#there’s just something about their dynamic

[not-poignant]

Some characters are not going to be into sex at all.

Some characters into sex (and kink) are not going to be into romance.

Some characters into romance are not going to be into sex (or kink)

Some characters not into sex are going to be doms/subs

Some characters are not going to be doms or subs and also not going to be into vanilla sex - it's crappy when people think that everyone in kink is a dom/sub, this is so reductive/incorrect.

Some characters into kink won't touch the terms dom or sub with a 10 foot pole actually.

Some kinky characters also enjoy vanilla sex

Some dom/subs do have vanilla sex. And it's weird to think they don't.

The world isn't made up of 'kinky dom/subs who never have vanilla sex and people who only have vanilla sex and never do kink' etc.

Basically permutations are great.

If you're being this reductive with your characters in the first place that you're dividing the world between 'doms/subs' and 'vanilla sex', you might be substituting sex with personality full stop.

nothing but respect for our troops (smut writers) but listen. i dont want to be the person to tell you this, but not every character is going to be a dom or a sub. some people. and i know this is hard to hear. but some people do have vanilla sex. and some of those people might even be The Character.

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 Enhypen Sex Positions 𐙚

Request

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Dom/sub dynamics, Power play, Praise/degradation kink, Rough sex, Choking, Spanking, Possessiveness, Strength kink, Daddy kink, Explicit language

Heeseung — Face Down, Ass Up

Heeseung’s obsession with this position stems from the way it strips you bare and lets him take the lead without holding back. There’s nothing more addicting to him than seeing you completely surrendered to the moment—back arched, cheek pressed into the mattress, and ass raised just for him. It gives him a front-row seat to all his favorite things: the sound of your choked-out moans when he slams into you just right, the tremble in your thighs as you try to stay up, the way your fingers curl around the sheets when he shifts angles and hits that one spot. Heeseung doesn’t just want to fuck you—he wants to ruin you in the most delicious way, to make sure you’re still shaking from it hours later. The grip he has on your hips says you’re not going anywhere, and the way he drags his cock slow and deep before snapping forward again lets you know—he’s not done until you’ve cried for him.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he groans, hand gripping your hair to pull your head back just enough so he can hear your broken gasp. “Don’t hide those sounds. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You whimper his name, voice catching when he suddenly slaps your ass, sharp and possessive. “Yeah? You like being fucked like this? Helpless? Open for me?”

His hips grind deeper, one hand snaking down to wrap around your throat from behind, holding you steady while he pistons forward. “You’re gonna take everything I give you, baby. No running. No squirming. Just my good girl taking her dick like she should.”

When you fall apart again, legs shaking and voice wrecked, he leans in closer, breath hot against your ear. “That’s it. Just like that. You were made for me, weren’t you?”

Jay — Over the Edge

Jay doesn’t just dominate—he owns. The edge of the bed, a countertop, a table—wherever he has you bent, one thing never changes: you’re exactly where he wants you, at his mercy, with nowhere to run. This position feeds every part of his control kink. Your body laid out, spine arched, completely exposed and helpless to his pace as he drives into you with unrelenting force. One hand clamped to your waist, the other tangled in your hair or tightening around your throat—Jay doesn’t play when it comes to power. He thrives off the whimpers you try to hold back, the shake in your voice when you beg, the desperation in your eyes when he pulls back just to deny you. This isn’t about quick pleasure—it’s discipline, it’s control, it’s showing you who you belong to. And he takes his time doing it.

“You think you can take it all without asking?” His voice is sharp, low, sending shivers straight down your spine. His palm spreads between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest down as his hips slam forward. “You don’t get to make the rules, sweetheart. I do.”

Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, but he grabs your wrists and pins them to the bed in one hand. “Stay fucking still.”

A broken moan spills from your lips as his thrusts get rougher, and Jay just smirks above you, breathing heavy. “You feel that? That’s what it means to be mine.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “No cumming until I say so. You don’t want to find out what happens if you disobey.”

When your legs start to tremble and your breathing breaks, he drags his hand down your spine and mutters, “Good girl. That’s more like it. Take it for me.”

Jake — Pretzel Dip

Jake is a romantic—but he’s still in charge. The pretzel dip is his perfect balance: it lets him keep you close, locked in with your legs hooked high and his arms wrapped tight around you, while still being the one in control. He gets to watch everything—your reactions, the way your face twists with every deep, calculated thrust, how your fingers claw at his back when he grinds into the spot that makes you crumble. The position is intimate, sensual, and full of control. He doesn’t need to pin you down to remind you who’s in charge—he just holds you steady, kisses your neck between each slow thrust, and ruins you with praise and pressure. He takes his time with it, savoring every breathless cry, every whispered plea, making sure you feel just how good he’s giving it.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he breathes against your cheek, hips rolling deep and slow. “Wrapped around me, takin’ everything I give you.”

His voice is soft but commanding, full of heat that makes your whole body tense. “Look at me, baby. Don’t hide those pretty eyes.”

When you do, his smile is all warmth and desire. He brushes your hair back and leans in to kiss you, tongue lazy, filthy with affection.

“Can feel you squeezing me—fuck, you’re close, huh?” One arm locks tighter around your waist, pulling you in deeper. “You don’t have to say it. I already know what my girl needs.”

You cry out, back arching, and he holds you tighter, whispering in your ear like it’s sacred. “Let me take care of you. You don’t have to think—just hold on and let me love you right.”

⸻

Sunghoon — Cowgirl

Sunghoon loves this position because it gives him the best of both worlds—watching you take control, only to snatch it back the second he gets greedy. There’s something addictive about the way your body moves above him, flushed and needy, your hands pressed to his chest as you ride him slow and deep. He lets you set the pace at first, a soft, teasing smirk on his lips as he watches you fall apart—but he’s never passive. One flicker of desperation in your eyes and he’s grabbing your hips, holding you down, thrusting up with a strength that leaves you gasping. Cowgirl gives him the perfect view of everything he wants: the way your back arches, your thighs tremble, the exact second you start chanting his name like a prayer. He loves how vulnerable you look even when you’re on top—because he knows he’s still the one in control.

His hands slide up your waist, slow and deliberate, thumbs pressing into your skin. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he says softly, voice low and warm. “All mine, aren’t you?”

You nod, hips faltering as you try to keep your rhythm, but he’s already bucking up into you harder. “That’s it, baby. Let me feel how bad you want it.”

One hand cups your jaw, tilting your face down to meet his eyes. “Don’t look away. I wanna see you when you come on my cock.”

You whimper, leaning down until your forehead touches his, and he groans, hands spreading over your back. “Keep going. Just like that. Make it messy for me.”

When your pace stutters and you cry out, he doesn’t let up—his voice is a gentle command, thick with affection. “Ride it, baby. Daddy’s got you. You’re safe. You’re so fucking good for me.”

Sunoo — Lotus

Sunoo is addicted to the kind of closeness that makes your heart ache in the best way. For him, sex isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, spiritual, almost sacred. The lotus position is his favorite because it allows for everything he craves at once: skin-to-skin warmth, your limbs tangled around his, your foreheads touching as if nothing else in the world exists. He loves how your thighs squeeze his sides, how your arms lock around his shoulders, how your breath catches when he moves just right. There’s no rush with Sunoo—every thrust is slow, purposeful, full of emotion. His favorite thing is hearing the soft, breathy sounds you make only for him, right into his ear where no one else can hear. With his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close, he feels like he’s inside more than your body—he’s in your soul.

His thumbs brush along your spine as he rocks into you, voice tender and low. “You feel that? How perfect we fit?”

You nod against his shoulder, arms tightening around him, and he hums softly, lips grazing your jaw. “It’s always like this with you… warm, close, real. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

He kisses you again, slow and deep, and his hands roam your back like he’s memorizing every inch. “You don’t have to move, baby. Just hold onto me.”

Your breath hitches as he grinds deeper, and he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “I want you to feel how much I love you. Every time. Every second.”

He cups your face gently, forehead pressed to yours. “Stay with me. Just like this. Let’s fall apart together.”

Jungwon — Against the Wall

Jungwon is calm by nature, collected—but when it comes to you, when it comes to fucking you, that calm turns into cold, calculated control. He thrives on dominance, the kind that makes you tremble before he even touches you. Against the wall is his favorite because it strips away any illusion of control you might have. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapped around his waist, back pressed to the surface like he’s pinning you into place. You’re trapped—his to use, to take, to ruin. And he lives for it. One hand clamps down on your thigh to keep you up, the other wrapped around your throat or grabbing your jaw, forcing you to look at him while he drives his cock into you with slow, punishing force. It’s never fast—not until you’ve earned it. Jungwon believes in making you work for your pleasure, and he never lets you forget who’s in charge.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls, voice low and dangerous, forehead pressed to yours as he snaps his hips up hard enough to make your breath catch. “You stay right here—right where daddy put you.”

Your fingers claw at his shoulders, thighs shaking, but he just grips your jaw tighter, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Look at me while I fuck you,” he commands. “That’s it. You don’t come until I tell you to.”

You whimper something weak and broken, but he’s not having it. “Use your words.”

“Y-Yes, daddy,” you gasp.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, fucking into you deeper now, brutal and relentless. “I’m the only one who gets to ruin you like this. Don’t forget it.”

His hand slides down, cupping between your legs. “Feel how soaked you are? You love being daddy’s toy.”

Ni-ki — Doggy Style

Ni-ki likes the view. The way your back arches as he takes control, the smooth curve of your body, and how you look when you’re completely open for him. He’s got this cocky, confident energy, and he loves how his deep thrusts make you gasp, make you tremble under him. Doggy style gives him the perfect angle to fuck you exactly how he wants, slow or fast, deep or shallow—it’s all on him. He’s possessive, but not in a harsh way—more like he’s claiming you, marking you with each thrust. His hands are tight on your hips, guiding you back onto him when he wants it deeper, and his movements are precise, making sure you feel every inch of him. Ni-ki thrives on the control and loves hearing your breath hitch and your body react to him.

“Fuck, look at you—so beautiful like this,” he grunts, his hands tight on your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. “Can’t wait to feel you come undone for me.”

Your back arches at the angle, your moans growing louder.

“You like that?” he growls, smacking your ass once—just enough to make you flinch. “You better keep that same energy, baby. Don’t make me do all the work.”

“Yes, Ni-ki,” you whimper, gripping the sheets as his pace picks up.

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound rough and satisfied. “Good girl. Now show me what you’ve got.”

[lighting-and-shadow]

Post LADS Main Story: NonMC Reader x Sylus

So I had a thought again: you being reincarnated into the world of LADS, but after the story ends. Ever is no more. Wanderers have been cured and don't exist anymore. The world is relatively peaceful.

MC has found her happy ending with one of the boys, something you find out during a stroll in Linkon City. And it's not Sylus.

