach lurch.

When you finally came to, the spinning stopped. You opened your eyes, but the sight that greeted you was nothing like the labyrinth you’d been running through.

You were inside the mirror.

The world around you was endless and disorienting. Shards of glass floated in the air, twisting and turning, each one reflecting a fractured image of you. Some pieces were small, no larger than a coin, while others were enormous, towering over you like walls. Each shard seemed to hum faintly, a sound that vibrated through your skull and made your head throb. You reached out to steady yourself, but there was nothing solid to hold on to—just the endless, shifting glass.

You felt dizzy, your legs weak as you struggled to comprehend where you were. The reflections moved strangely, showing parts of yourself that weren’t in the same position as the rest of you. It was like watching a puzzle where the pieces didn’t quite fit.

Then, a voice.

It cut through the humming like a blade, low and smooth, with an icy edge that sent a chill straight to your core.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the voice purred, dripping with mockery. “So eager to touch what you shouldn’t. Did you really think the mirror was just for show?”

You whipped your head around, searching for the source, but there was no one there—just more glass reflecting your panicked face.

The voice chuckled, soft and cold. “Do you like it in here? It’s my little masterpiece. Every broken shard tells a story, you see. And now, you’ve become part of it.”

You spun in place, your breaths coming faster. “Where are you?!”

The laughter grew louder, echoing all around you, each shard vibrating with the sound, but he did not answer you.

Instead the glass around you began to shift, the shards rearranging themselves into new patterns. They moved closer, boxing you in, the reflections multiplying until it felt like you were being watched by a thousand versions of yourself—and something else.

In one of the largest shards, his reflection appeared. The killer.

He stood just on the other side of the glass, staring at you with a calm expression. Slowly, he raised his gloved hand and pressed it to the glass, the icy surface fogging slightly under his touch.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled back, you moved until your back hit something solid—the mirror you’d touched before.

Before you could process what was happening, the glass behind you pulled you in again. The world spun, shards flying past your vision as you felt that same sickening tug. A freezing chill washed over you, and then suddenly—

You were out.

Your feet hit solid ground, and you collapsed forward onto your hands and knees, gasping for air. The disorientation left you dizzy, your head pounding as you tried to steady yourself. The cold still clung to you, biting at your skin like a lingering phantom of the mirror world.

You forced yourself to your feet, legs shaky and unsteady, your breath coming out in frantic clouds. As you looked around, you froze.

This wasn’t where you’d been before.

Instead, you were in a dark, underground section of the estate. The air here was thicker, heavier. The walls around you were frozen, their icy surfaces glinting faintly.

Above you, sharp icicles hung dangerously from the ceiling. They were long and jagged, some as thick as your arm, and looked as though they could fall at the slightest provocation.

You took a cautious step forward, the crunch of snow under your boot echoing unnaturally loud. Your eyes darted upward, watching the icicles sway ever so slightly. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. One wrong move, one too-loud sound, and those deadly spikes could come crashing down.

“Stay calm,” you thought to yourself.

You continued forward, your steps careful and measured. The way revealed more of the icy corridor ahead, branching off into several paths.

Then you heard it.

A faint, distant crack.

Footsteps.

Your blood ran cold. He was here.

You turned, your eyes darting around for any sign of an escape, but you were offered nothing more but dead ends.

Then his voice cut through the air, smooth and taunting.

“You can’t run forever.”

You turned sharply, picking a path at random and running, your boots sliding on the slick ground.

Behind you, the footsteps quickened, you didn’t dare look back, the sense of him closing in enough to keep you moving forward.

You rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.

A dead end.

And the only way out was the way you’d come. You spun around, your back pressed against the frozen wall, your breath ragged as you watched the corridor you’d just come from.

The footsteps stopped.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, he stepped into view, his towering frame filling the narrow passage as he took a step forward.

You pressed harder against the wall, your fingers numb from the cold, your mind racing for a way out. But there was none.

He stopped just a few feet from you, his breath visible in the icy air.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gloved fingers brushing along the edge of the mirror shard in his hand and slowly, his gaze began to travel downward, starting at your face, moving over the trembling rise and fall of your chest, your arms clinging tightly to yourself, and finally down to your legs and boots, still trembling slightly from your desperate run.

A low hum escaped his lips, soft and almost contemplative, a sound that sent chills crawling up your spine, as if he were truly appreciating what he saw.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, his voice smooth. He took another step forward, closing the already-small distance between you. You pressed harder against the frozen wall, your entire body stiffening as he leaned closer.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

His pale hand rose slowly, as if to savor the moment. You flinched as his fingers brushed against your cheek, and the touch was so cold it burned. You froze entirely, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The air left your lungs in short, visible puffs as your body tried in vain to fight the cold spreading from where his hand lingered.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, his tone almost... tender. He tilted his head again, his lips curving into a faint, chilling smile. “No need to be afraid, my dear. I wouldn’t dare ruin something so... beautiful.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, your body refusing to obey your frantic thoughts screaming at you to move, to run, to do something. But the cold was paralyzing.

His hand trailed along your cheek, the frozen burn spreading as he brushed his thumb over your jawline, tracing the edge of your face with unsettling care. “Your face... so delicate. So perfect.”

His cold breath brushed against your face, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Your eyes...” His thumb stopped, resting just beneath one of them, his frosted breath clouding in the air between you. “So full of life. So bright, even now. You’re unlike any I’ve seen before.”

You couldn’t respond. The cold had stolen your voice, your teeth chattering too hard for you to form words. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he appeared amused by your silence.

“You’re trembling so much,” he murmured, his hand shifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, the motion almost... gentle. “Is it the cold? Or... me?”

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost brushing your ear as he whispered, “Perhaps both.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him away, to do anything, but all you could do was stand there, trapped in his icy grip. You felt like you were being frozen alive.

His hand moved to your neck, his fingers grazing your skin as he chuckled, his breath like a biting winter wind. “I could keep you here forever,” he mused, his tone almost dreamy, as if the idea truly pleased him. “Frozen, perfect, untouchable. Just... mine.”

His words sent a wave of panic crashing over you, momentarily snapping you out of the icy haze clouding your mind. Your body twitched, an instinctive attempt to break free, but his grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you just how powerless you were in this moment.

“You’re frightened,” he said, his tone shifting to one of mock sympathy. “Good. Fear suits you.”

And just as the tears began to sting your eyes from the cold and helplessness, his fingers left your skin, and he pulled back slightly. He studied you for a moment longer, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

Then, in a soft, almost wistful tone, he murmured, “Run.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your mind barely processing the command before his smirk widened and he stepped back, his hand once again gripping the icy shard at his side.

“Go,” he said, his voice sharper now, like the crack of frozen glass. “Let’s see how far you can get.”

The moment your body allowed it, you bolted, stumbling past him and into the freezing corridors, his cold laughter echoing behind you like the toll of a bell.

Your legs carried you forward, slipping and stumbling over the icy ground. The sound of his laughter followed you, echoing through the frozen halls. It was as though it bounced off the very walls, coming at you from all directions, mocking your panic and desperation.

The floor beneath you shifted unexpectedly, the ice slick and uneven. Your foot slipped, and you went sprawling to the ground with a sharp gasp. The impact jarred your body, pain shooting up your arm as you braced your fall. For a moment, the world spun, the sound of your ragged breathing filling your ears.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” his voice called out, closer than it should have been.

Your head snapped up, and you realized the light above you had shifted. You turned your gaze slowly upward, and there he was, standing just above you.

“You’re quite resilient,” he mused, his icy voice calm, almost teasing. “But you’re slowing down. The cold is catching up to you.”

Panic surged through you, overriding the pain in your arm as you scrambled to your feet. You bolted again, ignoring the way your legs screamed in protest.

Then you spotted it.

A faint glow ahead—warm and flickering, like firelight. Fire.. fire meant heat, warmth and safety.

The glow grew brighter as you neared it, and you realized it was coming from an arched doorway. Beyond it, you could see the orange flicker of flames. You practically threw yourself through the opening, your body collapsing in front of the roaring fireplace in the center of the room.

The warmth hit you like a wave, washing over your frozen skin and sending sharp, painful tingles through your fingers and toes as the feeling began to return. You gasped for air, curling into yourself as the heat began to thaw the icy grip that had taken hold of your body.

But the relief was short-lived.

You turned your head slightly, and your stomach dropped. The room wasn’t empty.

Surrounding you were tall mirrors, each one angled slightly toward the fireplace. They reflected the room in perfect, chilling detail. And in every single one, he was there, standing behind you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you whipped around, but the room was empty.

The mirrors, however, told a different story. He stood just behind your reflection, his piercing blue eye meeting yours through the glass.

“Did you think the fire would save you?” his voice echoed around the room, no longer calm but mocking.

The flames in the fireplace flickered violently, the warmth suddenly waning as frost began to creep across the floor toward you. The temperature plummeted, the ice spreading like veins across the room and snuffing out the fire entirely.

You stumbled backward, heart racing as you turned to face one of the mirrors. He was no longer just standing there—he was moving. Slowly, deliberately, his reflection stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and yours.

Before you could react, a hand shot out of the glass, his icy fingers gripping your wrist with inhuman strength. You screamed as the cold burned your skin, his grip dragging you closer to the mirror.

“Don’t fight it,” he said softly, his voice echoing in your ears as the shards within the mirrors began to hum again. “You belong with me now.”

You struggled against him, your free hand clawing at the icy surface of the mirror as it began to pull you in. The frost crawled up your arm, spreading rapidly as the world around you began to distort, shards of glass spinning wildly in your peripheral vision.

With one final yank, he pulled you through the mirror.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was your own reflection, frozen in terror, staring back at you as the shards swallowed you whole.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your body trembling violently. The cold was overwhelming, gripping you like an unrelenting vice, and as you looked around, your heart sank. You were back in the mirror realm.

The shards around you showed you in unnatural ways. Every angle of yourself felt alien, wrong, like the mirror was trying to break you down piece by piece.

“No,” you whispered, voice weak and trembling, your breath fogging up the air in front of you. Your legs were shaky, but you forced yourself to stand.

There was no time to waste. You spotted another mirror—a whole one this time—standing pristine just a few feet away. Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped toward the mirror. This time, you didn’t pause to study your reflection. You didn’t let yourself think. You pressed your palm flat against the cold, smooth surface.

The pull came instantly, like an icy wind yanking you forward. Your body jerked as you were sucked into the mirror’s depths once more. The same nauseating sensation returned and you clenched your teeth to keep from screaming.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

You stumbled forward, your feet catching against a thick rug as you fell to your knees. You blinked, the room slowly coming into focus.

It was another part of the manor, entirely different from where you’d been before. The walls were still coated in frost, but it was quieter. You looked up to see a grand fireplace crackling with warm, golden flames. A luxurious couch sat nearby, its velvet cushions looking inviting, though a thin layer of frost clung to the edges.

You didn’t hesitate. The fire called to you like salvation itself.

You dragged yourself to your feet, stumbling toward the fireplace. The warmth hit you in waves, and you let out a shuddering breath as you collapsed onto the rug in front of it, stretching your trembling hands toward the flames.

The heat seeped into your frozen skin, painful at first as the biting cold fought to stay. You held your hands closer, rubbing them together desperately as you tried to thaw yourself.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. Your body still shook from the adrenaline and cold, but the warmth was soothing, grounding you.

You took a glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. It was richly decorated, though the frost and time had dulled its once-luxurious beauty. A massive portrait hung above the fireplace, but the frost obscured the faces in the painting, making it impossible to make out who—or what—it depicted.

The couch loomed nearby, its plush cushions tempting, but you didn’t dare sit. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down for long, not when he could appear at any moment. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, despite the fire’s warmth.

You stared back into the flames, your mind racing. The mirrors... they were clearly part of his power, his trap, but they also seemed to be a way to move through the manor.

But even as you thought that, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly down the hall.

Your heart leapt into your throat, the warmth of the fire suddenly feeling far too distant. You froze, every instinct screaming at you to move, to hide, but your body refused to obey.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel the chill creeping back into the room, the warmth of the fire retreating as if it couldn’t stand him.

“Found you,” his voice purred, low and laced with amusement.

Your body tensed as you slowly turned your head toward him, your breath hitching in your throat. He was closer than you expected—far closer. You hadn’t even heard him cross the room, but there he was, towering over you.

You gasped, your back pressing harder against the rug as though you could somehow melt into the floor to escape him.

He reached out, trailing dangerously close to your face, but he stopped just short of touching you. His icy breath curled in the air as he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe.

“I should end this,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, but there was an edge to it—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “You’re the last one left. There’s no one else. No one coming to save you.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. The others were gone. Nancy, the others—they’d all fallen to him. You were alone.

He crouched suddenly, leaning over you with a grace that felt almost unnatural. His free hand came to rest on the floor beside you, pinning you in place with his sheer presence. You tried to scoot back, but the icy chill radiating from him seemed to freeze you in place.

“But…” he continued, his voice softer now, contemplative, “I can’t bear to ruin something so… perfect.”

His words caught you off guard, and your eyes widened as he his hand brushed your jaw, his cold fingers gripping gently but firmly. You sucked in a sharp breath, expecting the freezing touch to sting, to burn like the cold always had before.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his touch was… comforting. The cold seeped into your skin, chasing away the ache from the fire’s heat. It was strangely soothing, like the cool side of a pillow on a restless night, or the air of an early winter morning.

Your body reacted involuntarily, your tense muscles relaxing slightly despite the fear coursing through you.

It all left you disoriented.

“You see,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly against your jaw, tilting your face up so your eyes met his. “There’s something about you, survivor. Something… different.”

His gaze roamed your features with an unsettling intensity, his icy breath brushing against your face. You tried to look away, but his grip kept you firmly in place.

“You’ve caught my attention,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, almost intimate. “And that doesn’t happen often.”

You didn’t even respond—couldn’t even respond.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice soft but commanding, “are you afraid of me?”

Your heart thundered in your chest, but the answer wasn’t as simple as it should’ve been. Fear clung to you, yes—but so did something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

When you didn’t answer, his lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “No matter,” he murmured. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

His hand trailed down to your throat. The cold seeped deeper now, sending a shiver down your spine. His grip was firm but not constricting.

“You’re lucky,” he said softly, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze again. “I’ve decided to spare you. For now.”

“But don’t think for a moment that you’re free,” he added, his voice colder now, sharper.

Before you could even react, his cold, strong hands gripped your waist. A startled gasp escaped your lips as he hoisted you effortlessly into the air, slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“W-What?” you stammered, your breath hitching as you felt the solid, cold muscle beneath his tattered suit.

He didn’t talk, nor did he falter as he began walking, his movements steady. You squirmed slightly, your hands pressed against his broad shoulder in an attempt to push yourself free, but his grip on you was firm, unyielding.

It was then that you noticed something strange—the ground beneath his feet was transforming. With every step he took, the floor froze over, leaving a trail of ice in his wake.

Behind him, the mirror shard he dragged in his hand left another trail, the jagged glass carving faint grooves into the icy floor. It gleamed faintly, catching the dim light of the room, but it was the strange magic in it that drew your attention. The frost along the edges seemed alive, swirling and shimmering in ways that didn’t seem natural.

And the mirrors along the walls reflected your current state back at you. It was almost unrecognizable.

Your hair was dusted with frost, strands glittering like they were laced with snowflakes. Your lashes and brows were coated in icy crystals, and your lips… they looked pale, almost blue, like the color had been drained by the biting cold. Even your skin had taken on a frosty tint, its natural warmth replaced by something delicate and ethereal.

You blinked at the reflection, your breath catching. For a moment, you almost didn’t look like yourself. You looked… otherworldly, like you belonged here, in this frozen hellscape he commanded. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and not just from the cold.

“I see you’ve noticed,” his voice rumbled, deep and laced with amusement. You jolted slightly at the sound of it, and your gaze darted to the back of his head.

“What—what’s happening to me?” you demanded, though your voice came out shaky, far weaker than you intended.

“It suits you,” he said simply, his tone calm, almost admiring. “The frost, the cold. It brings out something… exquisite.”

His words sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through you. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or horrified.

“Let me go,” you hissed, though there was little force behind your words.

“No,” he replied, almost lazily, as though the very idea amused him. “Not yet.”

His footsteps echoed as he carried you deeper into the manor. You couldn’t tell where he was taking you, but the icy walls became thicker the further you went.

The air felt colder than ever when he suddenly stopped, and without warning, he threw you down, the impact rattling through your body as you hit the frozen ground. A hiss escaped your lips at the cold biting into your palms, but the sting didn’t linger for long—because that’s when you saw it.

The hatch.

It was right in front of you, its familiar wooden frame stark against the glistening frost around it. Your heart leapt in disbelief. He was letting you go.

You looked up at him, confusion and suspicion warring within you. Was this some sort of trap? But when your eyes met his, he was already staring at you, his calm, piercing gaze sending shivers down your spine.

He crouched down, his movement eerily graceful, and brought his hand to your cheek once more. The coldness of his touch was no longer unbearable—almost like your skin had adjusted to the frost.

“You survived, little one,” he whispered, his voice soft and low, laced with something unidentifiable.

His breath curled in a frosty mist around your face as he leaned closer, his lips just a whisper away from your ear.

“I’ll see you real soon.”

Before you could say anything—before you could even think of a response—he rose to his full height, turned, and walked away.

You didn’t wait to see if he would change his mind. Scrambling forward, you gripped the edge of the hatch and pulled yourself in.

The cold vanished immediately as you fell, the icy chill replaced by a strange weightlessness. For a moment, you floated in nothingness, then, with a thud, you landed on the soft, familiar dirt of the survivor’s camp.

Warmth washed over you instantly, and you sucked in a deep breath, relief flooding through you. You looked around, the familiar sights of the campfire, scattered supplies, and makeshift shelters grounding you. It was over. The trial was over.

But as you sat there, staring into the fire’s comforting glow, the memory of his voice lingered in your mind. His words. His touch. His frost.

He had let you go.

Your next few trials were nothing short of a nightmare—though, what else was new? First, it was The Trapper, he had almost caught you at the exit gate, but a perfectly timed flashlight save from one of the other survivors gave you just enough time to slip away.

Then, there was Ghostface. His knife had grazed your back once, almost claiming you as you worked on a generator, but somehow, you managed to outmaneuver him, staying just steps ahead of his blade. The trial ended with you sprinting through the exit gate, heart pounding and lungs burning.

But just when you thought you could catch your breath, the Entity had other plans.

The next time the fog swallowed you up and spat you into a new trial, the familiar chill hit you like a slap to the face.

Your boots crunched against the snow as you took in your surroundings, your breath already visible in the icy air. Dead, frostbitten hedges towered around you, stretching into a labyrinth.

Your stomach dropped.

His map. Again.

You took a cautious step forward, trying to steady your breathing as the icy wind bit into your skin.

It didn’t take long before the sound of a generator humming faintly reached your ears. You turned a corner in the maze, spotting one sitting in the center of a small clearing. A teammate—Claudette—was already crouched by it, working diligently.

Relief washed over you as you made your way to her. If you could stick together, you’d have a better chance of survival. But as you reached her side and knelt to help, you couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

Your hands trembled slightly as you worked, the cold making it hard to grip the wired properly. Then, without warning, Claudette stiffened beside you, her eyes widening in panic.

“Run,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind.

You didn’t need to ask why. The frost on the ground spreading, creeping toward you like a living thing, said as much.

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

The Frost Warden. At least that is what you and the other has started calling him.

You bolted at the sight of him, the snow crunching loudly beneath your feet as you tore through the maze. The icy wind whipped at your face, stinging your skin, but you didn’t dare look back.

The sound of Claudette’s scream echoed faintly behind you, and guilt clawed at your chest, but you couldn’t stop now.

You turned another corner, your lungs burning from the cold air, and skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling when you saw it—a generator, partially hidden by the frost-covered hedges. Relief mixed with panic surged through you. You had no idea where the others were, but you couldn’t let this chance go to waste.

You ran to it, skidding slightly on the icy ground, and immediately knelt by its side. Your fingers, stiff and numb from the cold, fumbled as you began working. The gears groaned faintly, resisting your touch, but you forced yourself to focus, biting your lip to keep your hands steady.

The sound of the Frost Warden’s footsteps had faded behind you, but you knew better than to assume he’d given up the chase. He didn’t need to run to catch you. This map was his domain, and you were just another mouse trapped in his frozen maze.

The generator sputtered as you fixed another wire, the hum growing louder with each successful connection. Your breath clouded the air in front of you as you worked, the sound of the engine beginning to mask the distant howling wind.

But then, a faint shimmer in the corner of your vision made you freeze.

You glanced up, heart sinking, and spotted a mirror embedded into the wall of the hedges just a few feet away. Its surface rippled faintly, like water disturbed by a pebble, and your reflection stared back at you—pale, frostbitten, and wide-eyed with fear.

For a second, nothing happened. The mirror was still, almost taunting you. But then, the rippling grew stronger, and your blood turned to ice.

You didn’t wait to see what would come through. You turned back to the generator, frantically working to finish it, but your trembling hands slowed you down. The gears groaned again, protesting against your haste.

Behind you, the mirror shimmered one last time, and then the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the snow filled the air.

Slow, deliberate, and far too close.

“Fixing something, are we?” The Frost Warden’s icy voice was low and calm, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

You whipped your head around, your heart leaping into your throat. He stood just a few feet away, his tall figure looming over you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His piercing blue eye studied you, sharp and calculating.

“I have to admit,” he said, taking a slow step closer, “I enjoy watching you struggle. It’s... captivating.”

You scrambled to your feet, hands trembling as you backed away from the generator. He tilted his head slightly, his calm expression never faltering, and took another step forward. The frost beneath his feet spread outward with each step, creeping across the ground and curling around the base of the generator.

You wanted to run, to put as much distance between you and him as possible, but your legs felt like lead. The cold seemed to seep into your bones, rooting you in place as his icy gaze bore into you.

“Go on,” he said softly, gesturing with the shard. “Run. Fight. Survive. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

His words felt like a taunt, and something inside you snapped. You turned on your heel and bolted, the sound of his low, icy chuckle following you as you disappeared into the labyrinth once more.

Your boots slipped slightly on the frost-slick ground as you sprinted deeper into the labyrinth. Every turn you made felt like the wrong one, the frozen hedges looming high around you, cutting off your sense of direction.

You refused to look back. You couldn’t.

Panic clawed at your chest as you skidded around another corner, narrowly avoiding an ice-coated statue that seemed to glare down at you like a silent sentinel. Your breath was visible in the air, coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

A faint light caught your eye—another generator. This one stood in the center of an open clearing, its dull hum barely audible over the wind. You didn’t hesitate. Sliding to a stop, you crouched beside it, your trembling hands fumbling as you grabbed your tools.

Your fingers were numb, making it even harder to work, but you forced yourself to focus. The wires were stiff and brittle, like they might snap under too much pressure, but you managed to connect them, one by one.

The generator sputtered to life, its engine coughing loudly as it struggled against the cold. You winced at the noise, glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing there, watching. But there was no one. So you took that chance.

Standing up up you sprinted back through the labyrinth, turning sharply around a frozen hedge, when a faint hum caught your ears. Another generator. Your heart leapt with a sliver of hope, and as you rounded the corner, you saw him—Bill.

He was hunched over the last few wires of the generator, his rough hands expertly finishing the job. Sparks flew, and the machine roared to life just as you skidded to a stop nearby.

"Bill!" you gasped, barely able to get the word out as you stumbled toward him, your breath clouding in the icy air.

He looked up sharply, his cigarette dangling from his lips, and his eyes widened when he saw you. "Kid, what the hell are you doin'?" he barked, but before you could answer, the faint crunch of footsteps made both of you freeze.

You didn’t need to say a word. Bill’s face hardened instantly, his sharp instincts kicking in. “Go. Now,” he growled, stepping between you and the sound of approaching frost.

“Bill—”

“Don’t argue with me! Get your ass outta here!” he snapped, pulling his flashlight from his belt.

After a moment of hesitation you turned and bolted, your feet slipping slightly on the frozen ground as you took off deeper into the maze. Behind you, you heard Bill shout, “Come on, you bastard! You want someone? Come get me!”

You risked a glance back just in time to see the Frost Warden emerge from the mist, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette. His icy blue eye locked onto Bill.

“Come on dammit!!” Bill yelled, his voice fierce.

You didn’t look back after that. You ran, your legs burning as you pushed forward, weaving through the labyrinth. The sound of their confrontation grew fainter with each step, replaced by the distant hum of generators and the faint howl of the wind.

It wasn’t until you burst through a gap in the hedges and saw the glowing lights of the exit gate in the distance that you realized you were finally in the clear. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning from the effort, but you forced yourself to keep going.

As you reached the gate, you found one of your teammates already there, working frantically to pull the lever. They glanced at you, relief washing over their face as the gate screeched open with a metallic groan.

With one last glance at the icy maze, you stepped through the gate, the warmth of safety washing over you.

You hated the smug, talkative killers. The ones who couldn’t just do their job silently but instead had to taunt, flirt, or throw out some sarcastic quip every chance they got. It wasn’t enough for them to hook you or slash at you—they had to make it personal, priding themselves on the mental games they played.

Killers like that were rare, but when you encountered them, you dreaded every moment of the trial. They made it unbearable, turning what was already a desperate fight for survival into a drawn-out performance where they were the star of the show.

The worst part? They always had that air of superiority, acting as if they were untouchable. They thrived on your frustration, your fear, and sometimes even your silence.

“Aw, don’t run now. We were just getting to know each other!”

You could hear their voice ringing in your ears even now, a mocking lilt that made your skin crawl. Some of them flirted, their words dripping with twisted charm as they chased you through the trial, their weapons raised.

“You look so cute when you’re terrified.”

Others just talked endlessly, like they needed you to know how clever or sadistic they were. They’d narrate every move, every mistake you made, as if you weren’t already painfully aware of how close you were to getting caught.

“Really? That’s the best you can do? You should’ve vaulted back there—might’ve lasted a bit longer.”

And then there were the ones who wouldn’t shut up when they hooked you, leaning down like they had all the time in the world, their breath hot against your skin.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. It’s just business… though you do make it so much fun.”

You hated them. All of them.

It wasn’t just the humiliation—it was how they got under your skin, how their words stayed with you even after the trial was over. You could still feel the phantom weight of their hands brushing against your skin as they carried you, hear the mocking laughter as they walked away from the hook, leaving you there to struggle.

And yet, even if he wasn’t as insufferable as the others, he still had that pridefulness about him—this confidence that made him believe he was better than you, better than all of you. He didn’t need to taunt or jeer with endless, childish words like some of the others, but when he spoke, his voice carried weight. His words lingered, cutting deep, mocking you with a sly edge, and worse, when he flirted… it wasn’t just for show.

There was no humor in his tone, no casual arrogance like the smug Ghostface or the loud-mouthed Trickster. When he spoke to you, it felt like there was intent behind every word. Like he meant it.

That’s why, when you dropped into the Hawkins Lab, you let out a quiet breath of relief, assuming the Demogorgon was the killer this time. The mechanical hum of the underground facility echoed faintly, and you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky for once.

But then you felt it—the subtle, growing thump of your heartbeat.

You froze.

The air changed. A chill crept over your skin, one that was unmistakable.

The frost.

Your breath hitched as your eyes darted around the dimly lit corridors, and when you saw the faint mist curling along the ground, your stomach dropped.

It was him.

He was the killer this round.

Your pulse quickened, the memory of your last encounter with him flooding your mind. You didn’t know if you were ready to face him again. But ready or not, he was here. Somewhere.

And he was already hunting.

You crept through the winding halls of the lab, the flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the steel walls. The chill in the air followed you, prickling at your skin as if a warning.

Finally, in a quieter part of the lab, tucked into a dead-end room, you found a generator. Relief washed over you as you crouched beside it, letting your fingers hover over the familiar knobs and wires. You could do this.

Your hands worked quickly, tightening bolts and rewiring panels, the sound of the generator humming softly beneath your touch. But then, from somewhere deep in the lab, a scream pierced the silence.

It was sharp, panicked, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

One of the others had found him—or, more accurately, he had found them.

Your instinct screamed at you to stop what you were doing, to run and hide before he got too close. But you couldn’t afford to waste time. You couldn’t leave the generator unfinished, and there was no guarantee you’d find another quiet spot like this again.

So you stayed.

Your fingers trembled as you twisted the last wire into place, forcing yourself to focus on the task. Every tick of the generator felt like an eternity, each movement of your hand making your heart pound harder.

And then you felt it—the subtle change in the air.

The frost crept in, curling along the edges of the room like icy tendrils reaching for you.

Your breath fogged as the chill kissed your skin, and your stomach sank just as the generator roared to life, cutting through the silence of the lab.

And then you saw it.

To your left, just beyond the doorway, the faint red glow.

Your heart sank.

The telltale light killers carried with them—always a warning, always a death sentence if you weren’t fast enough. And just past the glow, you saw him.

He stood there, completely still for a moment, then his head tilted slightly, almost curiously, before he took a single step forward. The frost beneath his feet deepened, spreading faster across the floor, as if it were alive and hungry to reach you.

"Impressive," he murmured, his voice smooth and cold, yet carrying a dangerous edge. "You finished the generator all alone? Clever little thing, aren’t you?"

Your legs finally obeyed you, and you stumbled backward, your shoulder hitting the wall as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But there was nowhere to go—no other exits, no windows to climb through.

He stepped fully into the room now, the red glow of his presence bathing the small space as he closed the distance with unnerving calmness.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his lips curling into the faintest smirk as his free hand reached out, his frosted fingers brushing lightly against the wall beside your head.

"I’ve been looking forward to this," he whispered. "Don’t disappoint me now."

Well.. he said it.

With your back against the wall and his towering figure leaning in too close, you knew there was only one way out of this.

Before he could react, you drove your knee up with all your strength, slamming it into his stomach.

He staggered back, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as his hand instinctively moved to his abdomen.

"Really?" he hissed, his voice low and laced with irritation.

But you didn’t stick around to hear what else he had to say. The moment you saw him falter, you bolted.

You sprinted past him, your boots skidding slightly on the frosted floor as you rounded the doorway and darted back into the dimly lit hallways of Hawkins Lab.

You could hear him behind you now—not running, but walking. Slow, deliberate, as if he wasn’t worried about catching up.

And that made it worse.

You risked a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it.

He was there, just a few meters behind you. “Running again, are we?” he called out. “You should know by now—you can’t outrun the cold.”

You turned sharply around another corner, your breath hitching in your chest, but suddenly—bam!—another survivor came barreling around the corner.

“Watch it!” they hissed, just as panicked as you. It was Meg, her red hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, her eyes wide with fear. But before either of you could exchange another word, an icy gust cut through the hallway, and Meg’s eyes widened further.

“Run!” she shouted, but it was too late.

With a flick of his wrist, the shard slashed across Meg’s side, cutting through her jacket and drawing a scream from her lips.

You stumbled back, gasping as you watched in horror.

“Pathetic,” his cold, deep voice echoed, reverberating through the hallway. He stood over Meg, who writhed in pain at his feet, clutching her wound. “So flawed… so imperfect.” His tone was cutting, condescending, as if she were beneath him.

“You’re not worth my time,” he added, tilting his head as he stared down at her, his frostbitten fingers twitching.

Meg groaned and tried to crawl away, but he pressed the tip of his shard into the ground beside her, the ice creeping out in sharp, jagged patterns. He didn’t strike again, though—he didn’t need to. His words alone cut deeper than the shard itself.

“You’ve already been broken,” he sneered, stepping away from her as if she were nothing more than a discarded object.

From his side, he produced a small shard of mirror, its surface gleaming. He turned it in his hands with a strange gentleness, his icy fingers trailing along the edges of the shard as if it were a delicate treasure.

Meg whimpered, flinching as he tilted the shard toward her face. The distorted reflection that appeared in its surface made your breath hitch. It wasn’t just her face—it was a fractured version of her, revealing her deepest insecurities, her doubts, and fears. Her lips trembled as she stared at the cruel image, her reflection seeming to cry out silently as if begging for release.

"You see," he murmured, his voice quiet yet cutting, "this is what you truly are. Flawed. Fragile. Broken beyond repair."

Meg tried to look away, but he held the shard steady, forcing her to confront the image.

And then, with cold, unflinching precision, he drove the shard into her chest.

Her body arched with a strangled cry, her breath coming out in shallow gasps as the mirror shard pierced her heart.

Meg's movements stilled, her eyes glassy as the frost crept across her skin. He remained kneeling over her, watching as her life slipped away, the satisfaction in his expression subtle but unmistakable.

Standing slowly, he looked down at her lifeless body, his frosted hands carefully wiping the shard clean. He inspected it briefly, as if ensuring it was free of imperfection before tucking it away.

Then, he turned to you.

His icy blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“You however,” he said softly, his voice like frost creeping over glass, “are nothing like that.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as he began to move toward you, his steps slow and deliberate.

“So perfect,” he continued, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But even perfection can be elevated.”

He stopped just a few feet away, his presence overwhelming as he tilted his head. “How much more beautiful you’d be…” His voice dipped, a cold whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “…as part of the ice.”

Before you could move, before you could even think, he was on you. His cold hand pressed against your shoulder, driving you back until your spine hit the wall with a muted thud. The opposing sensations—his cold and the warmth your body clung to—warred within you, leaving you frozen in more ways than one.

His gloved hand remained firm on your shoulder, holding you in place, while his other hand brushed against your cheek. The frost that followed his touch bloomed across your skin like a winter’s kiss, cold yet strangely… soothing.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, each word curling around you like an arctic breeze. “The warmth of life… fighting so desperately against the cold I bring.”

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your skin like a whisper of frost. “It’s beautiful… the way your body responds. How it resists, yet…” He tilted his head, “you don’t pull away.”

Your teeth chattered as you tried to speak, but no words came.

“You’re so… fragile,” he continued, his voice soft yet laced with a dangerous edge. “So alive. And yet…” His hand moved from your cheek to trail along your jawline, his touch featherlight but freezing. “…it would take so little to turn you into something eternal. A perfect sculpture of ice.”

Your chest heaved as you struggled to keep your composure, the weight of his words sinking in. He leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours now, his cold breath mingling with your warm exhalations.

“But not yet,” he whispered, his lips curling into that same pleased smirk. “Not when you’re this… captivating.”

His hand lingered for a moment longer before he suddenly stepped back, releasing you. The frost clinging to your skin and the wall behind you melted away almost instantly, leaving you trembling.

He turned away without another word, his presence still heavy in the air. For a moment, you thought he was leaving you, but then he glanced over his shoulder, his icy gaze piercing through you.

“Run,” he said softly, the word laced with chilling intent. “Let’s see how long that warmth of yours can last.”

Your breath hitched as the word settled in the air like a command, and without hesitation, your body obeyed. You pushed off the wall and bolted.

A sharp whoosh cut through the air, and you instinctively ducked, feeling the chilling breeze of his mirror shard slicing the air just behind you. It didn’t hit you—no, it never did—but it was close enough to send shivers crawling up your spine. He wasn’t trying to injure you. He wanted you to feel the cold, to know how close he was, to remind you that you were his to chase.

You rounded a corner, vaulting over a low counter in a desperate attempt to create some distance, but when you landed on the other side, his red light loomed just behind you. A low, cold laugh followed, echoing in the empty halls.

You made a sharp turn, vaulting over another obstacle, and finally, finally, you saw someone. A flash of movement—another survivor! Relief flooded through you as they ran toward you, their eyes wide with panic.

It was Jake.

He looked at you, then past you, his expression hardening as he realized who was chasing you. Without a word, he stepped forward, drawing the killer’s attention as you scrambled to the side, ducking into another hallway.

You hesitated for just a moment, watching as the killer’s calm gaze shifted to Jake. He didn’t speak this time, but there was something in his posture as if he were almost… displeased at the interruption.

Jake shouted, waving his arms to draw the killer further away. “Come one!” he yelled.

With one last glance, you turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, the sound of their footsteps fading behind you.

Eventually you found a dark, quiet corner where you could catch your breath.

You slumped against the wall, your body trembling from adrenaline and the lingering chill of his presence. Jake had bought you time, but you knew it wouldn’t last forever.

You stumbled into another corridor, your heart still racing as you scanned the area. The faint hum of a generator reached your ears, and you followed it like a lifeline. Turning a corner, your eyes landed on a half-finished generator sitting in the middle of a secluded room. Relief washed over you.

Quickly, you moved to it, crouching down and setting to work. Your hands shook, partially from the cold and partially from the lingering adrenaline, but you forced yourself to focus.

You flinched at the sudden distant sound of a scream. Someone had gone down—it was hard to tell who in the chaos of the trial—but you couldn’t think about that now.

Finally, the generator sparked to life, the room lighting up with the mechanical glow and you allowed yourself a small, shaky exhale of victory.

But then, the warmth in the air shifted.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as the icy feeling grew stronger. You froze in place, barely breathing, your eyes darting around the room.

The ground near your feet began to frost over, thin trails of ice spreading across the floor.

Panic surged through you, and your eyes scanned the room desperately. There—a locker, tucked into the corner. Without hesitation, you sprinted for it, careful to avoid making too much noise. You slipped inside and shut the door as quietly as you could, pressing your back against the wooden wall.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from making a sound, every muscle in your body tensing as the steps grew louder, closer. The frost crept higher on the walls, spiderwebbing like cracks in a mirror.

You crouched lower in the locker, your eyes fixed on the small gaps in the slats. Through them, you could see his figure moving closer, the frost trailing in his wake. It spread across the walls, over the floor, and finally, onto the locker itself.

You could feel the chill seeping through, making the air inside colder and colder. Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried desperately to stay silent, but the icy metal at your back made it nearly impossible to stay still.

Through the small gaps, you watched as he stopped right in front of the locker. He stood there for a moment, his back partially turned, scanning the room.

You thought he might leave, but then he turned back, facing the locker directly, standing perfectly still, only inches away from where you were hiding. For a moment, he seemed to just stand there, listening, the silence pressing down like a weight.

The frost continued to spread, climbing up the locker door and along its edges. The cold bit into your skin, making you shiver involuntarily. And that was your mistake.

The faintest sound of your breath slipping past your lips was enough.

His head tilted slightly, his sharp blue eye narrowing as he leaned forward. From the small gap, you could see his mouth curl into a smirk.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, his voice a soft, chilling whisper that made the frost seem warmer in comparison.

You stiffened, pressing your back harder against the frozen wood as he tapped a single finger on the locker door. “Are we playing hide-and-seek now?” he continued, his tone laced with amusement. “I thought you’d know by now—” he paused, leaning closer, so close that you swore his frosty breath was fogging the slats, “—I always win.”

For a horrifying moment, you thought he was going to rip the door open, his hand hovering close. But instead, he straightened up, taking a step back.

You let out a shaky breath, thinking for a second that he might leave. But then he raised his mirror shard and dragged it lightly against the edge of the locker door, the screech of ice making you wince.

“You know,” he began, his voice smooth and quiet, almost too calm, “there’s something about you… something that exhilarates me.” He let out a low chuckle, dragging the shard along the door one last time before stopping. “I’ve encountered many survivors, and they all blur together after a while. But you…” He paused, leaning closer so his breath frosted the slats of the locker. “You’re not like that.”

You could barely breathe, your entire body frozen—not from the cold, but from his words. The way he spoke wasn’t like the other killers you’d faced. There was no mockery, no irritation at your defiance.

“You’re so... special,” he murmured, the shard now resting against the locker as if he were caressing it. “Every time I see you, it’s like I’m looking at something perfect.” He chuckled again, low and chilling. “It makes me want to keep you forever. Preserve that beauty. Make it mine.”

Your heart stopped as his words sunk in, your breath caught in your throat. Before you could think to do anything—before you could even try to scramble or scream—the door to the locker swung open.

“Caught you,” he said softly, as if this was nothing more than a game.

You gasped as his arms reached in, effortlessly grabbing you. The frost where his hands touched your skin seeped into you immediately.

“Struggling won’t help,” he said, almost teasingly, as you tried to push against him. “Not that I want you to. I quite like the way you tremble.”

Before you could protest, he hoisted you up with a strength that made your attempts at resistance seem laughable. Your world tilted as he threw you over his shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. Before he started walking through the lab, while you squirmed in his hold, but it was no use.

Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, he shifted you off his shoulder and set you down with surprising care onto a cold, metal control table in the center of the lab. The frost beneath his boots crept up the legs of the table, spreading like spiderwebs across the surface and surrounding you in a halo of icy mist.

You tried to sit up, but he leaned forward, his hand pressing against your shoulder to keep you in place. “You’re quite predictable, you know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with a tinge of amusement. “Always fighting. Always running. But here you are under me again.”

His lips curved into that same faint, knowing smirk that made your chest tighten. He shifted slightly closer, his free hand resting on the edge of the table, boxing you in.

“You’re the last one left again,” he murmured, almost like he was savoring the words. “Everyone else has fallen. And yet… here you are. Stubborn as ever.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. The others were gone. You were the last survivor again, and there was still one generator left to finish.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as you glanced around the room, searching desperately for some kind of opening, anything to get away. But his body blocked most of your view, and the frost on the walls behind him seemed to spread as if sealing off any potential escape.