I was thinking it would be Xavier for the angst factor. Because, to Sylus, she chose the prince of the people that caused him so much pain over him. She chose the light Xavier represents over his darkness. She chose someone who, in Sylus' mind, was born with everything over him who worked to get everything he has for her sake.

Or maybe she chose Caleb. And that would hurt too because Sylus realizes that while they only had each other in the past, she overlooks that for her present. That their history isn't nearly as valuble as her history with Caleb.

Either way, it causes sad boy hours. The man is devasted. And while he and MC still have a friendship, it's a bit toxic. No longer do they play Kitty Cards or spend time at the claw machine. With the new love in her life, all that's left for Sylus is scraps.

She uses him. Calls him when she needs something or she wants to do something. But if it's him? She blows him off. She treats him like a joke.

Maybe not even truly realizing that she is (but part of me wants to go the bitch route because I've made her so nice in all my other current works and WIPs; I blame @rcvcgers for this (I say this with love, because I honest to god love Rotten Apples), and need to channel that anger).

Then it gets worse: he dies. She remembers her past with him, and gives back the other half of his soul. And then she turns her back on him for good, cutting ties because their morals are just incompatible. He's so devasted that he takes his own life, no longer immortal because his sorceress abandoned him (just like everyone else did).

But anyways, you figure this out, and basically come barging into his life. Not to make him love you. Not to get her to love him. But to give him something to latch onto.

Let's say Sylus was your favorite in the game (as he is for me, clearly), so you act like a total, batshit crazy, fan girl. And there's something about that crackhead energy that makes him drawn to you.

So you bug him. And bug him. And bug him endlessly. Because even annoyance and anger are better than emptiness and coldness he carries right now. Sure, he hides it well behind snark and flirting, but you know him better. You've watched him from behind a scene for quite some time.

I imagine the reason you're kept around is because of the chaotic nature of who you are and the knowledge you have. And because Sylus doesn't have it in him to give a shit. You're not a threat. If anything, it was the twins that convinced him of your use.

So you live at the base, occassionally witnessing the toxic nature of him and MC's dynamic. And you come up with a plan to help him get over her. Not by making him love you, you'd never be worthy of that, but of getting him to realize that his sorceress is dead. That even it's technically the same the person in soul, she's not the same at her (Aether) core.

Doing so makes you fall even further in love. You discover things about him a simple game could never. You see sights and experience parts of this world that could never captured by a screen or some code. And it hurts.

It hurts because he's more than just a character to you. He cares for you, is soft with you. He buys you things, helps braid your hair, takes you to fancy venues, stands up for you, protects you... You almost think that he loves you.

But that's silly. Who would love you? Who would love the real you, and not the one you present to the world? The one that cries at nothing? The one consumed by anxiety and insecurity? The one that hides under layers and layers of walls capped off by an impenetrable mask? The one that hid herself and changed herself for so many years? The one you're not even sure still exists?

You're such a fraud.

(This whole prompt was inspired by the Webtoon My Derelict Favorite, and I couldn't get it out of my head).

[snugglyporos]

// hi! bit of a deeper explanation I can offer, regarding how humor actually works!

Humor requires contrast. The most basic of jokes, 'why did the chicken cross the road' comes down to what you expect and what you're told, or even if you're expecting them to make up something, and they don't. Slapstick relies on exaggeration, going above and beyond what is expected. We contrast what we see with reality.

Satire works the same way. It relies on contrast. Most corporate satire relies on jacking up the absurd to 11, but they rarely find a way to actually make this work. Part of this is because few companies want to make companies look bad. But part of it is that many of the absurd practices are just real life.

This is, incidentally, why GTA5 doesn't work for me, particularly Trevor, whose antics are meant to be so over the top that they become absurd, but in today's world, they're no longer absurd because people actually act like him all the time. A belligerent, violent, angry white guy who mistreats everyone in his life is not absurd or satire, it's just how many such people act.

Satire, particularly around power dynamics, is very hard. The best example of this might be 'The Emperor's New Clothes' where it tries to satirize the behavior of both the Emperor and all the people around him at the same time. It's meant to show that both the Emperor and everyone who enables him are equally absurd, which is where the comedy comes from. His assertions, their reactions, our expectations.

Imagine if, in these corporate games, the joke is about the employees that work for the company only, the ones being forced to work under penalty of death. That's not satire because there's nothing being contrasted. If the Emperor's new clothes was about a man executing everyone who refused to go along with him, that's not a satire of power. It's a horror story.

Of course, comedy and tragedy are often the same story told from different angles. Something like Oedipus Rex, a tragedy, could be a wacky comedy if you twisted the timings, for example.

What has happened in many of these cases is that, absent the contrast, all these 'comedies' have become tragedies, and our feelings about them are equally morose.

[eraserbread]

what about make up sex with toji after a nasty argument….. kinda need

wife guy, this. ex husband, that. what about toji fushiguro's mistress - the other woman? ✧

→ adultery, toxic relationship dynamics, skin marking, sexually explicit content

it's just the way things are. toji makes it known that you aren't his priority. he has a beautiful wife, a promising son, and an idea of life you can't quite grasp.

but, it surely doesn't have you in mind because he's always shrugging you off. it'll be stupid, like saying he'd call you back and just never will. it's always your fault, because he had to pick his kid up, and you should've known he would be busy all day.

silly you for thinking your boyfriend would act like one.

silly you for thinking he would keep his date night promise. now, you're stuck on a busy sidewalk in tokyo, cars whizzing past and mixed voices making it feel like you're standing alone in a wind tunnel.

it wasn't anything fancy, just stupid tourist ramen downtown. the shop was dark, so nobody could see his face if they recognized it. secrecy is everything.

but he doesn't even show up, and all of your calls and texts go dead.

so, when you see him kicked up in the middle of your apartment, beer hanging from his thick fingers, you're fuming.

"hey, pretty." he drones low, like he knows you love him. after all, you are all dressed up for him—short skirt, makeup, and jewels. it's what he needs from you, something his wife doesn't give much anymore.

but toji has one glaring flaw, he doesn't understand you. you could say he doesn't understand women at all. it's why he's reaching outside of his sexless marriage for help. it's why you're standing in your doorway choking back tears as he drinks his beer down.

"so you just ignored all my calls and texts on purpose?"

"hm... i don't have my phone." he's only halfway looking at you, watching a pretty actress on the tv prance around for his attention. It's so dark, you reach to flip the lights on.

and when you can see him better, that familiar stare is bleak and loveless—taking you in like a predator would prey. yet, he's still so gentle and gruff when he says, "no use fighting when you look like that."

"it would just kill you to pretend, wouldn't it?" you're cursing yourself, not knowing why you're so backed up with unsaid words when you know this is how he acts. toji never, ever changed. "if all I am is a fuck to you, that's fine, but just say it!"

"there's nothing to say—you know what you are to me." he's sitting up quickly, swinging his legs from the table to plant his bare feet on the ground. "so, stop it with the insecure shit. matter of fact, shut up, and come here." dingy beer can crushing on the table, heels digging into the floor, toji wants to leave—but he wants to stay. he wants you to do your job and stop it already.

if he wanted the fights and tension, he would've snuck into his wife's bed tonight. instead, he's crawling to your doorstep. can't you see how special you are to his body him?

but, you're just as stubborn as he is, so you dig your heels right back, fists balled at your sides. "why won't you even apologize? or, say anything... nice to me... ever?!"

toji watches you for a second, his soft, scarred lip dipping into the ghost of a frown. you're a pitiful scene right now, face buried in your hands as you cry—bare knees cold and shaking, makeup smudged, and so overcome. it'd be endearing for him if you weren't so hunched in on yourself; it hides your body.

then, he lets out a throaty groan, pressing his hands to his knees as he stands up. it's buried behind your soft sniffles, but the sound of footsteps is unmistakable, just like the feeling of a firm hand across the side of your neck.

"stop crying, i'm sorry." you're turning your face away when he grabs it, hiding your ruined face with dirty palms. "hey, come on, I mean it."

and, you already forgive him. because, why wouldn't you? now, you're more embarrassed than anything. you want him. he wants you. the sensation—it's in the air, clogging your pores and blocking your airways.

and he tugs your wrists from your face and kisses you like he loves you.

and then, he fucks you like that—finally. raw, pushed face first into your tear-soaked mattress.

toji wouldn't have you any other way. he never really fucks you any other way, except buried to the hilt pressed in doggy. the way your cunt expands around him... god, it just makes him crazy. the bruises that bloom on your ass when he's got two fistfuls, the stretch of skin as he pulls you apart... yeah, he's cooked. he loves this so much. not you. never you.

toji loves his wife to the ends of the earth, but the way you're arching your back and mewl little, embarrassed sounds into your arms is damning. skin-to-skin with your softness is akin to bathing in a bucket of clouds, naked to the core. he opens his eyes to see what he's feeling again, then silently wishes he could see your face.

after all, he made you cry. now, he has to make it all better.

and you two start to feel a bit more even when toji pulls the heaviness of his cock out of you, sharp teeth bared as he goes face-first into your sobbing, stretched hole. biting down on your sheet silences the cry you give him, but toji wants to hear you.

so, he reaches his big arm over your bowed body, grabbing a handful of your hair to pull your face from the mattress. he knows you're cumming before you do, and he wants to hear it.

needs to taste it. yearns to be as close as possible to you.

[itsnesss]

Hey babe, I have a little request if you’re open to it !!

Could you maybe write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s still in high school and doesn’t come from money at all? Like she feels super out of place in his world — all the hotels, race weekends, the fancy people, and she kind of feels like she’s not “enough.”

But he’s just… soft. Gentle. The kind of guy who makes her feel safe, like she does belong, even when everything feels overwhelming.

I’d love something comforting, maybe with a tiny bit of angst because… identity crisis hits hard sometimes.I just feel like we don’t get enough of that dynamic. Golden boy driver and the girl who still takes the bus to school. No pressure at all! But if it ever inspires you… I will cry. In the best way.

Thank you so much if you do fill my request and of course I understand if you don’t. Have a lovely day!

𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | feeling out of place in his world is constant, the stares, the luxury, the silent judgment. still, his hand finds yours, his presence steady and soft

warnings | angst (insecurity, identity crisis), emotional vulnerability, a sense of feeling out of place, soft romance

word count | 1.2 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

Sometimes it feels like Kimi’s world shines too brightly.

And not in a romantic way, not like “his smile lights up the room.” No. It’s real shine.

Lights, cameras, watches that cost more than your house, impossible cars, and people who walk like the ground belongs to them.

You don’t come from that.

You come from broken alarms, crowded public transport, running not to be late. From counting coins, from saying “no, thanks” when invited to things you can’t afford. From that kind of life.

And yet… here you are.

In a hospitality lounge full of people who look like they walked out of magazines, with their designer sunglasses and conversations that revolve around sponsorships, race strategies, and private jets. And you, sitting in a corner, staring at your phone like you’ve got something going on.