“Such a mouth,” he teased, his voice almost a whisper now, his frosty breath grazing your lips. “But I like your fire. It makes it so much more satisfying to snuff it out.”

His hand moved slowly to rest on your chest, the chill of his touch sinking deep into your skin. A shiver ran down your spine as you watched in wide-eyed disbelief. Frost spread outward from where his palm met your chest, intricate patterns blooming like frozen flowers across your skin. It didn’t feel painful—it was cold, yes, but strangely gentle, almost mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but stare at the crystalline designs etching themselves over you.

“You see?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, laced with a quiet satisfaction. “Perfection.”

Your gaze snapped up to meet his as he stepped back slightly. His free hand rose, tugging at the edge of his cracked mirror mask. With a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he removed it, letting the light fully illuminate his face for the first time.

He was… beautiful. His features were sharp and striking, carved with the same precision as the frost he wielded. A few thin scars adorned his face, faint but noticeable. His eyes glowed faintly, studying you intently, as though you were some kind of masterpiece he’d just completed.

“You complement me so perfectly now,” he said softly, as his eyes lingered on the frost spreading over your skin. His gaze was equal parts admiration and possessiveness, as if you were a creation he had shaped with his own hands.

You wanted to speak, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but the words caught in your throat. There was something about the way he looked at you that made it impossible to move.

“You’re so beautiful” he continued, his cold fingers tracing a line along the frost-covered patterns on your arms. “Now… now you’re mine. A canvas perfected by my touch.”

Your breathing hitched as his hand paused, his icy fingertips resting just over your racing pulse. His face was so close now that you could feel the frost in his breath, mingling with the warmth of yours.

“You’ve always stood out,” he said, his tone softening, almost tender. “Among all the others, you are the only one worth keeping.” As his hand rested on your chest, he leaned closer, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I wonder,” he mused softly, his voice almost a whisper now, “how much more beautiful you’ll be… once the ice fully claims you.”

Before you could react, he leaned in, his cold lips pressing against yours. The icy chill of his kiss sent a jolt through your body, and you gasped sharply, the frost on your skin seeming to tighten as if it were alive, responding to his touch. His lips, though cold, were strangely soft it left you reeling, unsure whether to pull away or melt into it.

His hands moved swiftly, capturing yours as your instincts kicked in to push him away. He intertwined his fingers with yours, locking them together. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm, as though he was making sure you wouldn’t escape. The frost from his hands seeped into yours, spreading the intricate, shimmering patterns further up your arms.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could see his breath crystallizing in the cold air between you. “You even sound so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for you. His thumbs brushed lightly over the backs of your hands, sending another shiver coursing through your body. “I could get used to hearing the sounds i could get out of you.”

You tried to tug your hands free, but his fingers tightened slightly, holding you there. “Why fight it?” he whispered, tilting his head, his tone almost coaxing. “You belong here. With me. Look at yourself—you’re already becoming part of the ice.”

Your gaze flickered downward for a moment, catching the glittering frost climbing your arms, wrapping around your wrists like delicate, frozen chains. It was as if the cold itself was claiming you, binding you to him.

“Don’t you see?” he continued, his voice filled with a chilling certainty. “No one else could ever understand your beauty the way I do. No one else could ever deserve you.”

His hands tightened just slightly around yours, pulling you closer as his lips brushed against your ear. “Let me show you how much you mean to me,” he whispered, his breath icy against your skin, sending another shiver down your spine.

His hands suddenlt slid to the hem of your sweater, the cold of his fingers making your breath hitch as he slowly pulled the fabric upward. The icy chill wrapped around you like a second skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

As the fabric bunched up, exposing more of your skin, you felt his lips brush against your stomach—a fleeting, ghostly kiss that left a trail of frost in its wake. His kisses were cold but delicate, as if he were crafting something beautiful out of your very existence. The frost spread wherever his lips touched, etching intricate, crystalline patterns onto your skin like a frozen work of art.

You shivered, your teeth threatening to chatter as the frost claimed more of you, but the chill didn’t burn.

“You don’t even realize how perfect you are, do you?” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing along the curve of your collarbone. His voice was softer now, almost tender. “Each mark I leave… it suits you. Makes you mine.”

His hands trailed along your sides, the frost blooming under his touch like winter flowers. You gasped softly as his lips pressed against your chest, leaving behind more intricate frost.

“I could cover every inch of you,” he continued, his voice deepening as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. His eyes sparkled with an unearthly glow as they traced the frosty designs now covering your skin. “You were made for this. For me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in again, his lips brushing yours so faintly it was maddening. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his voice as chilling as his touch. “You’re already mine.”

The frost tightened its hold on you, the cold sinking deeper into your skin as if binding you to him, you couldn’t tell whether it was fear or something else entirely keeping you from pulling away.

a/n: my mom is sick so i was filling up a hot water bag but i squeezed too tight so i spilled the water on my chest :p pray my piercing dont get irritated...

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vantedaes · 4 months ago

Text

cry, cry, cry

pairing: nanami kento x f!reader tags: porn with little plot, dacryphilia (or an attempt at it at least) soft dom nanami, slight breathplay, fingering, alcohol use, body fluids mentions, unprotected sex, manhandling, slight objectivization, passing out, hair pulling, pussy spanking, slight breeding kink, reader does not talk but because of the context no because she can't. NO PROOFREAD. an: English is not my first language, there might be mistakes that would be addressed,,, someday, for now I just want this to be posted it has been sitting on my drafts like forever. Inspired by this tiktok of my lovely bbh

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT +18 ONLY!!!

!Husband Kento was not a stranger to being enraged when working overtime, however, he didn't make a habit of taking that rage home, where his lovely wife was waiting for him. Unfortunately for him, today was one of those days he couldn´t stop the bubbling wrath when returning home after insufferable overtime hours cleaning everyone´s messes.

Of course, he had sent you a text beforehand letting you know that it was for the best to allow him time to cool down before talking to him, and thankfully you've been supporting and understanding as ever telling him that he shouldn´t worry and that a glass of his favorite bourbon was already served in his study.

You knew exactly that your lovely husband had an especially rough day, you could tell by the sound of the door opening an abrasive almost like the FBI was breaking into your house, you could hear from your shared room the loud slamming of the door, so strong it made you flinch, your cat scaping your blanket running into hiding somewhere in the closet.

Closing your book you put it on your nightstand and heard how the heavy steps of your husband made their way to your home, you could listen to the rustling of his clothing and another slam of what you could guess was his suitcase, oh, he was real upset, Not long after that you hear him opening the door of his study. Standing up you got out of your shared room, you didn't want to bother him at all knowing he had to blow some steam, so you just went to the drawing room to assess the situation, with soft steps you saw how his coat was thrown under the hanger and his suitcase a few steps from the coat, open, revealing what you could only assume was red numbers and some other reports he had to deal with, you did your best to accommodate everything in its place hearing your husband going slamming things in his office.

You knew it was better to just go to sleep and wait for him to come to bed whenever he felt like it, but, you were also curious, you´d never seen him this upset, so after getting his things together you made your way silently to his study, almost on tiptoes, the door was wide open which made your little espionage easier. Only the light of his desk was on, you leaned in the doorframe like a child trying not to get busted when they know were being naughty, your breath caught into your throat when you saw him, his back to you pouring even more of the bourbon and gulping it in just one quick motion, his muscles evidently tense making him look even bigger, menacing even, his big hands gripping the glass and the movement of his throat working that burning alcohol down like it was nothing.

And dear lord, you could feel your pajama shorts getting soaked.

Your skin burned like it had caught on fire, you weren't unfamiliar with how insanely hot and attractive your husband was, but this was different, this was the first time you'd seen him, this, this enraged, his whole demeanor changing in a drastic form that you've never experimented and your eyes were glazing for just the sight, your fingers itching to help you relieve some of that tension desire building in the pit of your stomach. Your husband then sits on his chair, his strong tights expanding, and his crotch more prominent, his hair like a full mess, golden locks falling into his gorgeous face that was contorted into a hostile expression that only made you press your tights even closer to each other, you could feel yourself trembling with a raw need that was taking over every grain of your sanity.

But then in a swift motion, after struggling to take off his tie he simply opted for tearing the damn thing apart, the buttons of his shirt flying to different parts of the room, allowing his massive chest to breathe and with that sinful sight you couldn't help but gasp. Still, in reality, it was more like a pitiful whimper that was capable of getting your very angry husband´s attention to you.

The moment your eyes connected with his dark eyes you didn´t move an inch, something like fear and excitement creeping into you, like a fear of a beast that found the most helpless prey on its own lair, which was accurately what was happening.

Your husband stood up and gulped the whisky quickly, licking his lips as he addressed you.

"C´me here" His voice was raspy, like going through your whole body, it made you quiver even more, made your whole being more intoxicated.

Slowly you approached him, his eyes never leaving you for a second, and you were used to Kento´s eyes on you, his attentive and longing gaze every time he looked at you, but the way he was looking at you now was something else, like drinking the sight of you, like devouring your whole image, resembling a madman that has been starved. When you got close enough you stopped, just a few centimeters separating you, he smirked cockily his lips glazed with the bourbon, and your nostrils were filled with the scent of his cologne mixed with alcohol it roamed through your figure and you find yourself inhaling it, fueling even more the heat that was about to explode inside your body. Your husband looked amused at how you were paralyzed in front of him like you were asking permission to touch him, your own husband, it was ridiculous, and yet it was what his good girl knew had to do.

"Look at you, shamelessly spying on me when I perfectly told you to give me space" His hand gripped your chin with a strength that made you part your lips in surprise "Now that you got what you wanted...you´re all shaky, angel"

You wanted to answer sure, it wasn´t your nature to stay quiet, you were always quick with a comeback but just like in a trance, you were just mute and so fucking needy, he, your husband, was not a man who loses his calm like ever, one year of marriage and you've never seen him this deranged.

He could hardly blame you for how your body reacted, you yourself didn't know you could find him even hotter.

Quivering, you tried to speak "I—"

And without any kind of warning, he grabbed your waist with a strength that made you gasp in surprise, the sound of shattering glass stealing your attention for a quick second —he really threw his glass on the floor—, but as soon as you felt your frame pressed tightly at the body of Kento your mind went to a fucking blank again, contemplating how his normally hazel color eyes were totally pitch black. His arm was like an iron band around your waist and your hands posed on his big chest trying to hold onto something, his closeness making you quiver like a leaf and you could just read in his expression how much he liked all of your wretched reactions.

"Shh...it´s alright angel" he whispered hotly upon your lips "I already know what you want"

Before you could process any of his words he took you and bent you over his desk, your hips pressed against the edge of it and all of the stuff on top of it falling down, the bottle of whiskey spilling over the wood surface where your face was now pressed against wetting your cheek and lips, you were never a fan of whiskey —or any strong alcohol really—, but right now you welcomed it eagerly with your mouth hanging open when you felt the hot and rough hands of your husband stripping you off your pajama shorts, your cunt being met with the breeze of the room, soaked, you felt how your juices were already trailing your tights. You moaned pitifully, your hole clenching into nothing.

Nanami laughed in a vibrato that made your knees buckle, "Look at that, so fucking wet..." his fingers trailed your dampness pressing over your wet swollen lips gathering all the liquid before entering your entrance in a quick movement, you let out a high pitched moan at the sudden intermission "That´s right angel, you will take it"

He kept moving his fingers inside your cunt quickly while his other hand kept your head firmly pressed into his desk, the whisky fusing with your saliva as you kept loudly moaning, your body going into shambles quickly, Nanami was like a feral beast fucking you with his fingers letting out the hottest low grunts that were making your orgasm approach in a tidal wave in just mere seconds of his fingers inside you.

"Yes yes yes" you chanted in ecstasy, your legs fully trembling as your orgasm hit you with an intensity that would almost make you fall if it wasn't for the firm hand of your husband keeping you still on the surface of his desk, a loud moaning of his name leaving your mouth.

"made a mess of my fingers angel, so needy you came so fast" his fingers leaving your leaky entrance and trailing through your cunt greedily. you were panting with the aftermath of your orgasm, the whiskey now soaking the whole table and part of your hair "Filthy, filthy girl, looking like a used whore after just taking my fingers"

He roamed a chuckle, then you heard him sucking his fingers nastily, sounding richly across the room, and in a quick moment he slapped your pussy making you scream your already shaky legs buckling and almost falling to the floor only to be grabbed by your wrists and manhandled to your position on the table.

Another smack on your pussy made you yelp, "Come on now, don't act like this cunt doesn't like it rough" You felt him pressing against your ass, fully clothed, and yet you felt the big bulge twitching against your bare cunt, soaking his pants, it was unbearable to have his cock still on his pants when you wanted it so so so bad.

However, you could only mutter pathetic whimpers, so clouded and drunk on his cock that wasn't even inside you. "Stay put" Your husband demanded and you immediately went still, excitement filling your body as you heard him unfast his belt followed by his zipper and a delicious groan as his cock was fully out

You couldn't quite see but you knew he didn't take off his pants by the way you could feel the fabric on your tights and fuck, you could come just right there again.

"I believe you know I have no intend of going soft with you tonight," He remarked while tracing his cock on your swollen lips, his precum fusing with your juices "Oh, but look at you angel... so fucked up looking like you could die if I don't give you this cock"

"I—" A slap to your asscheek cut you off to a pathetic moan, and soon you felt the hard body of your husband pressing on your back to whisper in your ear.

"I don´t want to hear anything that is not those pathetic little moans you made" His hot breath against your neck had you shivering, with his hard cock nestled between your folds you could do nothing but behave, tears escaping your eyes betraying how much you wanted it, how much you need it, Nanami trailed your neck inhaling your scent like he needed it more than air, getting drunk on it and leaving wet open mouth kisses on your boiling hot skin. Despite the twitching of his cock against your folds he did nothing more than tease your skin with his hot breath on your most sensible zones, driving you into absolute madness, your hole clenching, hungry, and desperate.

His hands gripping your waist tightly, you were sure tomorrow it'll have a mark. "Nothing more than a slut for this cock hm?" he teased leaving your back, standing again he took your jaw turning your face to him, when you looked at his handsome face his eyes looked like a deep endless void of how black and dilated they were, not a trace of his usual hazel like eyes, he looked at you with ravenousness, his eyes darting through your face that was now covered in tears

His cock twitched at the sight of your whipping face, you started sobbing, your lips trembling in a way of begging him to fuck you.

"Oh fuck" He moaned leaving your jaw to tug on your hair and grabbing the base of his cock he finally directed his tip to your needy entrance, you moaned even more between tears feeling how the length of your husband's cock stretched you.

Fuuuuck, your husband was big and, oh, he did not intend to go soft with you, remember? So you should have expected when his full-length slammed into your cunt in a strong thrust, making you cry loud, your hands grabbing the edge of the table, you could feel his cock molding your insides, his veins popping through your walls and if you were already not intoxicated you surely were now.

Nanami moaned feeling your pussy tightening around him like you want to cut him off, he pulled your hair into his fist harder and looking straight at your eyes he hissed, "Put your fucking hands were they where"

Looking at him with big tearful eyes you clasped your hands together behind your back, your whole stability now depending on how your husband had your hair pulled into his fist. "Such an obedient girl... Now keep sobbing like a dumb slut while I feed you this cock"

And with that, you could only hiccup pathetically, Nanami's thrusts were erratic and fast, kissing every bit of your insides, he looked at you with a deranged look, enjoying how you were drooling and crying while taking his cock so harshly, he fucking loved it, having you go all fucking stupid on his big cock and have you reduced to a needy little thing.

"Yes, fuck—that's right, so fucking tight around me" his sloppy thrust was making you dizzy on how deep he was reaching into you, your orgasm already in the making ready to burst with the warning of being even bigger than the last one and your husband knew it completely, that smirk of his adorning his lips, with that your second orgasm erupt shaking your whole body, your husband groaned pulling on your hair harder making you stare at him while you creamed his cock and your eyes rolled, tears trailing down your face to your throat disappearing on your breasts, your husband's depraved eyes look at it and soon you had him turning you around without leaving your sloppy hole to now have you laying down the desk in a more comfortably position

A position that allowed you to look upon your very disheveled husband, through your teary and hazy eyes you could see and drink at the sight of Nanami just fucking into you like a mad man, like a fucking wild animal, his hands now gripping your jaw playing with it like you were a useless doll, his fingers entering your hot mouth pressing on your tongue while he kept pounding that fat cock into you, you whimper so cockdrunk you were about to pass out feeling his hard cock kiss your cervix every time, he was ruthless in the way he was fucking you and you were obsessed with it.

"Fuck, I'm going to fill you up so fucking good" he left your jaw and slapped your tits before rubbing your clit in a maniac rhythm that pull you out of your drowsy state and soon you were filling up another orgasm approaching, "come for me sweetheart, I know you can, fuck—do it"

His thrusts were, even more, sloppier, erratic, and quick you felt like you were about to explode, it was way too much, you were pushing the limits of your oversensitive body, but oh, how you loved it especially when you felt his hard cock stiffen even more inside you and warm cum filling your insides and soon you were cumming a third time, this time even more intense than the previous ones and your whole body shudder at the immense pleasure and the fullness of the cum inside you, your husband moans in the background of your nirvana, it was as you where losing your hold on reality and soon everything went blank.

!Husband Kento was heavily panting rolling off the immense orgasm he had, only to find his lovely wife passed out on his desk, and even though his first response was to get worried that he indeed had been too rough with you, but, the happiness on your —very fucked up— face told him everything he needed to know.

Taking his dick out of you he put himself together and took your limp body in his arms to carry you into the bathroom, somewhere along the way you regained consciousness, your pretty confused eyes looked at him and soon your cheeks turned red "Hello beautiful, I'm going to take care of you now"

Simply he assured you with a smile and a kiss to your damped forehead, you smelled like sweat and whiskey.

"..." You looked like you wanted to speak and Nanami could only chuckle affectionately at your uncertainty.

"You can speak now angel"

#Jjk x reader #Jjk fluff #Jjk smut #Nanami x reader #Nanami fluff #Nanami smut #Nanami Kento smut #nanami fic #nanami drabble #nanami oneshot #jjk oneshot #jjk drabble #nanami x you #jjk nanami #kento nanami

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dollfacefantasy · 10 months ago

Note

hi! i just finished reading your most recent fic, (amazing btw 💕) and keep reflecting on the part where leon calls reader a little disappointing.. so i was wondering if you could write some angst with DI leon where he’s quite mean and degrading and saying how he’s disappointed and stuff with reader, yk! then leon lovingly fucks reader after as a way to say sorry? (daddy kink included) thank you <3

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: leon goes a little too hard on you one night during sex. upon realizing how much it hurt you, he knows he has to make it up somehow.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, daddy kink, praise/degradation, age gap (20s, early forties), mentions of spanking & not using safeword

word count: 5.2k

a/n: part 1 <3 took me a while to figure out how i wanted to do this but i hope you guys enjoy.

Something isn't right.

That's all you could think while watching Leon idly stir pasta sauce at the stove. You were perched nearby at the counter, observing him as if he was under experimentation. While to anyone else his actions would appear completely mundane, you knew that this gesture was only the first step in something larger.

He never cooked you dinner. In the year and six weeks you'd been with him, he'd only ever made you a real meal twice before. Once being six weeks ago on your anniversary, and the other about four months before that, a couple days after you had a fight that nearly blew the wheels off your relationship.

In each case, there was a reason behind it. Whether to celebrate or make amends, neither was an innocuous decision made at random. You weren't even sure that Leon possessed the ability to be spontaneous, but that was a separate issue for another time. The obvious meaning behind his actions was the cause of the splashing of the noodles being poured into the boiling water making your stomach turn.

Because today wasn't anything special. There wasn't a birthday or an achievement to make an occasion of. That meant it was the other option, the makeup option, and you were extra sure of this because the two of you hadn't exactly been the perfect picture of being in love lately.

"Honey, could you put these on the table for me?" he asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

He looks at you over his shoulder to make sure you see the plates and silverware he's referring to.

"Yeah, sure," you respond.

You hop off the stool you were sitting on and grab the things he wanted you to. This was even worse. He wasn't going to let you eat in peace at the counter like you did when he wasn't here. No, he was going to stare you down across the dining table.

But you still do what he asks. Sighing, you haphazardly put a plate down on both ends of the table with silverware bordering each side to match. You grab glasses next and put them there too. Once everything is in its perfect place, you plop down at your seat, deciding to wait here until he joins you. This chair was out of view from the kitchen which meant you could get a few moments alone to brace yourself.

It's not that anything terrible was going to happen. It was just going to be a conversation. But it would be a relationship conversation, an emotional conversation, something neither of you were good at.

You weren't good at it because you'd never been good at it. Ever since you were a kid, the slightest spotlight put on your feelings had barbs forming in your throat and stinging, salty tears brimming your lash line. Everything had to be coaxed out of you, or you were sure to break down.

Leon wasn't good at it because his version of a conversation came across more as an interrogation. When talking about feelings, he never wanted to talk about his own. He'd never share what was going on in his own head, he only wanted to know what was going on in yours. You were the one struggling; therefore, you were the one he needed to help. You were the mission to be resolved.

You supposed that was consistent with everything else about the man you loved. He always wanted to be the one in control, the one managing the details of your life. It came from the desire to protect. He showed his love by keeping you safe, keeping you from being like him. He went away for weeks on end following orders. When he came home, he liked to be the one doling them out.

And that was how you liked it too. You weren't some unwilling victim. When he offered to try this stuff out with you, you couldn't have been happier. You liked being told to do this and do it now. You liked the security of his lap, the promise that no matter how bad things got he would be there to wipe away your tears and make it all better.

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. You were pretty sure you knew what the specific topic of conversation would be tonight. You'd been distant lately. You could already hear his voice ringing through your head telling you that. For the past couple weeks, you hadn't been you. You hadn't been as sweet on him, kissing his cheeks and stroking his hair while you cuddled. Hadn't been hanging off his body or climbing all over him every chance you got. Hadn't been as eager to squeal daddy when he made you cum.

You knew why, and you knew he didn't. That was by design though. You didn't want him to know. This whole situation had spiraled so far out of control, and you just wanted to sweep your mess under the rug and forget about it. You didn't need daddy's help cleaning it up.

It shouldn't even be that big of a deal. Nothing that bad had happened.

The night that had your panties in a bunch happened a few weeks ago. You'd had a shitty day and so had Leon. You were looking to act out, and he was looking to punish.

You gave him some attitude. A few eye rolls and sharp responses when he asked you things. Looking back, you think maybe you should've sensed he was in a bad mood and just dropped it. That's when the other part of you chimes in and wonders why he couldn't do the same for you. Why couldn't he feel out your emotions and realize you needed him? But then you start to feel emotionally stunted, expecting your boyfriend to be a mind reader.

This internal conversation never gets very far.

That night he hadn't read your mind. He'd taken you over his lap and given you a spanking. It was pretty standard. You'd had over a dozen of those by his hand at this point. The slaps weren't the problem. His palm hit you all the same, bringing the sting you craved. The part that stuck with you and created this wedge was just him. It was how he spoke, the way he looked at you.

You could still see the eyes you fell in love with looking at you with nothing but disappointment.

You could still hear him growling in your ear when he had you bent in half and fucked you afterwards. He had you face down on the couch, holding your head against the cushion while he jackhammered into you.

"If you want my attention, all you have to do is ask. You know that. But you never fucking do it. You play these games with me. You think I wanna put up with that? You think I come home and wanna hear you bitching at me too?"

You weren't even sure what about it had got you. It was harsh, sure, but it was supposed to be.

"I want you to be a good girl. To behave. I don't want to deal with a bratty little slut."

He'd said stuff like that before. But in that moment it didn't feel like daddy was mad at you, it felt like your boyfriend was. It didn't feel like you were naughty or misbehaving. It felt like you were pathetic.

"You want daddy's attention so bad, next time you say please like you're supposed to. Don't make me go through the chore of disciplining your ass again. I'm over it."

By some miracle you still got to cum. He came inside you like normal. When he pulled out he'd fallen back onto the cushions of the couch to catch his breath. He lied there, fingers wiping the sweat from his brow as if he'd put in a hard day's work. You sat there unsure of what to do with yourself. After he'd come down a little more, he'd pulled you close, kissed all over your face like normal and taken to you to bed. But you'd laid there with your eyes open, trying not to cry as he snored against the back of your neck.

You're snapped out of your memories by the thud of the pot on the dining room table. Leon stood a few feet away from you, oven mitts on both hands as he placed the dish between your seats. He cracks a smile at you when you look up and meet his eyes.

"I made way too much. I hope you're hungry," he teases.

You respond with a weak grin of your own. Sitting up straight in your chair, you blink a few times and rub your face as if that'd be enough to clear away the past and magically fix everything.

Two of his fingers duck below your chin and guide you to look at him again.

"You ok?" he asks. His voice is tender like it is most of the time when he speaks to you.

"Yeah. I'm just tired," you tell him with a more convincing smile. You're not sure if it works, but he seems to accept it for now.

"Alright," he says, leaning down and kissing the corner of your mouth.

He takes his seat across the table, opposite yours. You get the privilege of serving your portion first. You shovel a helping of pasta onto your plate. The red sauce spreads on your plate, and you grab a piece of toast to soak some of it up. Leon repeats your actions and gets some of the food for himself. He had made too much. You'd definitely have leftovers, but that was nothing to complain about. He made dinner before these conversations for a reason. Like anything else, he was a good cook when he wanted to be.

The meal starts off silent as you had expected it to. You both eat instead of trying to talk. Forks hitting plates and bread crunching into two fills the room in the place of words. A sense of calm comes over you, but you know it won't last forever. Eventually, Leon does break the silence with some basic questions. How was your day, wasn't this summer heat killer, did you see he fixed that thing in the garage you'd asked him to. It's fine. Just fine like everything had been for the past couple weeks.

The conversation reaches another lull though, and this is when he goes for the killing strike.

"Baby, I think we need to talk," he sighs.

You raise your eyebrows as if you hadn't been expecting this.

"About what?" you ask after swallowing your mouthful of pasta.

Now he raises his eyebrows. He's not disappointed, but he knows you're playing dumb and doesn't appreciate it. It's affectionate though. It doesn't look like it did a few weeks ago.

"I know something's bothering you," he tries softly.

"I told you I was tired," you shrug and look away.

"It's not just today though. It's been more than a few days," he says.

You sigh and put your fork down. You're conscious of every part of your reaction in an effort to avoid looking pouty or melting into tears.

"I don't know. The past few weeks I just haven't felt great. It's not like a crisis situation or something," you say.

"Then tell me about it, sweetheart," he says, trying to will you to look up at him with his gentle tone, "I want to help, but I don't know what's wrong. Every time I try, you pull away."

"Not on purpose," you add. It's an important defense to you.

"I'm not saying it's on purpose," he says. You can tell he's trying to be as non-confrontational as possible. Maybe he does pick up on your emotions a little bit. "All I'm saying is that I'm worried about you."

And with one little sentence, you feel the spikes starting to poke through. You look down and place your palm on your eyes. You felt ten times more pathetic than you had a few weeks ago. He can see you're getting closer to breaking, so he continues.

"You can talk to me. If you need something or I did something, I just want to make it better," he continues, "I don't like not knowing what's going on in that pretty head. I like it even less seeing you look so sad."

Your lip wobbles. A last resort to hold in the barrage of emotions. "It's nothing," you choke out.

"It's not nothing if it has you this upset," he counters, speaking quietly, "Just talk to me, little love."

That's all it takes, and you can't hold it anymore. Tears leak from your water line and draw limpid streaks down your face. You bite your lip to nip any audible cries in the bud. It doesn't matter though, he still sees the small droplets of water.

"My baby," he coos, "C'mere."

You rise to your feet in an instant and round the table. He pushes his chair back and takes you into his lap. You're cradled by his warmth, safe against his chest as he rubs your back. As much as you loved mentally complaining about his interrogations, maybe this is what you needed. Maybe this worked for you.

"You're ok. I'm right here," he murmurs.

He kisses your hairline and cups the back of your neck to keep you close. He lets you cry it out before attempting any more questions. Once it seems you've settled though, the spotlight is back on you.

"What's wrong, sunshine?" he whispers.

Try as he might, you still couldn't bring yourself to say the words. It was like two wires in your brain that just did not physically connect. Expressing pain was hard enough, but expressing pain that he caused? This inability killed you, it really did. Thinking about it brings another sob from your lips. You wanted to beat your own ass till she had enough of a spine to just say a few simple words so this could all be over.

You can't do that though, so Leon continues on with his tender questions.

"Can you tell me when you started feeling this way?" he asks with a hint of hesitation.

There that was one you could answer. "Few weeks ago."

He nods, taking any information he could get as crucial.

"Alright... is there something stressing you out?" he asks.

You shake your head. Technically there was something stressing you out, but while you were breaking down, 'stressing out' was code for responsibilities, so the answer is no.

"Problems with your friends?"

Another head shake.

"Family?"

No.

"...Me?"

You almost shake your head again. You could swing just making something up on the spot. But that wouldn't be right to him. He'd done the work of the guessing game and come to the conclusion fair and square. You nod yes.

A whirlpool of emotion forms in his pupils, but it's almost like he knew he was to blame. He nods and sighs. His hand doesn't stop rubbing your back.

"Ok," he breathes, "You gotta give me a hint, honey."

You found words coming a bit easier now that he had led you this far.

"Remember a few weeks ago when you got mad at me?" you rasp and look at him with your watery eyes.

He blinks at you. "We got into a fight a few weeks ago?" he asks.

There's genuine confusion in his tone. He didn't remember. Or at least this day didn't stick out in his mind. He hadn't been dwelling on it since it happened, hadn't been wondering if it meant something greater in the context of your relationship. You weren't sure if that brought you relief or frustration.

"No. It was like... it was when I had a bad day and I came home and you were watching that stupid cop show. And I kept talking. And you told me to shut up. And I said you were only watching it cause you didn't know how to change the channel," you list off some of the events that led to the infamous incident.

He smiles upon remembering that little joke. He found it funny. Then why did he get so mean?

"Don't tell me you've been mad cause I wouldn't let you watch your show instead," he teases.

"No, it's not that. Remember after when you spanked me? And then we fucked on the couch..." you sniffle.

He pauses to think about your words. The gears turn in his head, the pieces fall into place. The lightbulb goes off in his eyes.

"Oh yeah. I remember that," he says. He remembers, but he doesn't understand. "What about it?"

His thumb swipes a few tears away while waiting for the answer you were still trying to formulate.

"Well... like... I don't know," you start. You felt ridiculous verbalizing it. "You just kinda hurt my feelings."

His brows furrow. He still doesn't get it.

"Hurt your feelings?" he repeats, "I didn't hit you too hard, did I? You know if that ever happens you have the word. You say it, and I stop for you in a heartbeat. You know that."

"It didn't hurt like that... it's just some of the stuff you said," you say. The urge to pull away is starting to come back.

"Sweetheart," he says. His voice is dripping with concern. He didn't remember saying anything bad enough that you'd still be twisted into knots over it multiple weeks later. "You know you can use the word for that kind of thing too. Please tell me you know that."

"I know that," you start, feeling a little ashamed. This was exactly why you didn't want to talk about this.

"If I say something that hurts you this bad, you need to tell me. Right when I say it. You tell me to stop. You let me remind you it's not real," he says, quiet but firm. He holds you tighter, unintentionally squeezing more tears out of you. "I only say things I think will get you off. I don't say them to hurt you."

You hide your face in his neck. You felt so fucking pathetic.

"Hey, hey, hey. Shhh. It's ok. I just... I want you to understand, baby," he murmurs. He rocks you back and forth on his lap a bit before speaking again. "Can you tell me why you didn't use the word?"

Leon prayed with everything he had that it wasn't because you were scared of him. If that was it, you might as well pick up the fork off the table and jam it right into his heart. You don't answer, and it worries him. All he gets from you is the feeling of tears dribbling down his throat.

"Did it not hurt till afterwards? Did you think I wouldn't stop?" he coaxes.

You shake your head. "Cause... because I don't want you to think I can't take it," you weep.

While he's relieved it's not what he feared, he didn't expect this.

"What do you mean? You can't take it?" he repeats.

"I don't want you to think I'm a bratty little girl. I told you that stuff was ok, and I don't wanna tap out and make you feel all guilty and stuff," you cry, the words rushing from your mouth.

He sighs and his eyes close for a second. He did feel like a piece of shit now, but with what you just said, he didn't want you knowing that.

"My sweet girl," he says against your head while rubbing your back, "I would never think that about you. The word is there for you to use it whenever you want. It doesn't matter if it makes me worry I hurt you. That's not a bad thing."

You cry more into his neck, clinging to him as if you're trying to merge into one.

"I just don't wanna disappoint you," you sob.

"Baby, baby, baby," he whispers, holding you tight against his chest and rocking you again, "You never disappoint me. You don't. Not when you act bratty, not when you break a rule. That shit is all a game. It's a game, and if you don't like it, we don't have to play it.

"I know you're sensitive. I know you get emotional. I'm with you knowing that stuff. It doesn't make me think of you as an obligation. I like being daddy, but it doesn't make me think of you like that. If it makes you feel like that, we can stop. You're more important than any of it."

"I do like it," you weep, "I just... I don't want you to think I'm pathetic."

"I don't think that. I never have," he says and kisses your temple, "You're my baby. My pretty girl. My favorite person on this planet."

You sniffle and snake your arms around him tighter.

"Pathetic or disappointment never cross my mind when I look at you. Half the time I don't even have thoughts when I see you. You're so fucking gorgeous you take 'em all away," he whispers.

He nudges your head out of the crook of his neck so he can see you. His lips land on your forehead first. Then your nose. Then each cheek. And finally your lips.

"Look at me," he whispers.

You do what he asks and look up at him. You look into his eyes. These were the eyes you fell in love with.

"You are not a disappointment," he says before a kiss, "You are not pathetic. I love you. I love you when you're being good or when you're being a little shit. I love when you wanna call me daddy, but you'd still be mine if you decided you never wanted to say that word again."

"I still wanna call you daddy," you sniffle and give him a small smile.

He chuckles and returns the expression. "That was a quick decision," he teases, "Doesn't sound like you thought it through."

"I did. I still want my daddy," you say and put your head down on his shoulder.

"Good. Cause I'm right here," he says softly, "Daddy's got you."

The problem wasn't totally resolved in Leon's mind. Never again did he want to cause you weeks worth of stress over something like this. But for now, he was happy to see you smile. He could accept this temporary fix. He nuzzles your neck and places a few soft kisses on your throat.

"I think daddy needs to make it up to his baby for being so mean to her. For making her cry like that," he whispers.

A warm tingle branches out through your spine and curves around your ribs. You scoot closer to him in his lap and shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Don't give me that shrug. You know you like being spoiled. Being the center of attention," he whispers.

"Yeah..." you whisper in his ear.

He grunts as he rises to his feet with you in his arms. Your legs lock around his waist before his feet even start moving. He'd clean up the table later. Right now was about you.

He carries you through the house, tosses you onto the bed. You squeak at your glide through the air. He pulls his shirt off and drops his pants before climbing on top of you. Always efficient your Leon.

The warm lengths of his muscular limbs encompass you against the mattress. He starts by kissing you on the mouth, but his lips soon trail down to your neck. Tongue and teeth brush over the balmy skin of your neck. He nips a few hickeys along the curve of your throat, listening for every little hitch in your breath or stifled moan.

"Always with those pretty little noises..." he mumbles against your skin.

He inhales you before moving away, gets his fix of your scent before his hands push your shirt over your head and toss to the floor with his. His hands rub up and down your side, gently squeezing and massaging while his mouth migrates towards your chest. He lays kisses at the tops of your breasts. He can feel your heart pattering against his lips. It drives him crazy, feeling what he does to you down to that level.

Your legs wrap around his waist and pull his body closer. You couldn't get close enough after the weeks of distance. He groans as his crotch comes flush against yours. It's as if he can feel the heat of your center through the layers of cloth that separate you.

He kisses between your breasts, forcing himself to remove your bra before he thinks about your pants. He nuzzles the two spheres of flesh with all the care he holds in his body. He'd never been good with words, and the last few weeks proved as much. Showing you physically how he feels is easier.

"Haven't been able to kiss my girls properly in too long," he murmurs and glances up at you, cocky smile in his eyes.

"You're stupid," you laugh quietly.

"Hey. That's not a nice word, princess. Not one you should be calling your daddy," he chides before giving one of your nipples a few sucks.

You sigh contently and arch into the wet embrace of his mouth. "Sorry daddy," you smile.

"I'm sure you are."

He gives your tits some more attention, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't antsy to get his fingers wet. They fumble with the button on your shorts before he lifts your legs and practically tears the garment loose. He kisses your ankle and down your calf to your knee where his hands take over and press them up against your torso. He can feel your slick creating a wet patch on the front of his boxers and ruts into it. His cock grows stiffer beneath the fabric as if trying to get to you.

"You ready for me, babydoll? Dripping like a good girl? Gonna be nice and easy for daddy to slide right in," he says while leaning down to be close to you.

You nod eagerly, your nose bumping against his.

"Nothing makes it better than having daddy inside, hm?" he coos.

"Don't need anything else," you say and sling your arms around his neck.

That's all he needs to hear. He pushes his underwear down his legs enough so that his cock is free. You feel it slot between your puffy outer folds and prod at your entrance.

He slips it inside, and you both groan. Your head tilts back, allowing him to kiss at your neck some more. You'd had sex since that fight, but this was the first time you were feeling full. The first time you were feeling like his again.

"Daddy," you whine and grab at him. Just what he'd been missing.

His hips start to rock. The bones in his pelvis press right up against your ass. He fucks you deep and slow at first. Each thrust glides over a myriad of sweet spots. Every time he pulls back, you just want him to push right back in.

"That's it, honey. Tell daddy how much you missed him," he grunts.

You don't say it with words. You tighten up around him, squeezing his dick like if it gets out you'll die. The sensation wrangles a moan out of him, and his face drops into your neck. He digs his forearms into the mattress and uses the leverage to pump himself into you harder.

"My perfect, perfect girl. Don't know what I'd do without you," he whispers.

Your eyes flutter shut. You just listen to the sound of his panting, feel his heart beating for you. Your thighs tremble while pressing into his waist. Your toes curl as his hips strike the right angle to batter right where you need him.

"You could never disappoint me," he mutters. You feel his lips moving against your throat. "I love you, sweet girl. Nothing you do could ever change that."

The words are almost enough to make you get all weepy again, but you'd cried enough for one day. Instead your body latches onto him tighter.

"Harder," you whimper.

"You sure, baby?" he hums.

Your nod comes quickly. "Need to feel it more. Need it harder."

So he gives it to you harder. His eyes clamp shut and shroud his vision in darkness. He focuses on thrusting hard, clapping his skin against yours over and over. He pounds into you while pressing his face harder against you too.

You show your gratitude with a whine. His shaft hits just right, fills you up just the way you'd been aching for.

"Almost there, daddy- Can I-" you stumble over words.

"Yeah, sweetheart. You don't gotta ask tonight. You cum when you're ready," he says.

That's how you know he's really sorry. He keeps fucking into you until he feels your limbs fizzling from the proximity to release. Everything about you gets shaky. Your breaths are ragged and labored, your hands vibrate while trying to clutch at him.

"Fuck fuck fuck," you whimper.

The spark goes off inside you, and you cum hard. Your body goes taut and rolls through the waves of euphoria. He can't resist your walls pulsating around him. It's only a handful of seconds before his tummy is fluttering and his seed is spilling from him into your cunt.

"Inside, daddy," you whine as if he needed the direction.

"That's what I'm doing, baby," he grunts through clenched teeth.

He drools against your neck while his hips twitch and the last few drops leak from him. The saliva gets smeared in the messy kisses he leaves on you while pulling out. He rolls over but scoops you up with him, cradling you against his chest in a position that isn't necessarily comfortable but you love anyway.

A series of over the top kisses land on your face. You scrunch your nose and shake your head.

"Quit it. I already forgave you," you giggle, "You don't gotta slobber on me."

"Tsk tsk. Ungrateful," he tuts affectionately, "You know if I didn't give you these, you'd be begging for 'em."

"Mmm... maybe," you acquiesce with a little smile.

"Sure, sure. Maybe. Silly girl," he mumbles and nuzzles your cheek.

The playful touches continues for a moment before he calms down and softens up. You look towards his eyes, and his fingers sweep down your cheek.

"You're ok now?" he asks.

You nod. "We're ok now."