The screen is black. No signal. No messages. No escape.

You pretend you’re fine.

You say it’s all cool. That you’re used to it. That you’re enjoying the experience. But inside… inside you feel tiny. Invisible. Like you snuck into a party you were never invited to.

“Are you okay?”

His voice is soft. Calm. Like him.

You look up. There he is. Kimi. Standing in front of you with that unshakeable calm. He looks at you like he actually wants to know the truth. Like he really cares.

“Yes,” you reply quietly. “Just… checking if my sister messaged me.”

A lie. You have no data. But you’re not about to tell him you’re on the verge of crying in front of all these people. That you feel so out of place it’s hard to breathe.

Kimi doesn’t say anything. He just sits beside you, without invading, without pressing. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. He just is.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything, he slips off his team jacket and puts it over your shoulders. It’s big, soft, with that scent that’s so him it makes you dizzy. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re fine… but you’re not.

So you let yourself sink into it.

And for a second, everything else fades. The noise, the stares, the world.

It’s just you, Kimi’s jacket, and the warmth of someone who doesn’t ask you to fit in, just to be there.

He doesn’t talk. You don’t either.

Eventually, the hospitality is quieter. The loud laughs fade, and the expensive suits vanish down the halls. Most people have gone off to team dinners or events you’d never be invited to directly. Kimi offered to go, of course. But you could tell by his tone he wasn’t obligated. And you just wanted silence.

So he stayed. With you.

Now you’re walking through the hotel hallways. He’s beside you, hands in his pockets, like nothing around him could touch him. But you… you’re a knot inside.

You don’t talk much. Neither does he. But somehow, it’s always been enough.

Until it isn’t.

You’re about to step into the elevator when your eyes fill with tears. You don’t even know why now, why here, but something just breaks.

Kimi turns to look at you, but he says nothing. Just watches, attentively. Like he senses the storm even if the first drop hasn’t fallen.

“I feel like I don’t belong here,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself. “Not in this hotel. Not in your races. Not in your life.”

You didn’t plan to say it. It just… came out.

“I still take the bus to school,” you go on, your voice shaking. “I’ve worn the same sneakers for three years. I have no idea how a VIP paddock works or how I’m supposed to act. Everyone here knows how to move, how to talk, how to dress. I’m just trying not to look like an idiot.”

Tears roll hot down your cheeks. You wish you could stop them, but at the same time… why bother?

“And I like being with you, Kimi. A lot. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just ruining something. If I’m just… a burden in the middle of all this.”

He listens in silence. Not a single interruption. No weird faces. No laughter. No trying to downplay what you feel. He just waits.

The elevator hasn’t even been called.

He takes a step toward you. Then another. And hugs you. Tightly. Wordlessly.

And in his arms, you feel something you didn’t realize you needed so badly: safety.

“You’re not a burden,” he says softly, against your hair. “You’re the only one who makes me feel like none of this matters so much.”

You hold on to him, not saying anything. Because you don’t know how to explain what it’s like to be you in this world. Because you don’t understand how someone like him can make all that hurt less.

But he does.

He does.

You don’t know how long you stay there, wrapped in his arms by the elevator. Maybe seconds, maybe a lifetime. But when he finally pulls back just a bit, it’s only to really look at you.

“Do you want to go up?” he asks, in that soft tone that seems to calm everything.

You nod.

You don’t talk much on the way to the room, but he stays close. His hand brushes yours now and then, no rush. Like he knows you need that contact to stay together.

When you arrive, he opens the door with his key and steps aside so you can go in first. It’s one of those massive suites you only see in photos. Everything elegant, minimal, spotless. But what strikes you most is that it smells like *him*.

And that, somehow, makes you feel safe.

“Do you want anything? Water? A hot shower?” he asks, closing the door.

“I just want to… be here a while,” you whisper.

He nods and hands you one of his t-shirts, like he already knows you prefer something comfy. Then he sits at the edge of the bed and waits. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t stare at you like you’re weak. Just gives you space.

When you come out of the bathroom wearing his shirt, you feel lighter. Like the water and the silence gave a piece of yourself back.

Kimi’s already lying down, leaning against the headboard, TV on without sound. He’s not watching anything. He’s just waiting.

You crawl in next to him, and he lifts the blanket without a word. You slip under it, and he wraps his arm around you, pulling you to his chest. Your head fits perfectly under his chin. His breathing is calm. Steady.

“You don’t have to be like them, you know?” he murmurs after a while. “I like who you are. Not because of what you have or don’t have. Because of how you see the world. How you see me.”

You bite your lip, eyes tight shut, as if that could stop more tears.

“But your world… it’s so different.”

“And that’s why I want you to stay you,” he answers right away. “Because my world sometimes needs someone like you to pull it out of the bubble. Someone real.”

You nestle closer. He holds you gently, as if silently promising to protect you from everything that makes you feel small.

“And if I never fit in?” you whisper.

“Then I’ll make room until you do.”

[purewasteland]

Adam Malin: So many things to say about Castiel. First of all, he’s become a queer icon. Which is incredible and sort of inspiring. Do you ever reflect on that and see how that changed the world right there? Misha: We had- You know, there was this, sort of, fan- speaking of the fan/artist interplay. Early on the fans started writing slash about Castiel and Dean. That they had some romantic, you know, connection. That was not something that I, or Jensen, or, as far as I know, the writers were thinking about at inception. It was not part of our conscious artistic creation at the outset. But over time, after fans started creating all of this slash fiction and online chatter, the writers started to write to it a little bit. Like with a little bit of a teasing wink and a nod.  Sort of playing with that dynamic just a little bit. But almost like as a way to acknowledge that we’d- that they have heard what the fans were saying, but not as- not really strongly pushing that agenda. And I think sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously Jensen and I also played to that a little bit. But with a sport of tacit understanding, that that was ultimately a line that would never be crossed.      And then, Bob Berens, who was writer/executive producer on Supernatural came to me at the end of season 14, when we knew that season 15 was going to be our last season. And he said ‘Misha, I have an idea for the end. At the end of season 15 for Castiel to make a true declaration of romantic love for Dean. Would you be up for doing that?’ And I was like bowled over. Because I- never in a million years it has occurred to me that the studio, network or producers of the show would be brave enough to take this show, that was kind of like, you know, this macho, bro-y, dukes of hazzard meets sci-fi show and that the 3rd lead on a show and let him make what amounts to homosexual declaration of love as his swan song on the show. I was like ‘If we can do that, I think it would make this entire 12 year run that I have had on a show, feel like it had some real value and meaning.’ To be adding that- speaking of like adding the voice to the chorus, to be- have us do that with this show would feel really monumental and kind of important. And certainly important to the non binary (assuming he meant queer) fans of the show. Who I think we have quite a few, we already had quite a few of. When we got to do it and it felt like a really meaningful scene and we got to give it it’s due. Of course, you know, fans complained about it not getting enough airtime and enough processing in the aftermath of that declaration, but I was just grateful that we got to do it and was grateful that that was my goodbye to the show. It felt great. So yeah, I’m not only happy about that but I was also proud of the creatives behind the show, that they made that choice. 

Creation TV: Supernatural's Misha Collins interview #109   

[dolceaspidenera]

Saw this and had to reblog to spread some love and appreciation for all the fics I stumbled upon that brought me some kind of comfort.

@surlydragon you already know it, but your series "In which Sylus..." is for me THE comfort fic. I never felt more seen and emotionally validated in my life. The way you voiced MC and the way you write Sylus taking care of her is incredibly comforting. Their dynamic and the way they love each other is beautiful. Seeing someone who is willing to put the work in, who is gentle and patient and loves you despite the hurt, despite the unlovable parts of yourself that still need healing is one of the most comforting things about your story. You have really written something important, I hope you know it and remember it every time you have doubts about whether or not you should share your stories (ultimately it will always be your decision but I wanted to let you know without a doubt that your writing is very appreciated and also I'm happy it made me "meet" a wonderful person, our conversations always bring me a smile).

@senualothbrok your stories about Aurora's healing journey (Progress and Promise) really left an impression. I still find myself thinking about them, and I really appreciate you for putting such vulnerable work out there. Plus, I think it was thanks to those stories that we really started talking, so one more reason to think back fondly on them.

@iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia your headcanons have brought me so much comfort and so many smiles. Thank you for everything you've written over the years. I have my personal favourites but I enjoyed seeing each and every one of your posts (Julian will always have a special place in my heart).

@linkons-most-wanted I think What The Cat Dragged In is by defenition the most comfort fic that could be made, and it found me on a day I really needed it. Also Double the Birthday, Double the Fun is another one of your works that somehow I find very comforting, and seeing the twins happy and being spoiled is always fantastic, they deserve it. Also, I have no idea what is wrong with my brain chemistry, but this line right here, "Sylus steps up quietly behind me, looping a hand around my waist and running a thumb softly over my ribs" makes me melt every time I read it. It's just those little gestures and body language that convey reassurance and closeness, a silent way of showing affection, of saying "I'm here," you know? Ugh, my heart.

@shenanigans-and-imagines, I Want It All was my very first BG3 fan fic I ever read so it definitely has a special place. Also, the ace!Tav x Astarion pairing was a breath of fresh air in the fandom climate at the time. Thank you for the positive and very empathetic ace rep.

@senseandaccountability, Blaze Me A Sun is one of my favourite fics ever. I just love the way you write, it inspired me to try writing something for myself, and I wish I had even 10% of your talent. You perfectly captured so many of the themes that are so important to me in bg3, especially when it comes to Astarion's story, what it means to live with trauma and scars, knowing that you didn't deserved it but it happened anyway, and the years you lost you’ll never get back, and yet life is still full of beauty and hope and you should still be kind to others. And then there are the developing feelings between him and Elnys, and what it feels like to find someone who actually sees you. Thank you for your incredibly touching prose and for addressing difficult themes with the care they deserve.

my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day

[fiastomatocheek]

ONLY IF IT’S YOU

pair: jack hughes x f!reader | part: 01 02 03 04 05

genre: angst, slow-burn romance, emotional reconciliation, domestic fluff.

warnings: mentions of past infidelity, emotional vulnerability, suggestive content, eventual smut (consensual), bittersweet moments, emotional crying, co-parenting themes, soft family dynamics.

summary: it’s mother’s day, and for once, you decide to let yourself feel like you deserve to be celebrated. jack invites you and lo to dinner, and though you’re hesitant, you agree if only because things have been… change lately. eversince that kiss. eversince you started to see how much jack has changed. tonight, jack brings back everything you once had, flowers, your favorite restaurant, and hope. by the end of the night, after lo is asleep and you and jack are alone, what started with a dinner ends with something more.

fia’s note: okay, so i’ve been thinking about the whole sammy situation and her presence like, the fact that she exists and the role she plays, even if it’s indirectly. i’m not totally sure how to feel about it yet, but i keep circling back to it in my head. her existence just adds this layer of emotional tension that’s hard to ignore, you know?. i guess i’m wondering what your thoughts are. like, do you think her being there whether physically or just in memory affects how things unfold between jack and reader? does it make the angst feel more real, or just more frustrating? i’m torn between appreciating the depth it brings and also wanting to pretend she doesn’t exist at all for the sake of peace. anyway, just curious what you think about her and how you process that part of the story. is she necessary? or just an added ache?

tagging team fia! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | fic discussion

It’s been months since that dinner with Lukey.