To give him the final shred of reassurance that you could, you stick out your pinky. He rolls his eyes, but sticks his out to and hooks it with yours. He knew you were back to yourself since your inability to be serious had made a reappearance. He smacks a kiss on your lips to seal the deal. He can feel you smiling into it.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil imagines #resident evil smut #ch: leon kennedy 💌

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heeluvv · 3 months ago

Text

HAUNTED.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ ghost! lee heeseung x human! reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ supernatural, dubcon(?), possessive behavior, dark/haunting, etc.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

the house had been abandoned for years, yet it felt lived in. the dust layered thickly over forgotten furniture, but the air carried something else―something alive. or perhaps, something not quite dead.

you had moved in only days ago, drawn to its eerie charm despite the whispers from the locals. "don't go near that house," they'd said. "it's cursed. haunted."

but you didn't believe in ghosts. at least, not until him.

he appeared on the fourth night, the first few days had been uneventful―just you, your boxes, and the occasional creak of old wood settling under your footsteps. but on the fourth night, you woke to a presence. it wasn't a sound, not even a shift in the air, but something deeper, something primal.

your breath hitched as you sat up in bed. the moon barely lit the room, yet in the dim glow, you saw him.

a man―no, a figure―stood near the window. his frame was lean but strong, clothed in nothing but the shadows wrapping around him. his eyes, dark and endless, held yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

"who―" your voice faltered.

"heeseung..." the name rolled off his tongue like a secret, hushed and forbidden.

your heart pounded. "you―what are you doing in my house?"

a smirk played at the edges of his lips. "your house?" he mused, stepping closer. His movement was fluid, almost unnatural, like he wasn't walking but rather gliding through the space between worlds.

"this was mine long before it was yours." your breath caught when he neared the edge of the bed. despite the ghostly aura that surrounded him, he felt solid, real. and the way he looked at you―like he could devour you whole―made heat coil low in your stomach.

"you should leave," you whispered, though even you weren't convinced by your own words.

heeseung tilted his head, amused. "do you really want me to?"

his fingers brushed against your arm―cold at first, sending goosebumps across your skin. but then, as if your body willed it, warmth spread in its place.

your lips parted, though no sound came. you should have been scared, but the only thing you felt was desire. a longing so deep it made your skin prickle.

heeseung smirked at your silence, leaning in until his face was mere inches from yours. his breath, cool and ghostly, fanned against your lips.

"i've been watching you," he admitted, voice dropping lower, more intimate. "every night since you arrived. do you know how difficult it is to want something you can't touch?"

your thighs clenched at his words. "you're touching me now."

he chuckle was dark, filled with something dangerous. "not nearly enough."

before you could react, his hands ghosted down your sides, skimming over the thin fabric of your sleepwear. his touch left a trail of fire in its wake, making you arch instinctively.

"heeseung―" you breathed, unsure whether you were warning him or begging him.

he didn't wait for permission. his lips met yours―not in a kiss, but something far more sinful. he hovered, letting his mouth brush against yours, teasing you with the sensation but never fully giving in.

"you feel that?" he murmured, his lips tracing your jaw, neck. "even death couldn't keep me from you."

your fingers curled around his shoulders, surprised by the solidness of him, the way his body shifted between the ethereal and the tangible. it was intoxicating, the way he existed in both worlds―just enough for you to feel him, but never enough for you to keep him.

his hands roamed lower, fingers skimming beneath your gown, making your breath stutter. every touch sent sparks racing through your veins, setting you alight.

"tell me to stop," he challenged, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. but you didn't. you couldn't.

instead, you pulled him closer, needing him, wanting him, consequences be damned.

heeseung groaned against your skin, his grip tightening. "you don't know what you're inviting in, sweetheart."

his mouth finally met yours―fully, deeply, hungrily. his lips were cool, but the heat between you burned hotter than anything you'd ever known. he kissed you like he had waited lifetimes, like he had craved this for centuries. and maybe he did. maybe you were his unfinished business. maybe you were always meant to be haunted by him.

his kiss was an unraveling―slow yet brimming with a hunger that threatened to consume you whole. his fingers curled around your waist, pressing you into the mattress, the weight of him both foreign and intoxicating. his body hovered over yours, not quite solid, not quite smoke, but something in between.

his lips left yours only to travel lower, tracing the delicate line of your throat, down to your collarbone, lingering at the sensitive spot where your pulse thrummed wildly beneath your skin. you gasped as his tongue flicked out, cool against your heated flesh, sending a shiver down your spine.

"heeseung," you whispered, your voice caught between a plea and a prayer.

he chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating through. "say my name again."

"heeseung," you breathed, and the way his name rolled off your tongue had him groaning against your skin.

his hands moved with an eerie grace, slipping beneath the fabric of your sleep gown. his touch burned―cold at first, then warm, then searing. he was becoming more solid, more real, the longer he lingered in your presence, as if your very essence was pulling him back from the void.

"you're making me stronger," murmured, almost in awe. "do you know what that means?"

you shook your head, unable to form coherent words as his fingers traced the bare skin of your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your hips.

heeseung lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, something unreadbale swirling in their depths. "it means i can touch you―" he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, "i can have you."

his lips crashed against yours again, harder this time, more desperate. his kiss was fire and ice, a contradiction in every way, consuming and freezing all at once.

there was no hesitation, restraint―only the raw, unrelenting need that had been brewing between you since the moment you first saw him standing in the moonlight.

his name fell from your lips like a mantra, over and over, as he worshiped your body with ghostly reverence. he moved like he was memorizing you, etching your form into the fabric of his existence. as if by holding you, touching you, he could anchor himself to this world.

and in that moment, you weren't sure who was haunting who.

he moved with an urgency that was almost desperate, like he'd waited lifetimes for this moment. his lips found yours again, searing and demanding, his hands gripping your hips as if he was afraid to let go. and maybe he was. maybe he feared that once he had you, you'd slip away, leaving him in the void where he had been trapped for so long.

your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, pressing yourself against him as if that would be enough―if he would ever be enough.

his breath came ragged, his lips trailing down your neck, lingering where your pulse pounded wildly beneath your skin. "you feel so alive," he murmured, almost in awe. "so warm."

his name left your lips in a gasping moan as he moved, as he possessed you in a way that was more than just physical. he wasn't just touching your body― he was consuming your soul, pulling you into him, binding you to him in a way that couldn't be undone.

the room felt charged, the air thick with something unseen, something otherworldly. the shadows flickered along the walls, moving in sync with the rhythm of your bodies, as if the very house itself recognized what was happening―recognized that this moment was something beyond human, beyond mortality.

you shattered beneath him, around him, your body trembling as pleasure ripped through you in waves, drowning you in him, in this moment, in everything.

heeseung groaned, his grip bruising, his breath sharp and uneven as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. he stayed there for a moment, his body pressed against yours, his chest rising and failing in time with yours.

then he lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, burning with something possessive, something final.

he leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "you're mine now. forever."

and you knew, with every fiber of your being that he meant it.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ the warnings might be wrong or i might've missed a few but oh well, hoped you enjoyed!

#enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enha #enhypen smut #lee heesung x reader #heeseung smut #lee heeseung #heeseung #ghost x human

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betsj · 21 days ago

Text

monkey d. luffy x fem!reader

MDNI 18+

use of y/n

── .✦

it was like any other day for the straw hats. the water rocking the ship slowly, the sun beaming down and kissing everybody’s sun burnt cheeks.

hearing the bird, robin looked up, seeing the bird that drops off the daily news… catching it with her floral hands.

“mail everybody!” walking down the steps, getting everybody to rally around. luffy swung in right next to you. smiling, looking through until a certain wanted poster caught your eye. grabbing it and as nami scooted next to you on the other side, you giggled, showing her the picture and said “this guys wanted poster is sexy.”

that compliment from your mouth slowly made its way to your boyfriend, luffy.

sexy? he thought. his wanted poster was sexy too! why hadn’t you complimented his as well? though you saw it in person, which he thought was waaayy better than a picture. it still upset him…

nami chuckled, “you’re right!” and playfully hit your arm before walking away. you turn towards luffy after it was only y’all two. seeing his confused expression, which caused you to raise an eyebrow… asking, “what’s wrong?” he just stood there and looked at you…

why didn’t you like his poster? was his sexy? does he need to show you sexy??

pursing your lips, pressing your thumb on his forehead, “helllooo? earth to luffy?!” he shook his head, focusing into your eyes. frowning, “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, luff?”

pretty but not sexy?????!!!?!!

he huffed, turning around and walking away with the clap of his shoes on the ground. you were left with confusion and a little bit of frustration… luffy never acted like this, usually he’d blurt out what he’s feeling. this?! this was new.

small time skip to after dinner

saying goodnight to everybody… watching all the boys go to their rooms expect for jimbei as he went back to keeping watch. nami and robin went to their own, doing what they please.

you? you were hunting down luffy.

pissed off because he was avoiding you. sanji had told you that he asked for dinner early… which he never does because he usually wants to eat with you! walking under the night sky, feeling that cool breeze against your sun kissed cheeks made you calm down a tad bit but couldn’t push away the frustration.

after making it to his room… he wasn’t there?! are we serious. you checked the WHOLE ship.

where could this rubber-God man be?! then you thought… smacking your lips in how obvious it was. your room! taking off, gettin ng ready to yell at him and when you pushed your door open, everything you planned disappeared. luffy was… shirtless in your bed. wait… shirtless?! and pants-less?!

“uh, luff, what’s are you doing?” looking around, shutting the door behind you. “in here… alone… half naked on my bed…?” luffy frowned, his demeanor was different… this wasn’t luffy. “luffy?” he slowly got out of bed and took his time walking over to you.

looking down, you could see his glossy eyes… “am i not attractive to you?”

jaw dropping question.

“wha—are you serious luffy?!” picking your jaw back off the floor, continuing to complain “that’s the dumbest question in the world! why are you asking me this?!” he furrowed his eyebrows, his chest was heaving.

grabbing your cheek, “wanna know why?” feeling your face heat up. gulping and nodding slowly. he laid his head on your shoulder, sliding both of his hands down to your waist, “you called that guy’s poster sexy.” gasping when he nipped at your neck, placing a kiss. “and im thinking, my poster is a lot hotter… you have the real thing, y/n!” finally he looked back down into your eyes.

sighing, “oh luff…” placing one of your hands on his scared chest. “you’re the most sexiest man in the world, is that what you wanted to hear?” he hummed, “maybe…” giggling and leaning into a kiss. you were softly pushed into the door, a knee finding its way between your thigh, and one strong hand around your neck while the other held your waist.

it took y’all a few minutes to pull away. trying not to breathe too loud, you kissed his cheek. “you are so handsome, luff, sorry for saying that other guy was.” he held no expression but a small smile took over his features, leaning to place a small peck on your forehead. “thank you, babes.”

it was a really rare occasion that luffy calls you any pet names. so when he does you like to bring it up and ask if he’d please call you more… of course, he only does it during sex to get you riled up.

“let’s move to the bed shall we? i feel like you need it rougher tonight.” your face turned tomato red. slowly nodding and his smile turned into an evil smirk… the hand around your neck moved down to your thigh. picking you up and carrying you over, tossing you onto the bed. chuckling when he got situated between your thighs.

it didn’t take long to remove your clothes, leaving you in just your panties, like luffy (expect he has boxers on….). being on full display while he leaned back on his heels to just watch.

you felt a little self conscious… until he grabbed both of your knees and pulled them apart, scooting down until his cheek was laid against your left thigh. slowly licking down and mumbling, “wanna eat you out, then give it to you as hard as possible.” his hot mouth stopped at your clothed pussy.

he looked up into your eyes. the look he had was filthy. half lidded eyes, tongue licking up and down your panties, and biting your clit through your panties. covering your mouth, whimpering when he slid the soaked panties to the side, smiling at how wet you were.

“beautiful as always.” those were his last words before going to eat you out like a man on a mission. it was the same pattern; tongue in and out, run it up to your clit and suck on it. after two minutes he slowly brought his fingers into your hole… of course, he’d usually do one but for some reason he shoved two—trying to add a third?!

gasping when the third finger entered you. with the hand holding your panties open, he took his thumb to rub your clit. “so tasty, baby… look at those eyes.” though you couldn’t see your own face, you knew that your eyes were barely open.

his face was covered in spit and your arousal, “all gushy… every time i shove my fingers inside of her, she squelches.” one hard thrust made you yelp, arching your back off the bed just enough. he grinned and murmured, “found it.”

after that, he abused and abused that spot until you were grabbing his hair then his wrist, trying to get him to stop.

“m’close! luff!” he wasn’t saying anything just thrusting his three fingers inside, wringing more lewd noises from your mouth. finally, your jaw dropped but nothing came out which signaled you had finally came… of course, luffy continued his abuse on your pussy.

he loved seeing how red he could get you… “she’s so puffy and needy.”

whining and pulling at his hair more, “inside… please, luff i need you inside!” tears begin to swell. he didn’t falter. just slowly sliding his fingers out, slapping your pussy. bringing his hand away, making scissor moments to see the cum on his fingers then he began to lick them clean, it was probably the most sexiest thing you’ve ever seen your boyfriend do.

you swore you were gonna marry him.

“baby,” he spoke softly… all of your dazing and day dreaming, you didn’t even realize he almost had you in a full nelson, his tip right against your gaping entrance. “you okay?”

y’all chests were flushed against each other, heavy breathing, mouths open and eyes locked like y’all were the only thing in the world. giving him the most precious smile, pushing your head up to meet his lips… it was a sweet, soft kiss, surprisingly it made luffy blush. “you’re too pretty, y/n.” before you could respond he began to push inside of you.

his thick tip was the hardest part for you… trust, luffy was nothing but thick it was just the tip was a whole other story! your breath hitches, turning your head to the side, which gave him free will to mark your neck.

“almost…” giving one last thrust to fit all of him in you, “there.”

your shaky hand land on his shoulders. luffy thought, “i remember that im supposed to be rough with you.” after hearing that, before you could even plead he locked his arms under your knees.

“wai-“ shouting when he started thrusting, giving you no time to react but moan his name out like a prayer. “stupid to think,” groaning and giving a harsh thrust then back to a rhythm, “you thought that guy was sexy.” laughing to himself, closing his eyes letting his brows furrow.

y’all moan in sync. scratching his back up, holding onto him like he was going to fly away somehow. he cursed, “could fuck. you. for. fucking ever.” each word earned a hard thrust, a beautiful kiss to your cervix.

“luffy, i-… close! so close!” drool trickled down your chin which made him chuckle. “so beautiful.” kissing you, making you whimper. before you could even warn him, a warm feeling exploded in your stomach and you came. luffy cursed to himself, looking down to where y’all were connected. seeing your white cum stick to everything, it the most sexiest thing he’s every seen.

“let me come inside… please, please let me…” he whimpered once he saw you nod out of consciousness.

moaning once he finished inside of you…

both y’all laid there, hearing the hard panting. you rubbed your thumbs over the scratches you had created… smiling to yourself.

“luff?” he hummed into your neck, pulling back to look into your eyes. in a husk voice, he mumbled “yes?”

in a soft voice, “we need to bathe.” that earned you a whine. laughing when he laid all of his body weight on you. rubbing his head into your bare chest, shaking his head, “not right now…”

thinking and running your hand through his hair “okay, handsome… we can wait.”

and before you knew it, y’all were both knocked out.

JESUS. IDEK IF I LIKE THIS. i feel like i dont write enough… anyways, hope y’all liked it, cause this took three days of me saying “get it done get it over with”

#one piece #silly little guy #one piece x reader #smut #so cute #anime #monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader #so hot and beautiful #sexy hunk #luffy smut #luffy x you #one piece x you

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mydearestbeloved · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 12 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Jinwoo stood outside the quaint greenhouse-like shop, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight before him. To anyone else, it appeared like an ordinary, if charming, flower shop nestled quietly in an inconspicuous part of the city. But he knew better. He knew that behind this innocent façade lay the entrance to your domain—one that he could only enter with your permission.

The last time he had brought up wanting to visit you on his own terms, you had told him bluntly: to access your domain, an outsider needed explicit permission each time from its master. For someone like him, who had grown accustomed to breaking into the dens of monsters and overcoming barriers, the thought of requiring an invitation had been oddly humbling. Yet, here he was, his hand reaching out to push open the glass door.

The moment his fingers touched the handle, the world around him seemed to ripple. The shop’s interior wavered like a mirage, Colors blurred together, softening at the edges, until he found himself no longer within the confines of the quaint flower shop but in the secluded tranquility of your garden.

The air was fresher, filled with the scent of flowers and damp earth, the sunlight softer than that of the real world. It really was a realm where time flowed differently.

He looked around, noting the serene clearing he now stood in. This wasn’t the formal entrance hall where he’d arrived before, flanked by towering columns and the majestic temple gate. No, this place was different—peaceful, secluded, as if it had been carefully hidden away within the vast expanse of your domain.

Only the floating fortress high above reminded him that he was indeed in the right place. He talked with you there before, in the gazebo surrounded by colorful structured blooms and ponds. Now that he viewed the grand fortress from below, its imposing structure casted shadows across the garden’s expanse like a protective embrace.

As he scanned the area, Jinwoo’s eyes fell on you a few paces away Butterflies danced around your figure as always, their luminescent wings like sparks against the backdrop of green foliage. You stood with your back to him, holding a bouquet of familiar red blooms— the vibrant scarlet of spider lilies unmistakable even from where he stood.

For a moment, Jinwoo froze, his mind flashing back to the vision he had been trying so hard to bury since before his descent into the Demon Castle. That vivid memory—you had held the exact same bouquet as this one. The warmth he had felt in that dream now surged back into his chest, leaving him almost breathless. But unlike the first time, he managed to suppress it quickly, clamping down on the surge of emotions before they could overwhelm him.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was witnessing something sacred. The air seemed to grow still, the butterflies lowering their flight as if in reverence. You knelt on the ground, your head bowed, the red blooms trembling in your grasp. Even the breeze seemed to hush in respect.

Jinwoo’s instincts screamed at him to remain silent. Whatever you were doing, it was not something he had any right to interrupt. He stood rooted to the spot, listening to the rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds that filled the garden’s serene ambiance, observing as a soft breeze rustled through the garden, lifting strands of your hair as if to underscore the quiet stillness.

Eventually, you rose, whispering something under your breath, the words too soft to carry to him, before turning to face him directly. Meeting his gaze with an unreadable expression, there was no surprise in your eyes, no shock at his sudden presence. The bouquet had vanished.

You walked toward him with the same calm, measured steps that seemed to define you. Jinwoo watched as you approached, your face betraying nothing. Deliberate or not, your form continued to obscure whatever had held your attention moments before. But as you brushed past him, gesturing for him to follow, he couldn't help himself—he turned his head to glance at where you had knelt.

There, nestled amidst the grass, stood a grave. The red flowers swayed in the wind like silent sentinels guarding a memory Jinwoo couldn’t fathom as he fell into steps behind you.

---

Back in the shop, he took a seat at one of the white, ornate garden chairs set up near a small round table, laden with a small assortment of snacks, pastries, and dried fruits. The sunlight streaming through the glass walls bathed the interior in a soft glow, illuminating the various blooms that lined the shelves. He knew it was all carefully cultivated, each element deliberate and intentional.

You were moving around the shop, adjusting the displays, tidying leaves and stems. “Will it be coffee as usual?” You asked, not turning around, though Jinwoo knew you could see him through the butterflies fluttering around the shop. They perched on pots and stems, their attention on him as much as on you. You continued tending to a nearby orchid with a practiced grace.

He gave a slight nod, and without missing a beat, you snapped your fingers. A dainty china set floated in from the back room. A coffee mug settling near him, while a matching teacup came to rest on the opposite side of the table. Hovering between, the teapot tilted on its own, pouring him a rich, dark brew before switching to fill the teacup with a lighter, fragrant blend.

Only once the teapot had finished its task did you finally joined him, your movements smooth and unhurried, sitting across the table with your own cup in hand. The delicate clink of porcelain as you took a sip seemed to signal the start of the conversation.

"I got my rank reevaluated today," Jinwoo began, breaking the silence.

"And?" You raised an eyebrow, your expression as inscrutable as ever.

Jinwoo filled you in on his meeting with Go Gunhee, and the offer the chairman had extended to him—one that he had declined. Jinwoo also mentioned his plans to join the Hunter Guild’s dungeon raid as part of the mining team to maintain his low profile.

Your expression was contemplative as you listened, taking small sips of your tea. As the original story went, Jinwoo wanted to see what an A-rank dungeon was like.

When he finished, he leaned back, studying your reaction.

“So,” he ventured, glancing around the verdant walls of your shop, “what rank would your garden be?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “I can’t say for certain. The system only gave me a brief description when I first claimed it, but I suppose it’s at least an S-rank.”

“Why not have your rank reevaluated, then?” he pressed.

There was a subtle shift in your expression.

"You have your reasons," you replied simply, "and I have mine."

And he could sense that this was as much as you would share with him for now.

Jinwoo’s reasons stemmed from a desire to level up, to get stronger through battles and continuous improvement. For you, though, reevaluation would serve no purpose—your goals, your motivations, lay elsewhere.

You kept your rank low not only to remain unremarkable but also to avoid deviating from the original plot. Fame and scrutiny were the last things you wanted, especially with the system’s influence ever present in your life. You would be harder to find, able to move without attracting attention. Plus, you can no longer level up, so as far as you know, your growth rate now was the same as any other normal hunter, so little change that it might as well be stagnant.

The conversation shifted into a more casual rhythm after that, with Jinwoo watching his shadows wander through your shop, their curiosity almost childlike as they inspected the blooms. The sight was oddly endearing—the way they reached out to touch petals with surprising gentleness, as though afraid they might crush the delicate flowers. Your butterflies mingled, guiding them among the plants.

They seemed at ease, and for a moment, so did he in this quiet corner of your world.

---

As the day wore on, the sky outside turned into a brilliant gradient of gold, red, and purple. You escorted Jinwoo to the shop’s entrance. Just as he reached for the handle—

“Wait,” Cupping your hands together, magic swirled between your fingers. In moments, a bouquet materialized—sunflowers, daisies, and lavender, their colors vivid yet easy on the eyes.

“Here,” You extended the flowers to him. “For your mother.”

Jinwoo stared at the bouquet, a mix of emotions flickering across his face. When he didn’t immediately take it, you tightened your grip, determined not to let your nerves show.

“I know you still don’t fully trust me,” you began softly, letting a touch of understanding creep into your voice. “And I know you’re aware that I’ve been keeping an eye on you.” Your butterflies floated into his line of sight, hovering near your shoulder as if in silent affirmation. “But know this—I respect your privacy more than you realize.”

Jinwoo remained silent, eyes flickering with something you didn’t really recognize.

“These flowers are enchanted to absorb harmful mana.” You explained. “I’ll call back the butterfly stationed with Mrs. Sung. As that child of mine has been stabilizing her condition, these flowers will suffice in their place.” When he still didn’t move to take the bouquet, you nudged it toward him again. “I’ll still check on her occasionally, but only as needed.”

For a moment, you thought he might reject the gift altogether, but just as your hands began to falter, he reached out and took the bouquet. You noticed the slight flinch when his fingers briefly brushed against yours, though his expression remained steady.

“I’ll trust you,” Jinwoo said at last, his voice low. “At least on this matter.” He glanced down at the bouquet before letting a faint smirk lift the corner of his mouth. “If you truly meant harm, you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to help us as you did.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and though you kept your face neutral, a small, genuine smile slipped through. “Then I’m glad I managed to convey that.”

Jinwoo took one last look around before stepping out.

“Thank you.” The words were spoken quietly, but they lingered in the air even after he disappeared into the evening. The glass door closed behind him with a final chime, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

This upcoming A-rank dungeon would be the first time he would encounter her—the one destined to become the light in his life.

A bittersweet feeling welled up within you, but before you could dwell on it too much, the bells rang again. You looked up to see a familiar head of blond hair peek through. Warm gray eyes lighting up as they found you, a radiant smile bloomed on the young woman’s face.

“(Name)!”

You returned the smile with a small one of your own as you greeted her. For a fleeting moment, your thoughts returned to Jinwoo and the future. But for now, you pushed them aside, focusing instead on the bright presence before you.

---

Jinwoo still wasn’t sure if putting his faith in you was the right decision.

He lay sprawled on his bed, the dim evening light casting long shadows across the walls of his room. He stared blankly at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day over and over in his mind.

The bouquet you had given him for his mother rested in a vase beside her hospital bed, the sunflowers, daisies, and lavender softly illuminated by the fading sunset through the hospital window. Jinwoo had stayed there a while after leaving you, watching his mother’s peaceful, sleeping form while the scent of the flowers filled the room.

The moment Jinwoo stepped into the room, the flowers’ scent seemed to amplify—not enough to cause discomfort, but definitely more pronounced than the previous subtle fragrance—and his mother’s complexion seemed to relax as well.

So, instead of the usual glow, you settled for more natural scent, and for the enchantment to be activated, it needed to be near its intended target—was that how you make it? It was so like you after all, to blend in and to take precaution of every possibility you could think of in that head of yours. To avoid falling into the wrong hands, for example, was just one out of many.

Now, with his body back home but his thoughts far away, he couldn’t shake the sense of disquiet that lingered in the back of his mind.

Trust. It was such a simple word, yet for him, it carried the weight of the world. Could he really trust you?

You were the first to extend trust between the two of you, back in that dungeon—a place where trust could so easily become a knife in the back. And yet, there you were, you had turned to him with those steady eyes, yet there was an openness that unnerved him. You extended not just your hand, but a fatal piece of yourself, to him.

That moment, he couldn’t help but wonder: were you reckless? No, he knew better. You were meticulous, thoughtful. Jinwoo had watched you from the corner of his eye in battle after battle, always noting how you seemed to be five steps ahead, anticipating threats and countering them effortlessly. Then, were you a fool? No, he knew that wasn’t it either. You were calculating, careful in every word and movement.

But then why, despite all that caution, why would you dare to show him your vulnerabilities? To expose your powers’ weakness on a silver platter unasked, practically inviting him to take advantage of it, if he were even the slightest bit more cruel?

Jinwoo was certain he didn’t know you. But you know him, maybe even deeper than he knew himself. Was that why?

He would’ve found it more believable if the system forced you into helping him. But it was made clear to him, multiple times, that it wasn’t like so. In fact, Jinwoo was almost positive that you couldn’t accompany him on certain raids because the system forbade you. And yet, you still found ways to assist him then.

Standing amidst the crumbling remnants of the stone golem, Jinwoo hadn’t known what to say. Back then, he chose the easiest, cowardly response—to stay silent. And it left the most bitter taste in his mouth.

His mind drifted further back, to when he was nothing but a pitiful E-rank Hunter struggling just to keep his head above water. You had been his lifeline, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

At first, he’d been suspicious—who wouldn’t be? Free meals delivered to his doorstep when he came home to Jinah’s worried face, mysterious donations that kept his mother’s hospital bills paid up to date when he was barely scraping by. The mysterious gifts that had arrived just when he needed them—medicines for his wounds, mana crystals and essence stones that he could still sell for decent cash, and the likes.

He had never seen you then, had only felt the faintest hint of a presence, like a shadow slipping away whenever he turned to catch it.

Those days had been hell. Waking up after collapsing in some remote corner of a godforsaken dungeon, healed but drained, with no one around. The bruises and cuts were always just nearly healed, and his exhaustion remained—a reminder that he had survived another day, but only barely. Living another day for his family had always been a relief, but there had always been the haunting possibility that the next close call might not have such a reprieve.

He hated it. Hated how he needed those mysterious interventions just to keep going. Hated the helplessness that came with relying on someone he couldn’t even see, let alone repay.

Yet at the same time… he had clung to that help like a drowning man grasping at a lifeline. those half-healed wounds and last-minute rescues—there must be a catch, there was always a price to pay, nothing in this world came for free—he just hadn’t known when it would come due.

But what choice had he had? He had been desperate. And in that desperation, he’d entertained the belief that perhaps, somewhere in the world, someone truly cared, selflessly, in a way that was almost painfully idealistic, for the hellish reality of the world that had beaten him down for his rank and lack of prospects.

After gaining the system, though, his outlook shifted as quickly as his strength grew. The mysterious aid in his mother’s hospital bills continued to arrive in his absence, and when he was caught up in instant dungeons, Jinah often remarked on the meals that still showed up during his long periods away. The quiet assistance seemed to have no end, no apparent agenda, and while it never fully left his thoughts, it had faded to the background of his life.

When he no longer needed to rely on invisible help to survive, it was at that moment that the heals disappeared. Jinwoo had chalked it up then that it was because he was often in dungeons managed by the system, where no ordinary hunter or person could get in. Could you believe he was foolish enough to believe that? That his mysterious benefactor was normal in any way?

When he’d finally agreed to Jinho’s deal, and as he grew wealthier through his own efforts, the donations, gifts, and meals followed the same pattern, and he was once again left without a single clue to its source.

There had been a strange feeling at the time, one he hadn’t wanted to admit to himself. Abandoned? No, the word felt too raw, too vulnerable. Yet, somewhere beneath his rising success, the newfound self-reliance, there was a sliver of emptiness he couldn’t quite ignore.

Something else had changed. The system itself had started acting strangely. Messages would pop up on his interface, unbidden and unsanctioned by the typical quest or informative-game-like format.

["Don't rely solely on brute force. Sometimes, retreat is necessary for a better strategy."] ["Focus on the core of the mana flow. It's not about quantity but control."]

Words of advice, encouragement, and strange observations—those cryptic phrases were always enclosed in quotation marks. And they were always signed, ‘by Trial Player [][][][].”

The blocked name, abrupt nature of the messages, it felt as if the system was glitching, borrowing someone else’s thoughts and slipping them into his notifications.

And this started happening right after all the mysterious aid ceased?

Jinwoo knew better than to believe in coincidences.

When he had finally met you in person, there was a strange déjà vu he couldn't shake. Tt was like piecing together the final fragments of a puzzle he hadn’t known he was solving, and also opening a new puzzle box altogether. Your presence was familiar, the system’s peculiar greeting had been a dead giveaway. And from that moment, Jinwoo zeroed in on you, observing your every move, waiting for you to slip up and reveal your true intentions.

Yet, if there was a hidden agenda behind your actions, it was buried deep beneath layers of genuine care. Whether it was out of obligation or something else entirely, Jinwoo had the sneaking suspicion that you would stay by his side, just as you had done when he was at his weakest, whether he wanted you to or not.

Now, sitting in the stillness of his room, Jinwoo pulled up his inventory and scrolled to the bottom, where a simple, broken set of daggers lay nestled among his spoils of war. He summoned them into his hands, the cold metal resting heavily against his skin. They were worn, chipped, and the blade edges dulled to uselessness, but they held an unmistakable sense of familiarity.

These daggers had been indispensable to him in his early days, in part because of their quality, durable beyond anything he could afford at the time, but also because the grip had fit so naturally in his hands, as if they had been forged with him in mind. And he now knew they were your creation.

Indeed, they had served him well until they finally gave out during one raid with Jinho—more from overuse than any fault in their craftsmanship. Jinwoo couldn’t bring himself to throw them away

The “Ordinary Daggers” the system had given no special description when he had saved them in his inventory for the first time.

He ran his thumb over the broken hilt, tracing the tiny, delicate butterfly engraving hidden along its base. A small detail he had noticed early on, but not knowing of its meaning until after meeting you. They were a symbol of your aid when he had nothing to offer in return.

But you had never once asked for repayment. Aside from confirming his suspicions the first time you meet, where Jinwoo basically cornered you to answer, you never brought it up after, never tried to use them as leverage against him. It made him wonder if he was the one overthinking things. Maybe, just maybe, your kindness wasn’t some elaborate trap.

The room was dimly lit, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside his window. As he sat there, the weight of the daggers in his hand was oddly comforting.

Jinwoo frowned. Trust was still a murky territory between the two of you, a minefield he wasn’t eager to tread, but one thing was clear: he was no longer the weak E-rank who had to take whatever scraps he could get. He was stronger now, strong enough to protect what was dear to him and pay back his debts, even if the other party didn’t expect it.

What could he possibly do to repay you though? Protecting you during their raids hardly felt like compensation. After all, he had been the one who insisted that you accompany him, and you had proven time and time again that you were more than capable of holding your own. In fact, more often than not, it was you who had subtly safeguarded him, providing support when he least expected it.

The spoils you collected from the raids might have been a form of compensation, but even then, it didn’t feel like enough—not to him. It felt unfair when he knew you only took what he didn’t need. Hell, you even asked for his permission. Every. Single. Damm. Time. The fact that you didn’t gain exp made it even worse.

Buying you something expensive would feel insincere. Jewelry? Clothes? Those options didn’t fit you and you weren’t the type to flaunt such things, even if you always dressed with a quiet elegance. You were far too practical for those trinkets, and besides, your craftsmanship far exceeded anything money could buy.

The thought of giving you flowers briefly crossed his mind, but he dismissed it just as quickly, scoffing. What use would a florist have for more flowers? Especially one who tended to an entire magical garden filled with blooms far beyond what Earth could offer.

But there was one thing he could offer, simple yet, something that might carry more meaning than any gift. The meals you had sent to him and Jinah, the home-cooked dishes that had warmed not just their stomachs but their hearts. You had cooked for him, even when he was a stranger. Maybe now it was his turn.

He had learned to cook well enough, decent, at least. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good plan.

Jinwoo slipped the broken daggers back into his inventory, as a slow, determined smile spread across his lips, his heart beat just a bit faster at the thought.

A meal prepared with his own hands. Not out of obligation, but as a gesture of gratitude. It would be something small, with a personal touch—something that couldn’t be bought or forced. It would be his way of saying thank you for all the times you had been there, even when he had never asked.

Now all he needed was the right moment to invite you. He couldn’t just casually bring it up during a raid; that would be absurd. No, it had to be… thoughtful.

Yes, that was it. Dinner, at his place.

A quiet evening where he could actually get to know you, the you outside the chaos of battle at least. And maybe, just maybe, over a shared meal, he could start to understand you better. The person who had saved him time and time again, yet expected nothing in return. And who knows? Perhaps, in the warmth of a shared meal, he would finally learn to trust you.

Because as much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to. More than anything.

End Note:

Unfinished Draft of [10/11/2024] -

What do you guys think of Jinwoo's p.o.v. in this chapter?

Does the development feel too rushed? Abrupt? Too OOC, maybe? Or is it just right? Maybe needs some more details in the current, previous, and or future chapters' drafts? Any constructive feedbacks are always appreciated :)

Happy reading, Everyone! <3

#solo leveling imagine #solo leveling #only i level up #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo #yandere sung jinwoo #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #jinwoo sung x reader #solo leveling fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #fem reader #x reader #reader insert

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sknyuz · 7 days ago

Text

thrum | c.h.s. (vernon)

synopsis — vernon gets wrecked in the mosh pit watching you tear up the stage with your bass at tecate pa’l norte—he doesn’t plan to chase you backstage after, but the alcohol in his veins and your bassline still ringing in his ears say otherwise.

pairing — vernon x bassist!reader

tags — idolverse, reader is in a band !! alcohol consumption and making out ++ suggestive, vernon is failing at the nonchalant war

wc — ~1.8k

a/n — a request from anon 🫶 finally some vernon on here !!

masterlist

vernon’s still riding the comedown from their own set—shirt clinging to his back, throat half-raw, heart still sprinting somewhere in his chest—when he finds himself planted in the middle of the mosh pit, red solo cup in hand, swaying a little as the next act starts to tune up.

and when you walk onstage, his breath catches somewhere behind his teeth.

it’s not the lights—not the intro swell or the screaming crowd. it’s you—slinging your bass low, shoulders loose, head bowed slightly like you’re already in the zone. fingers flexing once before they settle in position, ready to play.

vernon doesn’t even realize he’s biting his lip.

because the second you hit that first note—deep, smooth, like the first drag of something dangerous—he’s done for.

your bassline is clean and sultry, low and addictive, and it pulls him in like gravity. not flashy or forced, just cool. like you were born with rhythm in your hands and sin in your smile.

he watches the way your fingers slide across the neck—confident, practiced, sexy without trying to be. the kind of control that makes his head spin. the kind of groove that sinks right into his skin, leaves him nodding along before he knows it.

his drink sloshes, spilling over the rim and down his wrist. he doesn’t even blink.

because you’re right there—spotlight catching the curve of your cheek, sweat already shining on your collarbone—and you don’t even know what you’re doing to him.

he remembers you from rehearsals—you had a few conversations. a laugh that stuck with him, maybe, even after you walked away.

but this? this is something else.

he realizes real quick—that he wants you.

no maybes and no second guesses. just this growing heat in vernon’s chest and the kind of pull he can’t explain, only feel.

by the time your set ends, the crowd is wild, sweating and howling like the night cracked open and they fell into something holy. and vernon? he’s already moving.

the final note’s still humming in the air when he stumbles forward, dodging half-drunk bodies and discarded cups, one hand cradling his drink and the other flashing his all access pass like a lifeline.

the security guys barely look at him—they know his face—and he’s ducking past the barricade before the lights even finish dimming.

backstage is a blur.

his vision’s fuzzy around the edges—neon still burned into the back of his eyes, eardrums ringing from bass and screams. it’s darker back here, shadows licking the corners, flashes of LEDs and staff headsets passing like ghosts. he blinks, breath catching.

and then he sees you.

off to the side, tucking your bass into its case like it’s something sacred. like you’re a master of it. a weapon expert. a quiet storm in the aftermath of something loud.

your movements are smooth. fluid. your fingers, still flexing slightly, stained with the echoes of what you just played. you don’t see him yet.

he steps closer. heart somewhere in his throat. words half-formed on his tongue, loosened by heat and hops and the way you looked under those stage lights like a goddamn miracle.

the tequila’s burning slow in your veins, heartbeat still drumming from the stage high, fingers tingling with leftover energy from the bassline that never let up.

you’re sticky with sweat, eyeliner smudged sexy by accident, and the stage lights were still flashing in your mind when you pushed past the curtain, backstage chaos clattering around you. the crowd had been wild. the pit was a mess. exactly how you liked it.

what you hadn’t expected was vernon—chwe freaking hansol—to be in the middle of it.

and definitely not watching you like that.

like he was hypnotized, like his drink (something amber and foamy) had started spilling and he hadn’t noticed, eyes locked on your fingers plucking rhythm like sin, lip tugged between his teeth like your sound was doing things to him he didn’t know how to name.

you’d met him during rehearsals. you’re reminded of polite nods, casual hellos. he was cool, quiet, chill in that slouchy, dreamy way that made you look twice and pretend you didn’t.

but there was nothing chill about the way he had watched you just now.

and you only know for sure that you weren’t imagining it when you hear his voice behind you, low and slow and maybe just a little bit breathless:

“you’re kinda sick on that bass.”

you turn, and there he is.

vernon. sweaty, flushed, hair messy and clinging to his forehead. there’s a streak of something glittery along his jaw—someone else’s stage dust—and he looks like the human embodiment of a night you won’t regret.

he’s holding that same drink, half-spilled, and he’s staring at you like the world got a little bit better every time you plucked a note.

you raise an eyebrow, still catching your breath. “did you really just follow me?”

he shrugs, slow grin blooming on his lips. “you didn’t exactly make it easy to stay put.”

you laugh, drunk off the music and maybe the shot from before the encore and definitely him now—the way he steps a little closer, the air between you thick with basslines and body heat.

“vernon,” you say, maybe just to test how it feels to say his name up close, his name in your mouth sounds better than the bass in his bones.

“yeah?”

“you’re all sweaty.”

he licks his lips, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up. “so are you.”

you should say something clever, flirt back with something sharp and bright.

but your brain is still soft around the way he’s looking at you—all dazed and amused—and somehow your fingers are curling into the collar of his shirt before either of you says anything else.

you’re looking at him like he’s something sweet, and your fingers—calloused just right from the bass—are curling into his collar like you’ve been wanting to do it all night.

vernon’s breath catches.

you don’t say a word.

you just pull.

and then you’re kissing him.

his mouth meets yours fast, a little off-center, a little too eager—but god, it feels good. you taste like salt and heat and cheap pre-set tequila, and vernon swears it’s better than any high he caught on stage tonight.

he kisses you back hard, hands finding your waist like instinct, gripping tight like he doesn’t want to come up for air. you’re warm and pliant under his palms, tilting your head to deepen it, letting him in easy.

his drink slips from his hand and hits the floor, pooling alcohol from beneath your feet, neither of you flinch.

your back bumps the wall behind the curtain, and he presses into you without thinking—chest to chest, mouths hungry, sweat sticking in the best ways. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging at the roots, and he groans, low and quiet and wrecked.

you’re giggling into the kiss now—just a little, tipsy and breathless—and it makes his head spin.

he pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead dropping to yours. his lips are swollen. yours look kiss-bruised and dangerous.

“that was,” vernon pants, voice rough with the edges of the kiss, “insane.”

your breath is still catching somewhere between your ribs, lips tingling, your hand fisted in the collar of his shirt like letting go isn’t even an option. you flash him a breathless smile, dizzy and drunk off adrenaline and him.

“you kiss like you meant it.”

he laughs—soft, wrecked, like it slipped out without permission. his eyes are still half-lidded, dark and glossy. his mouth swollen, jaw a little slack.

he looks so good like this—ruined and stunned and slightly smug. his messy, short raven hair clings to his forehead in damp strands, still tousled from the crowd, and there’s a smear of black eyeliner under one eye now, like someone thumbed it there in a hurry. your red lipstick stains his lips, smudged along the edge of his mouth like a mark of claim—something loud and yours.

“you kissed me first.”