Just a simple dinner, not even a date. But the way Jack looked at you that night when you dropped Lo off at his place, he didn’t even try to hide the jealousy. And when you returned later, he asked you to stay.

And then there was the kiss, like he knew he didn’t deserve it, but he also couldn’t live without it.

Since then, you hadn’t talked much about it. There were no dramatic declarations or official reconciliation. But the distance between you and Jack had changed. It was closer now. You didn’t flinch when he touched your hand. He made you tea when you came over and sometimes after she fell asleep you’d sit on his couch and talk for hours and hours.

Mother’s Day wasn’t something you ever celebrated. You never really had time, and honestly, you didn’t think you even deserved it. You were just doing what had to be done. Working hard, trying to keep your life steady for Lo. But eversince that dinner and eversince learning from Luke that Jack hadn’t even looked at another woman since the breakup you found yourself believing maybe, you were allowed to want something called ‘to be love’ again.

So when Jack texted that morning, inviting you to dinner, you hesitated. You weren’t sure if it was a date or just… Jack being Jack. But then you thought about the kiss, the way he still looked at you like you were everything in his life.

You said yes.

In the evening, you took your time getting ready. Not for Jack. Not even for the idea of romance. But for yourself.

You wore a long black bodycon dress, your makeup and hair done just the way you liked it. You needed to feel beautiful for yourself, for the mother you were, for the woman you were finally becoming again.

Lo was just as excited. She twirled in her soft pink dress, her high ponytail bouncing with every spin.

“Mommy, pwetty,”

She whispered when you helped her buckle her shoes.

You smiled. “You’re the prettiest, baby.”

Lo giggles. “You pwetti too.”

You kiss her forehead, feeling your heart tug. “You ready to see Daddy?”

Lo nods eagerly. “Daddy say he have fwowers!”

Just then, a knock sounds at the door. You scoop Lo into your arms and make your way over, heart already skipping.

Jack stood there in a sleek black suit, holding a bouquet of flowers and a small box wrapped in ribbon. He looked at you, then Lo, and the smile that stretched across his face made your knees wobble a little, just a little bit.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, just a little breathless.

“I stopped to pick these up for you.”

You smile, taken aback. “Jack…”

He grins softly and hands them over. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and say thank you, even as Lo squeals,

“Fwowers! Mommy got fwowers!”

Jack remembered, it was one of your favorite place. It was the place he always took you when he came back from road trips, the place you once celebrated your anniversary, the place where you’d cried in a booth and he kissed away every tear.

Lo was seated between you and Jack in a little booster. Her legs swung back and forth, her mouth stuffed with breadsticks, occasionally pointing at random things on the menu and saying,

“Dis one! me wanna try dis, Mommy!”

And Jack, he kept sneaking glances at you.

“So,” you say, sipping from your wine glass,

“What happened with that Rangers game? Looked like it got heated.”

Jack shrugs. “Luke pissed them off. I mostly just backed him up.”

Lo hums with her juice. “Dada go boom!”

Jack chuckles. “Yea, Lo. Daddy went boom.”

Eventually, as the food quiets everyone, you ask him something that’s been sitting on your chest for months.

“Jack… why didn’t you date anyone all these years?”

He blinked. “Why haven’t you?”

He looked at you for a long moment. “Because I screwed everything up. Because I was stupid. Because after what I did, I knew I didn’t deserve someone like you. I didn’t want anyone else. Not then. Not now.”

He tilts his head. “Why didn’t you?”

You hesitate. “I told myself I was too busy with Lo.”

Jack gives you a look.

“That’s not true, though.”

“No,” you admitted, quietly. “It’s not.”

Lo, without any warning, looked up at the two of you with innocent eyes.

“Mommy, Daddy, can I has… brudder?”

You and Jack both in ‘kinda don’t know what to do next’ position.

“A brother?” you asked gently.

“Or… sisser,” she said, nodding.

“I want baby! Wanna share toys.”

“You do?” you ask softly.

Lo nods, swinging her legs. “A baby. Wike me.”

Jack smiles but looks over at you, his eyes soft and unreadable.

“Maybe someday, sweetheart.”

By the time Jack parks in front of your place, Lorelei is out cold in her car seat. You glance at her, then at him.

“Wanna stay the night?” you ask softly.

Jack nods. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

Inside, you tuck Lo into her bed, brushing the hair from her face. When you come out, you find Jack in the entryway, holding one of the framed photos on your hallway table.

It’s the one of you and Lo on her first birthday cake smeared everywhere, your smile wide, hers even wider.

“You look good,” he says, still staring at it.

“You look…like the mom I always imagined she’d have.”

You step closer. “What are you thinking?”

He exhales. “That you’re the best mother I’ve ever known. And the stupidest thing I ever did was not treat you like you were enough.”

He continues, voice quiet.

“There were nights after you left… I told Quinn I didn’t care if I died alone. I told Luke I’d never fall in love again if it wasn’t you. And I told my mom I didn’t deserve to be forgiven.”

Your chest at this moment already cracks open.

“I haven’t been with anyone,” he says, voice almost trembling.

“Because it’s always been you. Even when I couldn’t have you.”

You step into him slowly, your breath caught.

And this time, you… you are the one who kiss him first.

His hands come up to your waist, pulling you in carefully, so careful like he’s scared to ruin you. Your fingers slide into his hair, lips pressing again and again.

When you pull away, your forehead rests against his.

Then he kisses your temple.

You lead him to your room after that kiss with no words spoken, but everything said in the silence between your mouths and the hands that refuse to let go now. You and Jack stand in your doorway, your fingers still tremble a little when they reach for the zipper of your dress, but Jack catches your hand.

“Please let me,” he says gently.

He unzips you slowly, like it’s the first time all over again. Like he knows how delicate it is. The dress slips from your shoulders. He watches you like he’s afraid to breathe too loud and break whatever fragile thing is blooming between you.

When he leans in this time, it’s with more certainty. His lips find yours, long and aching. You can feel it the way he misses you. Still. Even standing this close. It’s like he’s trying to memorize your taste again.

“Are you sure?”

He asks between kisses, his forehead resting against yours, breath heavy but steady.

“Because if we do this, I don’t want it to be another memory I have to miss.”

You nod, eyes shining.

“I’m not ready to say I’m yours again,” you whisper honestly, your voice shaky.

“But I’m not scared to love you anymore.”

[noirscript]

serpent's claim

Pairing: Yandere Naga x Reader Description: You ran, but Zaeral always caught you. Now his egg rests deep inside, and escape is no longer what you crave. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Oviposition (egg insertion) | Breeding Kink | Forced Captivity | Obsession | Stalking | Predator/Prey Dynamic | Isolation | Escape Attempt | Psychological Manipulation | Forked Tongue (I HAVE TO) Note/s: Commissions are still open! Enjoy this Yandere!Naga. Lemme know what you think about it. btw. I'll try to add the tw tags later. I've been trying to add them but it's not getting added below T^T

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast

The air was always wet down here.

Every breath dragged the scent of moss and something deeper into your lungs—something primal, slick with hunger. You didn’t know how long it had been since you’d seen the sky. Days, maybe. Weeks. It all bled together in this place where time was measured only in how long your heartbeat stayed fast and your skin stayed cold.

You didn’t fall into his territory. You wandered. That was your sin. You thought the shortcut through the canyon would save time. Maybe you didn’t want to go back at all. But now you were here. Now he was here.

You heard him before you ever saw him. A low scrape against stone. A hiss, too long to belong to any animal you knew. It slithered across the air like it was following you, not chasing, not yet, just… watching.

You’d screamed the first time he spoke. A whisper in your ear when you thought you were alone. "You breathe like prey." It echoed. There was no body to pin the voice to. Only dark, endless tunnels, lit by cold, phosphorescent light, where shadows stretched too long.

You ran. Of course you did.

But you learned quickly that you were never fast enough.

You never heard him move. Just the breath on your nape, the lightest brush of scales across your path when you thought he was behind you. The way rocks ahead of you were suddenly slick with moisture. A hunter didn’t need to charge when his prey was already cornered by instinct.

He introduced himself after the second escape.

Zaeral. His name slithered from his lips like a caress, like a chain sliding shut. When he finally showed himself—all of himself—you understood why you had no chance.

His upper half was almost beautiful. Tall, lean, chiseled in the way ancient statues are, timeless and cruel in their perfection. His skin was pale, barely touched by light, with veins like opal beneath the surface. Hair black as pitch hung past his shoulders, framing eyes that glowed faintly with a vertical sliver of gold.

And below the waist—no legs. Only an endless coil of thick, glistening muscle, wrapped in dark scales that shimmered with hints of violet and green, shifting with his breath. His tail could crush boulders. You knew because you saw the bones. He left them there, visible, arranged like a warning. Or maybe an invitation.

He spoke to you like a lover, not a captor.

"You belong down here," he’d murmur, coiling around you as you slept, his body a cage of heat and weight. "You’re so loud, little thing. Every heartbeat calls me closer."

You learned not to scream when he wrapped around you. Not to cry when he pulled you into his nest of damp moss and hollowed stone. It only made him hold you tighter. Only made him hum into your throat with something like joy.

"I adore when you squirm," he’d purr. "It stokes the fire in my belly. And soon, it’ll stoke more."

You never saw another person. You weren’t even sure anymore if the surface existed. When you closed your eyes, all you saw were tunnels, and the glint of his eyes in the dark, and the pressure of coils slowly winding up your legs. You tried to map the labyrinth. You tried to mark your way back.

He always erased them.

"You don’t need a way out. You only need a place inside."

Sometimes, he would leave. Hours, maybe longer. You never knew where. But you always knew when he was coming back. The air changed. Grew heavier. More charged. Like the earth itself tensed with your dread.

He would appear, gliding in with something clutched in his claws. Fruit from underground trees. Pelts that still smelled of blood. Once, a silk scarf stained with perfume—your perfume, long faded. You didn’t ask how he got it. You didn’t want to know.

"You are not the first I’ve chased," he admitted once, curling a length of his tail around your ankle. "But you’re the first to last this long. You burn brighter. You make me ache."

He said things in your ear that no one should say. Things about your body, and his, and how perfectly they’d fit. How your hips were made to take him, no matter the shape he wore. How he could mold himself around you, fill you from any angle. How he wanted to see your belly swell with his spawn. How he dreamed of it.

He wasn’t crude. He was reverent.

Like you were holy. Sacred. A shrine he wanted to desecrate with worship.