“and you chased me here.”

you raise a brow at him, cocky and soft all at once. he’s still got both hands on your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles against the bare skin just under your shirt’s hem, like he can’t stop touching you. like he just can’t resist you.

he shrugs, chest still heaving, trying to look casual but failing—his grin is too lopsided, too gone.

“worth it.”

the space between you is nothing. sweat-slick and warm and buzzing with something neither of you are ready to name. you lean forward, barely brushing your nose against his, lips ghosting close again—not kissing this time, just there. breathing each other in.

“still got that number?” you murmur, voice light but eyes serious.

vernon’s smirk twists slow, lazy, like it’s blooming across his face. his fingers tighten at your waist, possessive without pressure.

“i’ve only got one,” he says, voice low, playful. “but it’s yours if you want it.”

your smile spreads like fire.

your phone lights up that night, a text message from the newest number in your phone book:

unlock the after party at 200 notes | mdni

a/n: i am sooo slow in writing anything even suggestive so im raising a bar for that after party lmaooo hopefully this reaches 200 notes in like a month so i can put it off 🌟 ive already started it but i still have lotsss of wip </3 but we’ll see !! if ppl enjoy this piece then i will have to write the after party eventually im taking it as practice or a challenge for me writing rougher genres

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm @reiofsuns2001 @hhaechansmoless

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multi-fandom-imagine · 1 month ago

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More dad Ody for the heart's happinnes? I just need this man with as many kids as possible even if i have to get him pregnant

A/n: i love this request and I love you anon.

Odysseus was many things; a warrior, a wanderer, a king...but in this golden moment, he was something far greater: a human jungle gym for seven wild, giggling children.

The afternoon sun filtered gently through the olive trees, casting soft dapples over the courtyard of Ithaca’s palace. A breeze stirred the lavender, mingling its scent with the warm, earthy aroma of summer. The usually stern stone steps leading into the great hall had been transformed into the scene of pure familial chaos and joy.

Odysseus lay sprawled on his back in the soft grass, pinned beneath a laughing, wriggling mass of small limbs and delighted shrieks. His bronze-streaked beard was caught in the chubby fist of his youngest daughter, who squealed triumphantly as if she had bested the mightiest hero of Troy with nothing but a gummy smile and unmatched tenacity.

“Help! Help!” Odysseus cried with exaggerated desperation, though his wide grin betrayed him. “Seven monsters from the isles have me surrounded—where is my sword? My shield? My dignity?”

The children, none of them older than five, shrieked with laughter.

“Dog pile on Papa!” one shouted, climbing onto his broad chest with a warrior’s determination.

“Get his toes!” yelled another, launching a tickle attack that made Odysseus howl with theatrical pain and real laughter as one gummed on his palm.

You stood a few feet away, a serene smile on your lips and your arms wrapped around the tiniest of your brood, still too young to join in the mayhem. The baby cooed contentedly against your shoulder, clutching a fistful of your tunic as you swayed gently, watching the chaos unfold. There was something sacred in the mess—the laughter, the cries, the absolute lack of decorum. And gods, did it make your heart feel full to bursting.

20 years, 20 years of waiting for your husband to return home and this was your blessing.

Behind you, leaning against a sun-warmed pillar, Telemachus stood with his arms crossed and an eyebrow arched. The teenager gave a long-suffering groan, loud enough to be heard over the laughter.

“Do they always have to scream like that?” he muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying the truth. His gaze lingered on his father, who was now trying—poorly—to wriggle free from a pile of pudgy bodies. One of the toddlers had somehow managed to tangle themselves in Odysseus’ hair, and he was laughing so hard he couldn’t even pretend to fight back.

Telemachus rolled his eyes dramatically, but there was a softness there. A quiet kind of awe.

He had grown up with tales of monsters and battles, of long years without a father. But now—now his younger siblings would only know this version of Odysseus: the man who could slay mythical beasts but chose to spend his days covered in sticky fingers and giggles.

You caught Telemachus’ eye and offered him a knowing smile. He sighed but walked forward anyway, sitting down beside you, letting the baby grab hold of his sleeve. His expression softened even more as he gently touched the baby’s cheek.

Odysseus looked up at the two of you from under a tangle of tiny bodies. “I think—I think I’m defeated,” he gasped, reaching out dramatically. “Tell my story…”

One of the twins blew a raspberry against his cheek. He roared with laughter.

"I'll let Athena know quickly that you were defeated by a bunch of babies father." Telemachus joked.

You laughed too, leaning your head against Telemachus’ shoulder, feeling your little one’s breath warm against your neck. The chaos, the noise, the love—it was all perfect. Your little empire, noisy and sticky and divine.

And Odysseus, king of Ithaca, the great hero of myths and men, laughed like he had never laughed before.

#drabbles #drabble #odessy #odysseus #odysseus x reader #odysseus x you #epic #epic the musical #epic x reader #epic odysseus #etm #etm x reader #epic the musical x reader

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sv3t1ana · 1 month ago

Text

SYNOPSIS ᯓ Choso just wants to be a good TA. You just want to see how many ways you can make him stutter. One thing leads to another, and now you're straddling him in your office, all red-faced and shaking while you toy with him like he's your favorite little experiment. Maybe if he put as much effort into his work as he does into holding back whimpers, he wouldn't be in this situation.

PAIRING ᯓ PhD Student!Choso x Professor fem!reader

WARNINGS ᯓ smut MDNI, sub!choso/dom!reader, emotional manipulation?, humiliation/degrading, praise kink, power dynamics, exploitation of authority, orgasm denial, edging, LOTS of teasing, you're mean to him (sorry), he's so pathetic, PWP, he's VERY nervous, you shame him, size kink, cowgirl, oral (f. receiving), you make him beg.

WORD COUNT ᯓ 7.8k

Choso heard stories about you long before he even considered applying to be your TA. He wasn’t a stranger to the rigorous demands of academia, being a PhD student studying philosophy, but your name whispered brilliance. Your name carried a mythical weight among professionals in the field and graduate students. You were untouchable, a tenured professor who commanded respect effortlessly. Your reputation was one of absolute professionalism, unyielding precision, and a razor-sharp intellect that left even the most brilliant students in awe.

Your class on Epistemology was legendary, known not only for its rigorous readings but its ability to make students question everything they knew about truth, about reality itself. No one walked out unchanged, students feared you could see through them, dissecting their arguments with a surgical kind of precision. You set high expectations, daunting, and for a student like Choso, they were a challenge he couldn’t resist.

So when the position for a TA under you opened up for the semester, he didn’t hesitate for a second. He poured over his application, carefully crafting his cover letter that highlighted his experience as a research assistant and unwavering passion for the field. He was nervous, sure, but also excited. This was the opportunity to work directly under you, to sit under your tutelage, to absorb the wisdom you offered.

He was eager to prove himself, desperate to impress you. He imagined sitting in your classroom, assisting with discussions, offering insight that could one day make him as scholarly as you, someone he both respected and admired. Most of all, he sought your approval. The thought of working alongside you, hearing you explain the nuances of Plato’s Theory of Forms or the implications of Descartes’ Meditations, it filled him with a sense of purpose.

The day he received the email confirming his position, being selected among a pool of talented graduate students, handpicked by you, he felt an overwhelming rush of pride. The prestige of being your TA was a sign of recognition here, a chance to live up to his potential, and learn to command the same respect you did.

But the reality of working under you was much harsher than he anticipated.

The first time he entered your classroom, he wasn’t only nervous because of the work, rather your presence. A quiet storm, moving around with such command making his heart race every time you stepped toward the podium. You were perfectly poised, a figure of authority donning a sleek pencil skirt and the kind of professional elegance that made everything around you pale in comparison.

Your heels would click sharply on the floor when you walked across the room, the sound echoing through the lecture hall like a warning. But it wasn’t only your appearance, it was the way you held yourself. Radiating confidence, he couldn’t help but feel shallow, the way you owned every lecture was intoxicating, and he was nothing more than a mere shadow in your presence.

It had only been a few weeks into the semester when the first real blow came.

He was sitting beside you at the front of the lecture hall, his notebook open, eyes flicking between your slides and the notes he’s desperately trying to keep up with.

It’s cute, in theory. The way he leans forward, brows furrowed as if writing it all down will somehow prove his worth.

If only he were competent.

You click to the next slide. “Of course, for any decent researcher, attention to detail is everything.” You pause for effect, eyes sweeping across the room, watching students as they try to follow.

Then your gaze flicks to Choso. He’s scribbling frantically, you can see it. The mistakes in his notes. His rushed handwriting. The misaligned bullet points.

A sharp glance, your lips curling slightly. “Some people…” you begin, words hanging in the air as you lean forward. The class doesn’t notice, but you can see the discomfort creeping into his posture, the way his shoulders tense and the sudden stillness in the air around him when his eyes meet yours. “Some people never quite get the hang of it.”

You hold eye contact for a second, long enough for him to feel the weight of the unspoken accusation settle on his shoulders.

You move on, clicking to the next slide, tone neutral. “Now, moving on…”

The rest of the lecture proceeds, but he doesn’t write a single word more. Instead opting to stare at the blank page in front of him, fully trapped in that moment and fighting the surge of embarrassment and shame that you’ve made him feel.

And you’ve seen students come and go. Good TAs, bad TAs. They all blend together in your mind. But Choso was different. He was a student that can’t look you in the eye without flushing red, and it was more than power, it was the challenge.

You’ve been in your position long enough to know how to break people, and Choso is no different. He’s like a puppy that keeps wagging its tail at you, begging to be trained, not realizing the game you proposed. It was in the way he wanted this job so badly, the way he silently pleaded for your approval, made it so easy to exploit him. His pathetic desire to make you feel proud, his eagerness to please, it feeds into everything you do.

-----

The classroom is quiet, students were hunched over their exams, it was the last test before the final. You let them work in silence, watching from the front of the room, the soft scratching of pens and the occasional sigh the only sounds that break the stillness.

Choso sits across the room, positioned at a desk near the front and keeping an eye on the students. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his brow furrowed in concentration. The way he struggles to seem composed, even when he’s the one in control of nothing, only adds to your irritation.

A student approaches your desk, a timid look on her face as she whispers to you, “Professor, I think there’s a mistake on my last assignment.”

Without bothering to glance up, you extend your hand and she places the paper in it. The moment you catch sight of Choso’s untidy scrawl in bright red ink, your lips curl into a contemptuous smile.

His work, always a mess, full of errors. It’s a constant frustration.

You don’t give him the benefit of looking at you. Instead, your eyes flick to his figure sitting across the room, he leans back in his chair, lost in his own word with no idea that you’re about to make his day much worse.

You get up from your chair slowly, hands pushing on the arm rests, holding the sheet in one hand as you cross the room. The sound of your heels clicking against the tile sharp. Click. Click. Click.

You stop by his desk, leaning down just enough that only he can hear the words you’re about to say. He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge you directly, but you see his posture stiffen as you approach.

“You’re embarrassing,” you murmur softly, voice ice-cold.

His body goes rigid, a slight tremor running through him as if he’s been struck.

Your hand slides onto his shoulder, and for a moment it looks like a friendly, casual gesture. But your fingers curl slightly, nails digging into the taut muscle under his button-up, and you feel his body jump beneath your touch.

He’s a fucking wreck.

And he doesn’t know how to respond, just frozen, staring straight ahead, struggling to keep it together. The warmth of your breath spills from glossy lips right against the shell of his ear as you lean in closer, letting the tension build.

“Maybe I should start reviewing every single thing you grade,” your hand on his shoulder shifts, thumb grazing along the seam of his shirt. “Since you clearly can’t be trusted to do it properly,” you whisper.

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, fear evident in the way he clenches his jaw.

You pull away slowly, letting your hand drag across him as you stand, just long enough to see him take hard blinks and keep his gaze ahead steady. You slide the assignment on his desk, the paper crinkling slightly as it lands.

“Fix it,” you command, voice sharp, leaving no room for protest.

Without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and walk away, the clicking sound filling the silent room once more as you return to the front of the classroom.

Choso’s still frozen at his desk, completely in a haze under the weight of your words and touch.

As the last of the students begin filing out, tossing their exams in a stack on your desk, Choso remains behind, paper still clutched in his hand.

You’re at the front of the room, tidying notes into a binder and purposefully avoiding his gaze, knowing that he’s still there, waiting for something. You don’t look up as he approaches.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, hesitant, almost apologetic. “Professor… I’m sorry about earlier,” he says, eyes flickering between you and the floor. “I- I know I didn’t do a good job grading. I’ll fix it, I-I promise.” His words come out in a rush.

You take your time, still sorting through papers, continuing your task as though he doesn’t exist. But his presence makes the hairs on your neck stand up with something almost predatory.

Finally, you glance up at him, long enough to see him shift on his feet, eyes darting.

“Mm,” you hum in acknowledgment, tone dismissive. “I’m sure you will.” You swipe the paper from his hand without a second look, barely sparing it any attention.

He just nods stiffly as you walk out of the classroom, knowing better than to argue, knowing better than to ask for anything more.

Later that day, your office door clicks shut, the soft echo lingering in the corners of the room. Papers are scattered across your desk, half-completed research articles, grading rubrics, a few unremarkable notes from students, all piled in chaos. A dull light from your computer screen casting an ethereal glow, the blue light illuminating your fingertips as you twirl a pen between them.

You lean back, legs crossed, heels resting against the edge of the desk as you observe the mess around you. You let your eyes drift, momentarily unfocused and the image of Choso’s face flash in your mind. He had been so eager to fit in, to prove himself… but how could he? How could someone so utterly useless ever meet your standards?

You bite your lip, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. The memory of him earlier lingering, his hair a mess, that poorly knotted tie hanging too loosely around his neck, the fraying button-up that clearly hadn’t seen the iron this morning. Typical.

You let the pen twirl a little faster, the repetitive motion almost hypnotic. The day’s events replay, the way his eyes flickered nervously when you’d reprimanded him. The way his body had gone stiff as if trying to shrink into himself when you walked past his desk.

How pathetic.

Just being around the boy was hard to bear. His fidgeting, the way he couldn’t even look you in the eye without stumbling over his words. So desperate to get everything right, but none of it ever worked.

You glance down at a paper sitting in the corner of the pile, one of his many grading errors. The jagged red ink lines seem to jump off the page as if to mock. You slowly trace a finger along the harsh strokes, following the trail of his mistakes and his attempt at being meticulous.

You lick your lips, fingers pausing, pressing just a little harder than necessary against the sheet. It felt like you could feel the weight of his failure through the page. You weren’t crazy, right? Not when he had spent far too much time overthinking every little assignment. Not when he couldn’t even articulate the simplest concepts, as if his brain short-circuited the moment you expected him to speak.

But he tried.

Your heart beats a little faster, a strange warmth curling at the base of your stomach, the heat settling between your thighs. God, how frustrating he was. How helpless he was. But that was part of the charm, wasn’t it?

Poor Choso. He just couldn’t stop making mistakes, could he? The harder he tried, the worse it got. You glance at the door to your office. You could already imagine his reaction: the nervous twitch in his jaw, the way he’d bite his lip and avoid your eyes.

You lean forward in your chair, eyes narrowing. The thought of him, so desperate to be competent, so hungry for your approval, and yet never quite good enough, makes your stomach flutter with anticipation.

No. He wasn’t good enough. Not by a long shot.

-----

The day of the discussion arrives, two weeks before the final. You’ve decided it’s time for Choso to take the reigns, to lead the class for once. You’re perched in his desk, legs crossed just so as he stands at the front, slightly off-center, hands moving in broad gestures as he discusses a key theory.

The topic is dense, abstract, and the kind of thing that demands complete precision. You’re leaning forward, attention fully on him. He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses before launching into his explanation, voice tight.

“Right,” he begins, “Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, it’s important to understand that the synthetic a priori judgments are, uh, foundational in the way we… conceptualize knowledge.”

He gestures expressively with his hands. He knows the material, there’s no doubt about that. But you can tell he’s more worried about the eyes on him, about what you might think of him.

He continues, voice more certain now, “So, these judgments are necessary for, um, for experience, not determined by it, but-” He stops himself mid-sentence. “Wait, no. What I meant was-”

He shifts uncomfortably, the tension clear as he’s aware of his misstep.

You lean forward in his desk, eyes fixed on him. His gaze flickers to you briefly, just a quick glance. Your posture is relaxed, calm, while he’s standing in front of the lecture hall, visibly trying to regain his composure.

He shifts again on his feet, a small nervous smile pulling at his lips. “Right, so… Kant was saying that all knowledge has a, uh… a conceptual framework that is separate from experience. But the synthetic a priori judgments are, are what make those structures possible,” he finished, giving a slight nod as if to affirm that he’s back on track.

It’s a minor slip, and you know he knows the answer. Still, you make a mental note of his mistake. He wasn’t completely wrong, but there was a gap in his explanation, and you could tell he knew it.

The class remains silent, and it’s clear he’s still on edge. He huffs out a slight exhale, relief washing over him that he’s made it through.

“Choso,” you say, making it clear you caught his mistake. He immediately looks up.

“I think you meant to say something else there,” you continue, with a cool, knowing smile. “I’m sure you know the right answer.”

His eyes flick to the floor, fingers fidgeting with the end of his tie, but he nods quickly. “I… yes, sorry. I meant to say that Kant believed synthetic a priori judgments are, um, necessary for the possibility of experience itself-”

You wave a hand dismissively, cutting him off with a subtle smirk. “No need to over-explain,” you murmur. “It’s just that it’s important to be precise. Every detail matters, right?”

You slide out of the desk when class ends, Choso still standing at the front, moving his weight from one foot to the other. Your heels clack softly against the floor as you make your way toward him, eyes looking at him with mild amusement.

As you pass, you tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear with the slightest touch. It’s a soft gesture, a sweet one. His breath hitches, stiffening under the sudden contact.

“Meet me in my office,” you say, voice low, almost languid. “I’ve got a meeting, but it’ll be quick.”

You continue walking toward the door, letting the words hang before you pause, turning to look back at him. Your eyes sharp, voice carrying the weight of authority as you speak, “and don’t touch anything.”

Your tone is almost teasing, like you’re reprimanding a child, all gentle but firm. He’s left standing there, flustered, face heating up as his fingers twitch at his sides as if the small command has him wondering what exactly you meant. You don’t wait for him to respond, just leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality.

And as you walk down the corridor, you can’t help but laugh knowing he’ll be in your office, waiting.

Your office is a fortress of calm, now meticulously organized in a way that feels clinical. The large wood desk sits center, piled high with stacks of paper and worn leather-bound books. The walls are lined with shelves, some overflowing with volumes on theory and philosophy, others scattered with journals and scribbled notes from various conferences. It’s a space of sharp precision, where everything in it felt in place, except for him.

He sits across from your desk, back stiff and slumped slightly as his fingers curl lightly into his pants. His heart pounds like a drumbeat that won’t slow, the clock on the wall only ticking away in rhythm to his restless breaths. It’s as if time stretches and warps, turning each minute into an agonizing eternity. There’s nothing he can do but wait, gaze flickering over the papers on your desk, never daring to focus for too long on anything specific. Your absence only amplifying his discomfort, pulling him deeper into a thick haze of anticipation.

Finally, the door creaks open.

You walk in without a word, the sound of your heels clicking as you slip into your chair. The sound of your computer turning on and whirring to life filling the silence, fingers typing away with efficiency. He’s left there, waiting. Staring at you, helplessly, his body rigid as thoughts churn in a fog of confusion.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty.

And then, he shifts in his seat. The air hums with a quiet electricity, his throat tight with words he can’t find. He clears it, his eyes darting toward you in the hopes you’ll acknowledge him.

You don’t.

You look up slowly, gaze sharp but unhurried. “Something wrong?”

He stammers, voice barely above a whisper. “No, professor.”

You smile like a cat that’s caught its prey, but isn’t ready to devour it quite yet. “Then sit there and be quiet.”

And he does. Every breath of his a loud intrusion in the stillness, the clicking of your keyboard mocking him, rhythmic hands moving quickly over keys as his eyes wander over every detail of you. He can’t stop looking, the way your fingers move, posture effortlessly posed, the sharp curve of your legs beneath your desk, the subtle shift of your bare toes from under the heel. It feels like he’s drowning in every small, mundane action of yours, all of them a torment.

The clock ticks on, minutes stretching into infinity.

And then, you stretch your arms languidly, bones cracking as you lean back in your chair. You look at the clock across the room. “Huh. It’s late,” you muse, voice a soft note of feigned innocence. You tilt your head toward him, a delicate smile across your lips as you fix your eyes on him. “Why are you still here, Choso?”

His throat closes around the words, heart pounding in his heard. “You-” His voice faltering, mouth dry. “You wanted to meet here after lecture.”