You told yourself you hated it. That your tears were from fear. That your trembling was because of the cold, not because of the warmth that bloomed deep, shamefully, when he wrapped his coils around your thighs and purred into your stomach, his tongue flicking lazily against your navel.

“You smell different when you’re scared,” he’d murmur. “But oh… when you’re not scared... that scent drives me to madness.”

He waited. That was the worst part. He was patient. He didn’t force himself. He didn’t need to.

He knew you’d give in.

He’d make you believe it was your choice.

You escaped once. Maybe twice. You didn’t count. Each time, the tunnels stretched longer than before. Each time, your body weakened faster. Once, you made it to a crack in the cave wall, and sunlight kissed your face.

And then his tail yanked you back, gentle as a lover’s hand tugging a hesitant partner.

"You tried," he said, brushing your hair back. "That’s why I love you. It means when you finally stop trying, I’ll know it’s real."

You screamed into his chest, and he rocked you like a child.

"I will never let you die here," he promised. "But I will never let you leave."

You didn’t try after that. Not seriously.

You thought you were giving up. But maybe you were just giving in.

You started to listen when he whispered to you. Started to ask questions. Small ones, at first. "Where do you go when you leave?" He’d smile. Never answer.

You started to watch his body move, the way his tail flexed and rolled over itself as he settled beside you. The power in him. The control.

You began to wonder—just wonder—what it would feel like if he really touched you.

He knew. Of course he did.

One night, as you lay in his coils, barely breathing, his voice dropped low.

"I dream of pushing you to your knees," he said, lips grazing your temple. "Of laying you out across my nest and feeling your body arch as I bury myself in you."

Your thighs clenched before you could stop them.

He growled. Low. Deep. It vibrated through your bones.

"You want it now, don’t you?" he asked, not mocking. Just… knowing. "Say it. Say it, and I’ll make it so you never remember the taste of anything but me."

You didn’t speak.

But you didn’t run, either.

And when his hand slid down your stomach, and he pressed his palm over your core, hot and possessive and unbearably firm—you didn’t stop him.

"You’ve already surrendered," Zaeral whispered, his tongue flicking your cheek. "Let me claim you. Let me fill you."

Your breath hitched. Your body burned. You hated him. You hated this.

But your hips lifted into his touch, and your thighs spread just slightly wider.

A hiss of satisfaction spilled from his mouth.

"That’s it. That’s my precious little mate."

The word mate tasted like ash and honey on your tongue.

You whispered his name.

Zaeral.

And he smiled.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

[untitlzd]

world class sin : prologue

sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.

After the contract is signed, Y/n stops asking why. He just shows up—quiet, pretty, dressed in whatever they hand him. The boys don’t want him there, not really. But the cameras love him. The mirrors follow him. Every rehearsal hurts. Every silence drips with resentment. And still, they keep him. Jay writes like he’s angry. Sunghoon dances like he’s alone. Jake watches him too long. None of them speak it aloud, but the feeling is the same: Y/n wasn’t earned. He was chosen. By the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. And now he’s theirs. Just twenty-three days until debut. Twenty-three days to become a fantasy.

warnings: idol!reader, objectification, industry power dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, voyeurism, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, celebrity exploitation, toxic relationships, industry elitism, ambiguous morality, dark themes of grief and identity loss, aestheticization of suffering, subtle yandere dynamics, inspired by The Idol and Anora.

please read before continuing:

CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke.

Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.

Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.

But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.

So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.

They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.

And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.

The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.

He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.

They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.

And Y/n let them have it.

Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.

Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.

They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.

Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.

And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.

Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.

When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.

“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.

Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.

“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”

Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.

And then he stepped in.

Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.

Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?

Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.

Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.

And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.

The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”

The door clicked shut.

And the silence collapsed into something heavier.

Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.

Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.

Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.

Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.

No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.

He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.

He didn’t belong.

And in some twisted, brutal way—

That was exactly why they chose him.

The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.

Y/n was already there when the others arrived.

He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.

Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.

Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?

Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.

“From the top,” the trainer called.

The music started.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.

Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.

His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.

Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.

Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.

Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.

Y/n didn’t react.

Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”

He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.

When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.

Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.

No one spoke.

Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.

They weren’t teammates.

Not yet.

Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.

When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.

Jay was the first one out the door.

He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.

Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t ask if he should follow.

He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes—those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.

They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.

Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.

He didn’t knock.

The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”

“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.

When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”

Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”

The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.

“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”

“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”

Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.

“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.

“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”

“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”

The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.

“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”

Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.

Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”

“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”

Silence.

The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.

Jay stormed out. Jake followed.

Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.

Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

He understood now.

They were no longer building this group.

They were part of what had been built around someone else.

The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.

It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.

And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.

None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.

Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.

The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.

“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”

Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.

Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.

And that made it worse.

Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.

“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.

But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.

Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.

And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.

Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.

They walked without speaking.

The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.

They were still full of what had happened upstairs.

The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.

It was insulting.

And worse — it was working.

Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.

Sunghoon hated it.

Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.

And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.

It made you want to reach for him.

Or shake him.

Or both.

Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.

And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.

They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.

They looked at him like a suggestion.

And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.

It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.

The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.

Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.

Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.

Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.

They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.

No one said it.

But something had changed.

And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.

There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.

He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?

In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.

Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.

Not as a person.

But as a question.

A symbol.

A story waiting to be owned by someone.

And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.

note: hi, it’s luke. if you made it this far — welcome, and thank you for reading. this prologue is just the beginning of what world class sin is going to be. a small taste of something heavier. i’ve had this concept sitting with me for a while now, and writing it has felt like peeling back something slow, sharp, and a little too intimate. the themes are layered — obsession, grief, beauty, control — and that’s exactly where this story lives. in the spaces between what’s seen and what’s endured. there’s more coming soon, and things will only get deeper. the emotions, the tension, the unraveling — it’s all just starting. and if you’ve been peeking around the blog, you might’ve already caught a little spoiler floating around. hehe. thank you for being here with me. and while you’re here, make sure you’re also being kind to yourself. drink some water, rest your eyes, and go easy on your heart when you need to. more soon, luke :)

[shuastar]

can u do a one-shot with seungcheol x reader where they basically talking about all their like sexual fantasies and stuff, like a really fluff convo/healthy communication (cuz communication is sexy) The readers one is basically just wanting to be praised and overestimated and being called a good girl and stuff, u can decide what cheollies fantasy is!!

pairing: established relationship!seungcheol warnings: Discussions of sexual fantasies (praise kink, light dom/sub dynamic), healthy relationship themes, swearing, cuddling a/n: erm so idk if you wanted smut BUT i passed out asleep before i even got to writing it so... yeah!! but cheol is so cute here :< wc: 1.3k

The blankets were tangled around your legs, limbs a mess of warmth and bare skin, his arm lazily draped over your waist. The glow from the lamp cast a soft golden pool over the room, painting Seungcheol’s cheekbones in honey and shadow.

It was quiet. Not uncomfortable silence — the kind of quiet that meant peace. That you were safe. That nothing outside of this bedroom needed your attention.

His thumb traced circles on your hip absentmindedly. “You ever think about… stuff?”

You huffed a laugh against his chest. “That’s vague. I think about lots of stuff.”

“No,” he said, a little shyly, a little whine. “Like. Stuff you want.”

Your eyebrow arched. “You mean, like—”

“Mhm,” Seungcheol murmured, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “That kind of stuff.”

He was blushing a little, which was adorable, considering the way he usually manhandled you around the bed like you weighed nothing and kissed like he wanted to claim you, ruin you, steal your breath away. Seeing him shy like this, vulnerable, felt intimate in a different way.

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice soft. “Sometimes.”

He looked at you expectantly. You narrowed your eyes.

“You first.”

“Not fair,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “Why do I have to go first?”

“Because you brought it up,” you giggled, carding your fingers through his hair. “Fair’s fair, Cheol.”

He groaned again, deeper this time, like he was suffering, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“…Okay,” he finally said, voice muffled against your skin. “Promise you won’t think it’s stupid?”

You twisted to look at him properly. “Promise.”

Seungcheol hesitated for a second, then pulled back to meet your eyes. “I think I really like the idea of… taking care of you. Like, properly. Not just during but… making you feel so good, so safe, you don't even have to think. Like, I want to spoil you, but in a way where you're never unsure, y’know?”

Your heart fluttered. Not just because it was hot — which, undeniably, it was — but because it was so him. Protective, intense, grounding. Everything you’d ever loved about him distilled into a fantasy.

“You’re already halfway there,” you whispered, cupping his cheek. “That’s not even a fantasy, that’s Tuesday night.”

He snorted, nose crinkling. “Yeah, but like… I want you to fully let go.”

There was silence for a beat.

“That’s hot,” you admitted, and he let out a small, relieved laugh.

“Okay,” he nudged. “Your turn.”

You bit your lip. “Mine’s kind of boring.”

“I literally just told you I wanted to spoil you and call the shots like a horny knight or something. There’s no boring here.”

You flushed a little, eyes darting away. “I just want to be… praised.”

Seungcheol blinked. “Praised?”

You nodded, more embarrassed than you expected. “Like. I want you to overestimate me. Tell me I’m doing amazing even if I’m not. Call me your good girl and tell me you’re proud of me for taking it so well. Like… like you mean it.”

His eyes softened. “That’s not boring at all. That’s adorable.”

You groaned and pressed your face into the pillow. “Don’t say it’s adorable.”

“It is!” he laughed, grabbing you and pulling you half on top of him. “You want to be told you’re a good girl? Baby, you are a good girl.”

Your breath hitched, just a little, at the casual way he said it.

“Oh?” he teased, noticing immediately. “You like that?”

You nodded wordlessly, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

Seungcheol grinned against your hair. “God, I’m gonna have so much fun with this.”

You peeked up at him, cheeks warm, eyes shining. “You really don’t think it’s lame?”

“Sweetheart,” he said seriously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I think the sexiest thing in the world is knowing exactly how to make you feel good. Talking about it like this? Telling me what you want? That’s so fucking sexy.”

Your heart swelled, a little dizzy with affection. “You’re gonna use this against me, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he said smugly. “But only when you want me to.”

You kissed him then — slow, smiling into it, letting yourself feel wanted. Understood. The kind of kiss that promised hours more of this — talking, touching, discovering each other’s softest places.

He pulled back just long enough to murmur, “You’re such a good girl, you know.”

You whined into his mouth.

“Say it again,” you whispered.

[rrysbabydoll]

Don't Worry, Darling

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: Explicit sexual content, slight dominant/submissive dynamics, clingy Y/N, film reference (Don’t Worry Darling).

Synopsis: Watching Don’t Worry Darling while Harry’s away leaves you so turned on that you’re all over him the moment he gets home.

Harry had left the house barely an hour ago.

“Back in two,” he’d murmured into your hair, arms wrapping around you in that sleepy morning kind of hug. His voice was gravelly, still warm with bed, and he kissed your shoulder like it physically pained him to leave.