You blink slowly, almost a mocking look crossing your face. “Oh. Did I?”

Just like that the tension breaks, leaving him searing in his own skin. He burns under the weight of your eyes, under your words that feel like an open flame. His thoughts scatter, all wild and frantic, and all he can do is stare at the way you tilt your head, lashes fluttering lazily.

You wave a hand, dismissive. “Go home.”

He watches as you turn back to the papers on your desk, as if this entire charade was just nothing to you. But your voice cuts through again, sharper. “And by the way,” you add with a smirk,” You messed up today in lecture.”

He freezes, words hitting like a punch to the gut. He scrambles for something to say, but it’s too late. His body is already moving, pushing his glasses up while grabbing his backpack with shaky hands. He stumbles as he tries to gather his things, body betraying him.

The bulge in his pants painfully hard, his frustration a deep, burning ache that follows him out the door. It’s too much. But it’s exactly what you wanted. And somehow that thought alone sends a flush of heat rushing through him as he fumbles for the door handle.

-----

The week before finals always felt like a battlefield, except instead of swords and bloodshed, it was emails marked urgent, frantic office hours, and the never-ending wail of students who suddenly cared about their grades.

Your days were a blur of coffee cups, research deadlines, and an endless cycle of meetings that ran into each other like waves against the shore. If there weren’t department heads breathing down your neck about conference presentations, it was undergraduates pleading for regrades, extensions, just a few extra points, professor, please-

God, it sucked.

But this was the job, this was what you lived for.

You liked it, this chaos, the caffeine-fueled debates, the way a classroom came alive when you unraveled theories of this theory or that philosopher, how you could see the gears turning in the minds of students who actually gave a damn. It made the exhaustion worth it, most of the time.

Right now, though, you were at your wit’s end. Sleep was a luxury, the only think keeping you from collapsing was the pulse of adrenaline that came with the end of the semester. The high stakes, high stress, high caffeine cocktail that academia thrived on. Your office drowned in papers, drafts of research articles mixed in with barely legible student essays. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed, blending with the dull roar of your headache.

It was all-consuming, and yet, beneath it all, buried under the exhaustion and the sheer weight of your workload, there was something else.

A distraction in the form a certain TA, whose name you hadn’t thought about in at least four hours.

Impressive restraint, really. Because when you weren’t fixing his mistakes, you were thinking about him.

The way his broad shoulders stretched the seam of his blazer, the nervous set of his jaw when he concentrated. The perpetual mess of his hair, like he was always running his fingers through it in frustration, tugging at the strands when he thought no one was watching. Oh, his hands. Strong, broad, fingers long and thick, the hands of a man, and yet still so pitiful when they trembled under your scrutiny.

You wanted to take his glasses off, throw them to the ground, crush them under your heel until he looked at you helplessly. Confess, you’d murmur, like a priest demanding repentance. Tell me everything you’ve done wrong.

You weren’t sure when these thoughts started. When he became the subject of your intrigue, your amusement, your cruelty. But the wet stain in your underwear at the end of every lecture didn’t lie.

You giggled at him sometimes. The way he hunched over a student’s desk, shoulders curling inward as he helped, fingers gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him steady. The way his ears flushed red when you stood too close, the sharp intake of breath when you brushed past him. Oh, how miserable he must be.

Which is why with a few effortless clicks, you composed an email.

Subject: Final Evaluation

“Come see me in my office. Let’s talk.”

No lecture today, no reason for him to see you at all. But now he would.

As you adjusted the pile of papers at your desk, a yellow sticky note peeked from the bottom of the stack, its edges curling. Graded Unit 12 Assignments – Choso. His handwriting as broody as him, all blocky, impatient strokes, like the pen itself was an afterthought. And beneath it, a thick folder of student papers.

You flipped it open, eyes already rolling before you finished the first sentence.

A student had argued that truth is always socially constructed, because human concepts shape the way we understand the world. And Choso had marked it wrong.

No explanation or red-inked feedback. But you didn’t need one.

Of course, you knew why.

It was as if his mind was wired to yours, a thread of understanding between you that no one acknowledged, but always existed. He’d thought the student ignored mathematical truths, principles that existed independent of human perception. Typical.

With a sigh, you uncapped your pen, blue slicing through his red.

A point restored, a mistake undone.

Oh, Choso. Always thinking too hard, always too critical, grading as if he was confronting the ghosts of his own academic failures. Because he knew if he marked something right that was supposed to be wrong, you would lose your mind.

“These are undergrads, for god’s sake,” you muttered, flipping to the next.

This was what exhausted you the most. The fixing, the correcting. The having to redo the work he should have done properly the first time.

But then again, you liked having reasons to reprimand him.

A sharp knock at your office door. Right on time.

You smooth down your skirt before opening it, tilting your head at the sight of him, standing so stiffly in the hallway, nervous in the same way that makes your stomach twist in satisfaction.

“Choso.” Your voice even, expectant. “Sit.”

He hesitated for half a second before obeying, lowering himself into the chair facing your desk. His hands clasp together tightly, resting on his thighs like he’s trying to keep them still. You step back, leaning against your desk with your ankles crossed, fingers interlaced.

“I was just fixing your mistakes,” you say, gesturing to the papers behind you. “Right now.”

His lip twitches, eyes dropping to the floor in quiet shame.

“So, why did I call you in?”

His breath hitches, lifting his eyes to you, lips parting. “U-um, for my, uh… final evaluation?”

You blink slowly, nodding. “That’s right.” A pause. Then, softly, “What do you think, Choso? Think you deserve a good review?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, big chestnut brown eyes flickering with uncertainty, high cheekbones subtly dusted pink. You could let him flounder longer, let him sweat, but you have other plans.

You push off the desk, stepping between his thighs. He tenses, back pressing into the chair, but doesn’t pull away. Good boy.

You look down at him, at the way his too-big tie, probably borrowed from someone older, sits slightly askew against the crisp white of his button-down. His blazer is fitted, stretched over broad shoulders, but it’s the dress pants that hold your attention. The way they cling to his thick, muscular thighs, the way they crease under your inspection. Fuck, you want to ruin him.

“I’m sure you remember your midterm review.”

His blush deepens, spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.

You bend at the waist, placing your hands on his shoulders, meeting him at eye level. “How was your midterm review?”

He shifts, fingers twitching where they rest on his thighs. He’s trying so hard not to move.

“Uh… it wasn’t really that good.”

You smirk, the corner of your mouth curling up as you slide into his lap, legs thrown over his and crossing. His breath stutters as your hand settles over his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone through the fabric.

“That’s right.” You trail a single finger along his jawline, slow, deliberate. “So I’m sure you know how important your final evaluation is.”

Your touch moves, brushing the outside of his ear, featherlight. He shudders, whole body trembling beneath you, hands still clenched into fists at his sides like he’s afraid to touch you without permission.

“You need it to stay on track, don’t you?” Your thumb drags over the heat of his cheekbone, the pink burning under your touch.

His lips part, breath quick and uneven. “Y-yeah,” he stammers. “I-I need a good review.”

“Mmm,” you hum, nodding as your fingers ghost over his arm, tracing the tense muscle. “Without it… your future in academia…”

You reach up, slipping the glasses from his nose, placing them neatly on the corner of your desk. He blinks at you, all wide-eyed and exposed. So easy to break.

“...It’s all at risk.”

Your lips hover over his, barely brushing, just close enough to feel his shuddering exhale against your skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare.

“But if you want a good evaluation…” Your fingers skim his bicep, trailing absentminded shapes over his taut muscles. “You should earn it.”

Your breath ghosts over his throat, and he reflexively throws his head back, exposing more of his skin to you, more than he probably realizes. You let your lips part against his neck, the heat of your breath making him violently shiver. His resolve is crumbling, cracking, falling apart under the weight of your touch.

“W-what do you mean by that?” His voice is low, husky, hesitant, laced with something desperate.

You smile against his pulse, your tongue darting out to trace a slow, wet stripe up the side of his throat. His whole body jerks at the sensation, a broken sound catching in his throat before he can swallow it down.

Then his hands move, one sliding to your lower back, the other gripping your bare thigh, fingers digging into the flesh where your skirt has ridden up.

You pull back, just a little, tilting your head as you watch him.

“Choso.” Your voice dripping with amusement, with pleasure at how easy this is.

“Did you just whimper for me?”

His breath gets caught. He swallows hard. He tries to shake his head, tries to deny it, but it’s useless when you can feel him beneath you, his cock hard, straining against the fabric of his pants, twitching every time you shift your weight.

“N-No, I-” He gasps when you move again, this time straddling him fully, your legs draped over his.

“You did,” you coo, brushing a hand over his flushed cheek. “Oh, Cho… you’re already so desperate.”

His lips part, eyes glassy, unfocused. His thighs are trembling, fingers tightening their grip like he’s afraid you’ll leave him like this.

“Please,” he rasps, deep voice barely above a whisper.

You bury your head in his neck, hands trailing lower and lower down his abdomen. His scent. It’s so uniquely him, earthy, cedar, almost like a new book waiting to be cracked open, fresh off the printing press, waiting for you to read from cover to cover.

Your hands meet his tented bulge, caressing him over his pants as he whines so openly, losing his restraint completely, looking at you with shiny eyes.

“Why did I have to regrade those assignments?” You ask, deftly unzipping his pants, unbuttoning and yanking them down. His tip was gleaming under fluorescent lights, already so much precum that it was almost pathetic.

“B-Because I- ahh- I…” His voice breaks on a gasp when you use your thumb to softly rub his dribbling precum around, coating his tip entirely, all shiny and glistening under the soft touch of your finger.

He was so big, large veins running up and down his length, pink tip silently begging for attention as you withdraw.

“Go on,” you say while pushing your body further up on his lap, his erect cock sandwiched between both of your bodies as you lightly trail your nails up and down his neck, sending goosebumps to prickle his entire body.

“I- I was too rigid with my grading.”

“Mmm, close. But you didn’t just grade too harshly, did you? You graded like you were punishing yourself.” You slowly lick his bottom lip, taking it in your mouth and sucking it like a piece of candy. You can feel him twitch, his hands gripping your hips over your skirt, fingers curling in.

“Poor thing.” Your fingers trail over his throat again, pressing lightly at his pulse point. “Always so hard on yourself…” bringing your lips to his, you give a sloppy, open-mouth kiss, tongue dancing across his lips. “Maybe I should be hard on you too.”

“Look at this,” you loosen his tie, hand ghosting over his shoulders as you slip it free.

He was gasping for air, the sensation of his cock being pressed so tightly between you, your touch on him so light it felt like fire, the burn lingering.

You take him in with your eyes, face flushed with heat, ears burning a bright red, the way his skin flushes lower down his neck. He looked like a man caught in a storm of shame and arousal, each breath feeling like it might be his last. His lips were slightly parted, wet with your spit, body shifting in his seat like you wouldn’t notice.

So you start unbuttoning his top, tortuously slow, revealing more of his blushed chest each time you snap a button undone, his breaths bated from your languid pace, taking your sweet time as you only bat your lashes and look at him sweetly.

You run a slow, deliberate finger down the line of his chest, grazing over his hard muscles as if inspecting him.

“You’ve got all this muscle,” you murmur, low and sharp. “But it’s all for show, isn’t it? Strength that doesn’t actually count for much when you’re this weak.” Your finger glides over his abs, twirling around his happy trail before you stroke back up, flickering over his hardened nipple and making him flinch as you lean in.

“All this strength and yet, not a fucking ounce of control.”

You cross your arms, gripping the hem of your top before tearing it off your head and throwing it aside. You were wearing a lacy red bra, smiling as his eyes stuck to your chest like glue, mouth agape as his hands twitch at your sides.

You bring him into another kiss, hands linking behind his neck and ravishing him with your mouth. Already intoxicated with his taste, how his tongue glides along yours, the way his hands gripped tighter like he needed you closer.

Sometime between shared breaths and combined moans, you unclasp your bra, pert nipples against his bare chest that made him shiver like he was cold.

You took the blazer off his shoulders, slipping your arms through and letting it envelope your frame. He was so much bigger than you, his blazer swallowing you whole as you poked your bare breasts through it. You put on his tie, picking it up and tying it around your neck slowly, as if to teach him.

“This is how it’s supposed to look.”

His body was sweating, abs clinging to the moisture as they flexed every time you moved.

“Like what you see?” You ask, hands moving to grip your breasts, letting the tissue pillow between your fingers.

His breath catches the second you ask, and he freezes, trying to hold onto any shred of control. His eyes flicker from your face to where the tie rests between your breasts, the blazer parted enough for him to see your bare figure. The heat rises in his cheeks, spreading across his chest as he fights the surge of shame and desire that hits him all at once.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. His pulse is racing, mind a storm of confusion and frustration.

“I… I-” he stammers, chest tightening.

There’s a brief pause before he manages to speak again, gruff voice barely above a whisper. “Y-Yes… I do.” He’s not sure if he’s admitting it out of desire or fear, gaze locked on you as you so playfully toy with yourself in front of him.

You step off his lap, heels clacking against the ground as you kick them off. You hook your thumbs under your skirt, slowly bending to peel it down your body, the fabric pooling at your feet.

“Cho, I’m so needy for you,” you’re peeling off your dampened panties, the center adorned with a wet spot clinging to you as you drag them down your legs. You step out of them, handing them over to him.

“Take them,” you command softly, voice laced with dark amusement.

His hand trembles as he hesitates, still stuck in the thought of whether or not this was real. He looks at your bare body before him, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wide in disbelief. But the temptation is too much to resist. He takes them from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment.

“Y-You want me to…?” His voice cracks, words coming out quietly, he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do this, caught between the weight of his desire and fear.

You walk in closer to him, his cock still dripping globules of precum at the tip, so much that it drips down his shaft steady, falling to his base before beading more.

“Yes,” you murmur, legs standing over his and lowering yourself in his lap again. “I want you to hold onto them. Keep them. Remember this moment.”

He can’t stop the full-body shiver running through him, fingers curling around the damp fabric as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I can,” he admits, voice strained.

You lean in, shifting your weight on his lap so your lips brush his ear with a whisper.

“You can. You will. Hold them and think about how you got here.”

His eyes flicker, tightening his grip around the fabric, voice cracking as he whispers, “I- I want to, but-”

You lean back meeting his face again, smiling coldly, cutting him off.

“Just take it.”

He nods shakily, body taut with tension. He looks at you with pleading eyes.

“Please,” he whispers, almost broken. “I wait any longer.”

Your lips curve into a devilish smile, and you reach down to grip the base of his cock, a raspy groan leaving his lips from the contact. You lift your hips, sliding his tip between your slick folds, a repetitive back-and-forth motion that already has him furrowing his brows, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open like he’s in a state of pure ecstasy.

You let his tip catch on your entrance, just sitting there not letting him enter you. He was using any ounce of control he could find not to rut his hips into you, not to bottom out in half a second. You grip his chin with your other hand, forcing his glassy, desperate eyes to meet yours.

“Tell me, Cho.”

His breath is ragged, chest moving unevenly, body tense like a bowstring about to snap.

“What do you think about when you thrust into your hand at night?”

He whimpers, actually fucking whimpers, thighs tensing beneath you when you barely push his tip inside.

“N-No-”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your nails dig into his jaw, his pulse fluttering wildly beneath your touch. “You think I don’t know? You can’t even look me in the eye without blushing.”

His face is burning, hands that grip your sides trembling.

“You’re disgusting, you know that?” you murmur, lifting your body so he didn’t get the pleasure of feeling your warmth wrapped around his engorged tip. “So fucking weak.”

He sucks in a breath, eyes pricking with tears, barely able to breathe.

“Tell me, Cho. Do you hump your pillow and pretend it’s me?”

He whines, hips jerking up helplessly, shame twisting his expression.

“I- I-”

“Or do you get on your knees and fuck your fist, pretending you’re on your knees for me?”

His body trembles, cock twitching wildly in your firm hold, certain that he’s going insane.

“S-Sometimes,” he gasps out, eyes drooping.

“Fucking filthy,” you sneer, lowering your hips and sinking down on him until he’s hitting your cervix. The picture of it is so lewd, fucking your TA wearing his tie and blazer, your panties still in his hands as they tremble.

Your body presses against him, curses spilling from his mouth as he just sits, unable to do anything, even move, as you’re stuffed completely.

You begin a slow pace, each thrust a challenge for him to endure. His face is flushed with frustration, head thrown back letting groans that sound like whimpers escape his throat.

“Look at you, Cho,” you laugh, voice dripping in disdain. “You can barely handle me, can you?”

He struggles to answer, words broken as he freely grunts into the air of your office, your arousal coating his length with each sluggish drive of your hips.

“Please… don’t… stop,” he begs, hands moving to snake under his blazer you wore, wrapping around your bare back.

“I’m not stopping,” you reply, voice low and cruel. “But you’ll wait for me, do whatever I say… or you don’t get to cum at all.”

You quicken your pace, beads of sweat forming at your hairline as you ride him, hands resting on his shoulders, breasts moving in tandem with your hips, god he had to close his eyes, squeeze them shut and fight every instinct to release deep inside you.

“Mmm, you’re making me feel so full.”

You moan softly, arching your back as you press against him, making sure he feels every tight inch around him.

“You’re so big, filling me up completely.”

You tease him with a smile, fingers digging into his shoulders as your lips ghost his, feeling his bated breath on your sleek lips.

“I… I- fuck-”

His hands grip your sides tightly, whole body shaking from the effort of holding back. Hearing your velvety sighs, arching your back so perfectly in a way that pushes him deeper, your sticky walls clinging to him with each roll of your hips.

You’re whining into his mouth, pace neither fast nor slow as you let it drag out, his precum and your arousal dripping out of you, wetting his tight balls and staining the seat below him.

“Mm, you can’t cum inside, Cho,” your breath hot against his ear, he was panting, body thrumming with need, face red as his breathing grows more erratic.

“Please- fuck- please, I’ve been good,” his hands grip your hips as if he’s trying to get closer, pupils dilated, hips bucking just slightly in desperation.

He’s on the brink, and you know it. You lift your hips off of him, a trail of arousal clinging to his tip, the loud squelch of your pussy at the loss.

“I wanna watch you do it,” you smile, sitting on his lap and hands resting on his flexed forearms, unclasping his grasp on your sides.

He didn��t care about the embarrassment, the shame, the humiliation of getting off in front of you, deftly pumping his cock until he releases within seconds, low groans leaving his lips, toes curling, eyes hitting the back of his skull. It hits your stomach and his, dripping down as he spurts and spurts, milking himself dry and then some, freely panting into the air, mouth hanging open.

You smile sweetly at him, not giving him the chance to come down from his high. A smile that if anyone else saw, would think you two were just a loving couple. “Now you can show me how thankful you are for this opportunity.”

“I- I don’t-”

You lift off him completely, moving back until your knees hit your desk. You sit on it, laying down, the sweat from your back wetting the papers beneath as you spread your legs for him.

“You’ll show me how grateful you are.”

He just looks at you, all bare and spread for him, his cock hardening again at the sight alone. As stupid as you might think of him, he understands the game now. He gets up, promptly kneeling, adjusting your legs so your feet rest on his shoulders, and begins lapping at you like he fucking hates you.

It’s filthy, lewd, and oh so skilled. He uses the flat of his tongue to drag a long lick up your soaked folds, your back arching off the desk, honeyed moans spilling from your lips. And he’s moaning against you in return, sending vibrations up your spine in a way that makes your brain feel numb.

The way he worked his mouth on you, open mouth kisses as if he was making out with your cunt, swallowing pools of your arousal, fuck. It was the kind of thing where six years of graduate school paled in comparison.

“Mmh- Cho,” you whine out, hands moving to grip his oiled scalp, pulling closer to you as he brought you closer to climax.

Then he inserted two fingers, pumping in a way that felt so affectionate, thrusting in a way that felt he was worshiping you, his tongue tracing quick circles on your clit, fingers pressing against your ridged g-spot and-

Fuck, you came. And it was full of lust, of hunger, your walls gripping his digits like your life depended on it, your hands steadying his head and pulling his hair.

And he didn’t stop, not until you had to physically push him off your swollen, sleek lower lips.

You gently guide him to sit up, bringing your legs to wrap around his torso as you link your hands behind his neck. His lips are wet with your arousal, this view of him so fucked-out, so soft as sweat dampens his face, blush still spread to his neck, crossing his collarbones. You just wanted to hold him.

So you did.

“You did good,” you murmur, praise laced with satisfaction. “Better than I expected, actually.”

He shifts slightly, your fingers trace lightly down his neck. “I guess I’ll write you a good review.”

You lift from his chest, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging him in for another kiss, your lips lingering for a moment before pulling away.

“But you’ve still got work to do.”

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