Now, it was just you, curled under a throw blanket on the living room couch, legs tucked under yourself, scrolling through his filmography out of sheer boredom.

You’d never watched Don’t Worry Darling. Not really.

You’d seen clips, sure, seen her kissing him, your Harry, and that was already enough to make your chest tight and eyes roll. But the full movie? You’d avoided it on purpose. Just didn’t feel like something you could handle with a straight face.

But today you were bored. And maybe just a little too curious for your own good.

So, you clicked play.

The opening was slow, stylish. That classic ‘50s aesthetic, pastel dresses and polished shoes. Harry’s voice in that clipped Jack Chambers accent made your skin feel hot before you were even halfway through.

You shifted under the blanket, hands tugging it tighter around your legs, chewing lightly on the tip of your thumb.

Then came the dining table scene.

You didn’t even mean to react, really. But your thighs squeezed together and your breathing stuttered. You were acutely aware of your heartbeat. Of the growing ache between your legs. It hit you with zero warning.

God, it was just him. The way he kissed, the way he held her like he’d die without it. That needy, messy kind of hunger. The way his big hands gripped her thighs. His groan when he dropped to his knees.

“Holy shit,” you whispered.

You were still for a few seconds, eyes wide, stomach fluttering.

By the time that was over, your hand had disappeared under the blanket. You were squirming without even meaning to, thighs rubbing, trying to relieve the pressure while your other hand clutched the throw pillow to your chest.

It was torture. Delicious, awful torture.

Because it was your Harry. That jaw. Those eyes. The voice. All of it, raw and perfect, and you couldn’t stop picturing him doing that to you. The movie was basically softcore. But your mind made it personal. Every kiss, everything, it wasn’t Florence. It was you.

You were so far gone you didn’t hear the door open.

“Baby?”

Your head snapped up. Your body jolted.

Harry was standing there, keys in hand, in his brown hoodie and sunglasses pushed on top of his head. His eyes squinted at you, confused at the blanket pulled up to your chin, your flushed cheeks, and the way you immediately paused the TV.

You looked guilty. Which made you look even more suspicious.

His brows furrowed as he kicked his shoes off and walked toward the couch.

“What are you watching?” he asked, tilting his head.

You could barely speak. Your mouth opened and closed. You were still so warm between your legs it almost hurt. Everything about him was suddenly ten times worse, his long fingers pushing his hair back, the little scratch in his voice, the cross tattoo on his hand.

You blinked.

He squinted at the screen. “Is that… Don’t Worry Darling?”

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

He laughed, plopping down next to you and ruffling your hair.

“You always said you’d never watch that one. Changed your mind?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“You okay? You look—” he paused, taking you in, “—a little flustered.”

You crawled into his lap without thinking.

You needed him. Badly. Immediately.

Harry caught you with ease, brows lifting as you straddled him, your knees on either side of his thighs, hands fisting his hoodie.

“Whoa,” he chuckled, but you were already pressing your face to his neck.

His arms curled instinctively around your waist.

“Hi,” you mumbled.

“Hi?” he repeated, skeptical but smiling.

You kissed his jaw. Then again. And again.

He inhaled slowly, head tilting.

“Bunny,” he murmured, voice low and amused, “what’s goin’ on?”

You pulled back to look at him.

Your face was pure need.

He blinked.

“Oh.”

The next second, you were kissing him.

Hard.

It was messy, hungry, open-mouthed. Your hips rocked forward just enough for him to feel the heat between your legs, and he groaned softly into your mouth.

His hands slid down to your ass, gripping it as he pulled you closer, but he broke the kiss with a soft laugh against your lips.

“What’s gotten into you, sweetheart?” he teased, running his nose along your cheek.

You whimpered, frustrated. “You.”

His brow raised.

“You looked—so hot—and—and that scene,” you breathed, not making much sense.

“Scene?”

You nodded. “The table one.”

He paused. Then grinned, eyes darkening.

“Ohhh. That scene.”

Your face burned. He was loving this.

You shoved your face into his neck again, overwhelmed.

“I can’t help it,” you mumbled. “I missed you and now I’m—just—I need you.”

His laugh was soft and breathy in your ear.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute,” he whispered, pulling you impossibly close. “Jesus, you watched one scene and turned into a needy little thing?”

You nodded.

He shifted under you, and you could feel his hard-on pressing against you now, thick and heavy beneath his pants.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Feels like you did.”

He stood up with you in his arms, your legs around his waist, and started walking toward the bedroom.

“Gonna have to make you feel better, huh?”

You whimpered into his collarbone.

He dropped you gently on the bed, crawling over you, hands roaming like he couldn’t decide where to touch first. Your face. Your thighs. Your waist. He wanted all of you at once.

“You’re such a mess,” he murmured, nosing along your jaw. “That desperate for me, baby?”

You nodded frantically.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through, I bet,” he whispered, untying the drawstring of your shorts.

“No,” you gasped. “You got home too fast.”

He smirked. “That’s a first.”

Your breath hitched when his fingers slipped beneath the waistband.

“You’re soaked.”

You nodded.

“Been thinking about me touching you like that scene?”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“Should I do it the same way?”

You made a broken little noise.

Harry chuckled, deep and warm.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Just like in the movie.

Except this time, it was real.

Your thighs trembled under his hands as he pushed them apart. His mouth was hot and wet and perfect, and the sounds you made were louder than you meant them to be.

“Sweetest little thing,” he mumbled between kisses.

“Harry,” you moaned, breathless, writhing under his tongue.

He worked you open slowly, methodically. Lips and tongue, sucking your clit until your fingers tangled in his hair and you came hard with a cry of his name.

But he didn’t stop.

You whimpered, overstimulated, squirming.

He licked his lips, nose brushing your thigh as he looked up at you.

“One more.”

When he finally moved up your body, your skin was flushed and your chest was heaving.

His mouth found yours, letting you taste yourself, slow and messy. Then he slid his pants down, thick cock springing free, tip red and wet.

He lined himself up and pushed in slow.

You gasped, he was huge and deep and yours.

Harry groaned into your mouth. “Fuck, baby.”

He set a rhythm, slow but firm, grinding against you like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out.

“You gonna watch my movies more often if this is what happens?” he teased, hips thrusting.

You were half crying, nodding, clutching his shoulders.

“Such a pretty girl,” he cooed. “So fuckin’ needy for me, huh?”

You nodded again.

He made you come again, one hand rubbing slow circles on your clit while he fucked you deep and lazy.

You soaked him. You were shaking.

Then he pulled out and flipped you on your stomach, gently, kissing your shoulder blade.

“One more, yeah? You’ve been so good.”

You nodded, drunk on him, cheek pressed to the pillow.

He slid in again from behind, deeper somehow, one hand spreading your ass while the other snaked under to play with your tits.

It was so much. You were babbling, moaning, gripping the sheets.

“Good girl,” he rasped, voice thick. “Gonna fill you up, yeah?”

You nodded, nearly sobbing.

He came with a low groan, hips jerking once, twice, burying himself deep and letting go.

You could feel it, warm and perfect.

He collapsed beside you, panting.

You were curled into him after, legs tangled, cheek resting on his chest, the warmth of him lulling you into a dreamy haze. Harry had one arm snug around your waist, fingers lazily dragging up and down your spine, and the other brushing your hair back from your face.

“Feeling better?” he teased.

You smiled sleepily, eyes fluttering closed again as you nuzzled closer. “Mhm,” you mumbled, voice tiny and soft. “Wanna be your housewifey…”

Harry stilled, and then let out a deep chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Oh, do you now?” he teased gently. “Like the film?”

You nodded, lips brushing his collarbone. “Just wanna look pretty for you. Cook in a cute dress and wait for you to come home and fuck me like that.”

His breath hitched slightly, hand tightening just a little on your waist. “Jesus Christ, baby,” he whispered, dropping another kiss to your temple. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Not my fault you’re hot,” you mumbled, already halfway asleep. “Shouldn’t let me watch stuff like that.”

Harry laughed again, low and fond, pulling the blanket higher over you both. “No more movies for you when I’m not home,” he said. “Clearly you can’t be trusted.”

“‘Kay,” you giggled. “Don’t worry, darling.”

He snorted. “Oh, shut up.”

[marauroon]

hiii i saw that u were asking for reqs and i loved reading ur best frenemies fic with remus, i was wondering if you would be open to writing about that dynamic more. like maybe they're in the same friend group so they're in close proximity but they can't stand one each other and maybe the reader got stood up or something and remus is there or really whatever you want. Anyways thank you for your work, i really enjoy it

── .⏾ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐫.𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧)

you didn’t even really invite him, but the fact he didn’t show up still put a damper on your mood. remus thinks it’s killing the whole room’s vibe.

remus lupin x frenemy!reader | 1.2k | h/c? | masterlist.

a/n | went back to the og og ship for this one, shout out to blackinnon

There’s something aggravating about someone who’s simultaneously the smartest in the room and also the most infuriating. Sure, maybe he’s handsome in a very I-read-sad-poetry-by-lantern-light way, but that only really makes it worse.

And, unfortunately, thanks to Marlene’s thing with Sirius (on again, off again, like the world’s most emotionally exhausting lumos charm), you are now in proximity to said infuriating boy far more often than you’d like to be.

It’s become a balancing act, really—sitting at the Three Broomsticks with your best friends on one side and the Marauders on the other, trying not to glare directly at Remus every time he says something clever. You think you’ve managed rather well. Mostly. Until now.

Because today, of all days, your maybe-date didn’t show.

You’re not even sure you’d call it a date. You’ve been talking with Michael Rossiter in Herbology for a couple of weeks, mostly about plants but sometimes—when he was feeling cheeky—about music or Quidditch or the way you looked when you were annoyed with your mandrake.

He wasn’t brilliant, but he had nice eyes and a decent laugh and said, when you told him you were going to Hogsmeade with your friends, “Maybe I’ll see you there then.”

You'd smiled. Told yourself not to get too giddy. And yet, here you are. Giddy, then deflated.

The booth you’re all crammed into is loud—Marlene is practically on Sirius’s lap, Mary and Dorcas are exchanging knowing looks, and James is loudly arguing with Peter over the latest Wimbourne Wasps game. And Remus—Remus is directly opposite you, because of course he is, because of course Sirius just had to say, “Oi, Moony, let the ladies have the bench side, be a gentleman,” and Remus just smirked and obliged, sliding in across you like he belonged there.

You’ve been waiting. Watching the door. Laughing too loudly at Mary’s jokes. Pretending to sip butterbeer just to keep your hands busy. And when Michael doesn’t show—when it becomes obvious he’s not going to—you shrink a bit. Quiet. Withdrawn.

And Remus notices.

Of course he does.

"You know, for someone who supposedly convinced a boy to change his Hogsmeade plans just for her,” he drawls, not even looking up from his drink, “you’re doing a marvellous impression of someone who’s just been stood up.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. You just keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the steam fog up the panes.

Remus pauses.

Usually, this is the part where you snap something back—about his sad little jumpers or the way he chews the ends of quills like a stressed-out academic or how he’s basically a walking dissertation on how not to relax. But you don’t. You sit still, hands clenched in your lap.

The silence between you grows taut.

Remus frowns. He nudges you with his foot under the table—annoying. Like a brother, if your brother was your intellectual rival and also kind of handsome in a way you wish you didn’t notice.

“Oi,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, still not looking at him. “You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t want you to.”

That gives him pause. He turns toward you fully now, leaning on one elbow. “Alright, that’s a bit harsh.”

You shrug.

Then he sighs, long-suffering and dramatic. “Who was it? The boy. No, don’t tell me— Rossiter?”

You glance at him, surprised. “How did you—?”

“Everyone saw you flirting over flobberworms in class last week,” he says, deadpan. “He told Sirius he was thinking about asking you out. Got all red-faced about it, too. It was tragic.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Merlin.”

“He’s a right sod, you know.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “That your professional opinion?”

Remus shrugs, grinning slightly. “My personal one. But it’s backed by a great deal of observational research.”

You huff. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know him better than you do,” Remus says, slumping back into the booth. “Do you know his mum still buys his underwear?”

You blink.

“I’m serious. Thomas the Tank Engine ones. We saw them last year when someone hit him with a jelly-legs jinx and his trousers fell down on the Quidditch pitch. Looked ridiculous.”

You can’t help it—you snort. It’s brief, but it’s real.

Remus perks up like a cat that’s just caught movement under a curtain. “And I once caught him picking his nose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re making this up.”

“I wish,” he says, grimacing. “We were in the library and he was just mining. Like he thought no one could see him. It was vile.”

You giggle. You actually giggle.

Remus looks triumphant. “And they say I’m the wild animal.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re awful.”

“Only to those who deserve it.” He pauses, then adds, more gently, “You really thought he was coming?”

You nod, shoulders drooping. “I mean… he said maybe. He was sort of flirty about it. I thought—” You cut yourself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Remus doesn’t say anything at first. He leans his head back against the booth, watching you. “I hate that you’re sad,” he says eventually. “You’re annoying when you’re sad. It’s harder to make fun of you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile’s still there. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm again. “Still sucks, though.”

The warmth in your chest surprises you. You look at him again, properly this time, and there’s a softness in his eyes that doesn’t match the usual sardonic glint.

It’s disarming.

You blink, glance away. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grins. “Don’t get all emotional on me. I might have to start being nice to you regularly and that’s not good for my image.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” you say dryly.

“Unimaginable.”

Sirius leans over suddenly, draping an arm across Remus’s shoulders and nearly spilling his drink. “Oi, Moony, you pulling or pining?”

Remus doesn’t even flinch. “Trying to comfort someone after being disappointed by the tragic shallowness of her romantic prospects, actually. Something you’d know nothing about.”

Sirius pouts. “Rude.”

Marlene snorts. “Let her be. She got stood up, she’s rightfully upset,”

Sirius frowns. “Who stands you up?”

You wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Remus answers anyway. “Michael Rossiter.”

Sirius sits back like he’s been slapped. “Rossiter? No. That absolute knob?”

“You see?” Remus says, gesturing. “It’s not just me.”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius mutters. “Should’ve hexed him when I had the chance.”

“You did hex him,” Remus points out.

“Not enough, apparently.”

[shaaknaa]

Had one of these last night. We show up for a Cyberpunk game. DM and one of the player start debating fascism and neofeudalism. But like... IRL and whatnot. Typical sociology aside for said DM. But like... I was pretty sure we were off topic.

Apparently, we weren't? It just took them an hour to spiral into the point (Something about Corporations having the same dynamic with governments as the Medeval Catholic Church). A point my character gives zero fucks about, no way he knows any of those words.

Not to be a technical writer on main, but I've been bumping into the idea lately that the only reason explaining yourself in more detail never seems to work is because neurotypical people are misunderstanding you on purpose, or because they have short attention spans, or because they just hate listening to you talk – and sure, occasionally that's even true, but most of the time the problem you're running into is more fundamental.

Every time you add more detail, you're running the risk of tripping over a bad assumption on your part about the listener's prior knowledge, or hitting the tipping point where they become overwhelmed with new information (and remember that you don't know which parts of what you're saying will be new information for them), or making a leap of logic that isn't as self-evident as you think it is, or any of a dozen other potential snags which, by definition, you will not see coming until it's too late to correct course.

Basically, every piece of information you add multiplies the odds of you getting blindsided by some vector of misunderstanding you didn't anticipate, even as it addresses the ones you did anticipate. The point of diminishing returns where continuing to elaborate increases the odds of unexpected miscommunication more than it decreases the odds of expected miscommunication is much nearer than you'd like.

The most effective act of communication is not the one which contains the most possible information, but the one which contains the smallest amount of information it possibly can while still getting its point across. It sucks, but it's the reality of the situation. People far more autistic than you have been trying for hundreds of years to invent a way of communicating which doesn't work this way, without success.

All of which is to say that "getting to the damn point" is legitimately a communication skill, not just an accommodation for people who aren't paying attention. If it's any consolation, it's something neurotypical people struggle with just as much as anyone else – if it was easy, technical writers wouldn't have jobs!

[cinnasite]

the science of sleeping with your best friend

꩜ pairing: timeskip!kenma kozume x virgin!female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 4.3k

꩜ synopsis: you relationship with kenma has always been understated—quiet moments, mutual understanding, and an unspoken connection. but when you open up about your insecurities regarding intimacy, things take a turn. one kiss, a subtle shift in dynamics, and suddenly everything you once knew feels entirely different. caught in a whirlwind of desire and growing affection, you find yourself grappling with feelings that you've ignored for years. is it too late to turn back or is this the beginning of something far deeper?

You vividly remember the day you moved to Japan. You were eleven, your nervousness amplified by the way the airport had smelled—metallic, unfamiliar, cold. Your mother stayed back in your hometown with your younger brother, and you followed your father across the ocean for his new job… your new life. You told yourself it was an adventure, trembling in anticipation.

It wasn’t. Not at first.

Making friends when you didn’t speak the language fluently and stood out in every classroom turned out to be less like an odyssey and more of a series of long, silent lunch breaks. Teachers tried, some classmates smiled, but nothing stuck. Not until high school.

Transferring to Nekoma High at fifteen was your father’s idea. He’d said something about the school’s progressive curriculum and cultural diversity. You hadn’t hoped for much until, one week into classes, the principal cornered you near the shoe lockers and asked if you’d consider being the manager for the boys’ volleyball team.

“It’s part of a new initiative. We’re looking to build an inclusive sports environment,” he said. “And you have excellent organisational skills from your transcript.” You said yes, mostly out of curiosity. And maybe because it was the first time someone had sought you out, instead of the other way around.

The first practice was awkward, to put it lightly. A room full of sweaty teenage guys and sharp whistles. You stood off to the side, notebook in hand, questioning every life choice that led you there with a resigned sigh. Until Kuroo Tetsurō slung an arm around your shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, you’re one of us now. You’ll get used to these knuckleheads.”

The team protested. You laughed for the first time in weeks. That’s how it all began.

They took you under their wing like a little sister, especially Kuroo—he treated you with a big-brother protectiveness that made the transition less lonely. Lev would tell you outrageous lies just to see you smile. Yamamoto always tried too hard to impress you but meant well. Yaku taught you how to be blunt in Japanese without accidentally insulting someone’s grandmother.

But the one you inexplicably gravitated toward was Kenma.

You were the same age, and the same reserved type, at least at first glance. Though unlike him, you didn’t mind talking. People were drawn to you in a way that surprised you. So, Kenma didn’t intimidate you. If anything, you felt safe around him. He was calm, observant, and never asked for more than you were willing to give.

You’d sit beside him during breaks, leaning over his shoulder as he played on his handheld console.

“You’re always watching,” he’d say without looking up.

“I like watching,” you’d plainly reply.

And when he let you try it out yourself—tentatively handing over his console like it was something fragile—you knew you had earned his trust. You’d talk about things beyond video games. Books. Movies. Your homesickness. His dislike of crowds. The weird comfort of silence. He was the only one who didn’t flinch when you talked about the divorce or missing your mom and brother.

By the end of your second year, you were inseparable. Everyone saw it—hell, even Kuroo made a habit of teasing you about it.

“She’s the Kenma whisperer,” he’d joke. “He actually talks around her.”

You dismissed it. You told yourself it was just friendship, that the small twists in your stomach when his shoulder brushed yours were normal. That the deliberate and soft way he looked at you was just how he looked at everyone.

But somewhere near the end of school, when the weight of the future started crawling into every conversation, you realised you felt something more. And it scared the hell out of you. You didn’t say anything. How could you risk losing what you had when it had taken you so long to find it?

After graduation, the team drifted as people often do. University took everyone in different directions, but you all stayed in touch. Kuroo’s group chats were relentless and reunions became an annual thing, something precious to look forward to.

With Kenma, your bond never faded. If anything, it grew.

Even when you were in different cities, the two of you never changed—late night phone calls, half-asleep messages, and meeting up whenever you could. Both of you still talked like no time had passed. Still knew each other in that rare, bone-deep way. However, you dated around, courtesy of your college roommate urging you to move on and get laid. You had simply nodded, telling yourself the crush was a remnant of adolescence. It had to be. It wasn’t healthy to keep holding on.

Tragically, it never went anywhere with the people you went out with. No one matched the way Kenma understood you without trying. No one matched the genuinity and the slow-burn thrill.

And now, in your twenties, with a stable job and a quiet apartment, you were beginning to admit that maybe it had never been just a crush.

But if that was true… what in the world were you supposed to do about it?

Kenma’s penthouse was everything you’d expect: clean lines, muted colors, and minimalist furniture. Expensive in a subtle way. 

He was already curled up on the low couch when you stepped in, barefoot and hoodie-clad, legs tucked under himself like a cat. “You’re late,” he murmured without looking up from his nintendo.

“You’re lucky I even showed up,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door.

“Oh?” His eyes flicked up momentarily, amused. “Is this you playing hard to get?”

You rolled your eyes and sank into the seat beside him, close enough for your knees to brush. “If I was playing hard to get, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

That earned a low hum of laughter. “So self-assured.”

The night unfolded the way it generally did—casual banter, leftover takeout, and dumb inside jokes that had survived since Nekoma. You both sat there, bodies angled toward each other, the city lights painting the walls with a faint gold.

At one point, he turned off the TV, but neither of you moved. There was a falter. A lapse stretching between words. Then, after much thought, you said it.

“Can I ask you something kind of... weird?”

Kenma blinked. “Sure.”

You took a breath. “Do you ever think you’re, like, bad in bed?”

His eyebrows rose. That certainly wasn’t what he’d imagined the conversation would jump to. You winced at yourself. “Okay, wow, that sounded way more self-deprecating than I meant it to.”

“Little bit.”

“I’m serious,” you said, shifting to face him fully. “I’ve dated, right? But it never really went anywhere. And when it did get physical, it just… didn’t go that far.”

Kenma didn’t interrupt. Merely listened.

“I mean, I’ve done stuff,” you continue rambling, suddenly fascinated by the hem of your sleeve. “A little oral. Some handjobs. But, um, I’ve never… had sex.”

There it was. Out in the open. You’d lobbed the confession between you like a live grenade, waiting for it to detonate. Only that it didn’t. The lack of response wasn’t exactly suffocating, though it did make you scream a little on the inside. 

Kenma’s voice was gentler than you expected when it came. “Why are you thinking about this now?”

His words made you hesitate. “Because I’m trying to see people again. But every time I get close to someone, I panic. I keep doubting myself—what if I’m not good at it? What if they expect me to know what I’m doing and I don’t?”

A beat.

“And it’s not about being ashamed,” you added quickly. “I just want to feel... in control. Comfortable.”

Kenma studied you. “You could just tell them.”

“I know. But I don’t want it to be a thing. Like, ‘oh no, she’s a virgin, handle her with care.’” You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want pity sex. Or worse, performance sex.” You dared a peep at him. “Have you…?”

He tilted his head. “Had sex?”

Your ears burned, unsure of whether you wanted to hear the answer. “Yeah.”

Kenma leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “I have.”

The words sat in the air like smoke. You ignored the tightening of your chest. “Was it good?” you asked. Perhaps, a little too quickly.

He gave you a look. “You really want to know?”

You stammered. “Yes. No. Kind of. For research purposes.”

He smirked. “Of course.”

“Shut up.”

He was quiet for a moment before replying, “Some of it was good. Depends on the person, I guess.”

You hummed, eyes on his collarbone. “Would you ever, uh, be willing to show someone the ropes?”

A pause. “What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. The apartment felt charged, causing your fingers to twist in your lap. Without meeting his gaze, you exhaled shakily.

“I was just thinking… if I ever wanted to figure this out—hypothetically—you’re the only person I’d trust not to make it weird.”

Kenma stilled, lips parting. “Hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. A longer one. “You’re asking me to have sex with you.”

Your stomach flipped. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant.” 

You groaned. “Forget it. This was dumb. I shouldn’t have—”

“I didn’t say no.” Kenma looked at you. Not joking, not teasing—just looking. That same sincere care you’d known for years, now sharpened with something else.

Something almost hungry.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, voice low. “Help you?”

Your heart thundered. “Well, I—Only if… you want to.”

He leaned forward. “I want to. Let’s start with a kiss.”

You froze, eyes widening at the abruptness of it all.

“Since, you know,” he added casually, “we’re doing research.” You laughed—nervous, breathy—and nodded. “Right. For the glory of science.”

He moved in leisurely, giving you every chance to pull back. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours once. Gentle and testing, your breath hitching at the sensation. You kissed him again. More assertive than previously. As a result, his hand found your cheek. The angle changed, the excitement deepened.

You realised begrudgingly that your idea had stopped being hypothetical real fast.

Kenma and you grew feverish, your actions slow, then speedy, like you couldn’t get enough. You gripped his hoodie in an act of desperation. His fingers trailed along your waist, reluctant yet calculating. You felt his touch at the hem of your t-shirt and gasped, pulling back.

“I—I need to stop,” you whispered.

Kenma, breathing heavily, nodded. “Okay.”

You sat there, chests heaving, foreheads nearly touching.

“That was…” you began.

“Mhm,” he said, voice hoarse. “It was.”

You didn’t sleep together that night. Be that as it may, something had undoubtedly shifted. Something you couldn’t take back. Neither of you were prepared for what that first sensuous encounter had unlocked. 

After the kiss, everything was different. Not in a dramatic, movie-like way, mind you. There were no whispered confessions or next-day declarations. You didn’t even text about it. Not directly, though every message after did have a different weight to it.

gamer boi: you left your ring on the bathroom sink

You: OMGTHANKYOU i’ve been searching for it all day :(

gamer boi: how did you even forget it?? isn’t it your favourite????  

You: it’s not my fault someone kept me distracted with his mouth 🙄

gamer boi: don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it

The next time you saw Kenma, you were wearing a sundress with zero intentions of escalating anything. Apparently, it didn’t matter.

You were barely inside before Kenma tugged you in by the wrist, your back hitting the front door with a loud thud. His mouth was on yours again, hands roaming like he’d been starved of touch. His fingers curled around your waist, dragging you flush against him. You let out an embarrassingly needy whimper, arms looped around his neck for balance.

It was supposed to be another kiss. Nothing too intense, nothing too fiery. But soon his tongue brushed against yours—mischievously coaxing. When his knee slid between your thighs, you knew that you were done for.

Your nails dug into his shoulders and he groaned into your mouth.

“Okay?” he checked in, lips grazing your jaw.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just—you… it’s all very new. ”

He paused. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I will.”

That night, you didn’t go all the way either.

But you let him touch you. Really touch you.

You ended up in his lap on the couch, your dress hiked up, his t-shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. His motions were maddeningly drawn out—smoothing over your thighs, teasing under your panties, fingers slicking gently over you until you were shaking. One thing you’d grown to learn thanks to these electrifying escapades was that Kenma neither rushed nor demanded.

Just observed.

He watched you unravel, watched you fall apart with nothing more than his hand between your legs and his mouth pressed to your throat.

You’d returned the favour a week later—kneeling between his knees in that same living room, palms steady even though your mind was a mess. He had gripped your hair, but not harshly—more like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

And after, when you wiped your mouth and leaned your cheek against his thigh, both of you panting hard, he murmured, “You’re dangerous when you’re confident.”

You smiled. “Guess the research is working, huh?”

His only answer was a smirk.

Life, as it usually does, got in the way. You were swamped at work and Kenma had his own obligations. Days passed. Weeks, even. You didn’t meet up with him, but you felt him everywhere. In your skin. In your thoughts. In the aching, restless emptiness of your bed. And worse: you missed him. Not just the way he touched you—but the him of it. His deadpan humour. The way he’d pause in conversation like he was thinking four moves ahead. The attractive rasp of his voice. The way he drank you in.

You missed your friend. You craved your… something.

You didn’t know what you were to him anymore. In spite of that, you knew that you needed him.

Kuroo’s reunion couldn’t have come at a better—or worse—time.

You’d dressed without overthinking it. Okay, maybe a little overthinking. The black corset hugged your curves like sin. The skirt hit mid-thigh, leaving appropriately enough to the imagination. The oversized leather blazer added a touch of effortlessness you didn’t actually feel. And the platform boots? Tall enough to be seductive.

When you walked into the high-end restaurant, every eye turned. On the contrary, you only looked for one.

Kenma was at the bar, drink in hand, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was tousled, face unreadable. But when he saw you, he froze. Eyes trailing down greedily, taking his sweet time. He didn’t smile or wave.

Later, after hours of group toasts, dodging Kuroo’s banter, and pretending you didn’t itch with anticipation, Kenma found you on the rooftop balcony.

The city buzzed beneath.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, not turning around. 

He stepped closer, “You’ve been busy.”

“So have you.”

All you hear for a few seconds is the cacophony of traffic and pedestrians.

“You look good tonight.”

You swallow, your feet carrying you to him. “Yeah?”

Kenma appears just as tormented as you. “Too good.”

Your breath caught. “That a problem?”

He didn’t bother with an answer. Reaching for you, he hastily tugged you close. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and aching, weeks (he’d argue, proclaiming ‘years’) of self-control slipping like sand through fingers.

You didn’t even remember getting into the cab.

The moment Kenma’s apartment door shut behind you, it was chaos.

Lips crashing. Hands fumbling. Breath caught between kisses that were all teeth and tongue, no space for thought. Kenma backed you against the wall while you yanked at the buttons of his shirt like you were unwinding every second you’d spent pretending this wasn’t what you wanted. He dragged your blazer off, then your corset. His hands slid up your thighs, underneath your skirt, finding nothing but heat and skin.

“You planned this?” he muttered, strained, against your neck.

“I thought about you,” you whispered honestly.

He cursed, kissing you deeper—ravenous, like the time apart had built a pressure in him he could no longer contain. Soon, you were in his bed. Limbs knotting, bare. His weight on top of you was crushing—so real with almost a decade’s worth of tension, of friendship, of everything unspoken.

His touch skimmed up your stomach, pausing at the curve of your breast.

“I need you,” he said, hoarsely. “Tell me I can have you. Please.”

“I’m yours,” you reassured—just a whisper, but your whole body yearned to meet his. “I want you so bad, Kenma.”

He reached down between your thighs, fingers running through the mess there, working you open. You moaned, legs falling wider to allow him to move inside you better. You were drowning in sensation. His teeth nipped at your chest, hips grinding just barely against yours, and yet—

You wanted this. God, you wanted him. But—

“Wait,” you muttered, voice thin and trembling.

Kenma froze immediately. His eyes locked on yours, reading your face with terrifying precision. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I—”

Your hand pressed lightly to his chest. “I can’t—I can’t do this like it’s solely physical. Not with you.”

The room shifted.

“I thought I could,” your voice was so low, one might believe you weren’t speaking at all. “I told myself this was just for fun. A learning thing. ‘Research.’ But I can’t pretend anymore.”

You looked up at him, shame creeping in. “If I sleep with you, I’ll fall completely. I already have. It won’t just be sex to me. I don’t think it ever was.” You gulped, words turning rawer. “And if that’s not what you want… then this was a mistake.”

Tranquility. Thick. Cracking at the seams.

You felt your panic rise. “Sorry. I know I fucked things up, god. I should leave—"

“Stop,” Kenma finally spoke. Your blathering halted.

His fingers trailed up your cheek. “You think I’d let you in like this—have you like this—if it was just physical to me?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

“I’ve been in love with you since high school, you idiot,” he said, and your stomach dropped. “I just never thought you’d want me back.”

You blinked up at him, stunned.

“When we kissed that day,” he continued, reverent, “everything changed. I didn’t want to risk scaring you away, so I thought if I gave you what you needed… eventually you’d see it too.”

He kissed your forehead. “See that I’d burn down the world for you.”

You gazed up at him, shaking slightly. “You’re not serious.”

He kissed your cheek. Your temple. Your nose. “I’m dead serious.”

Emotion swelled in your heart, hand cupping the side of his face. “Kenma…”

He leaned into the touch. “Talk to me.”

“I used to wait for practice to end just to walk home with you. I used to sit in the stands and pretend I was watching the match, but I was only watching you.”

The corner of his lips twitched. His hands ran down your sides.

“I thought I was broken for never wanting anyone the way my friends did,” you whispered. “But then you showed me it wasn’t about anyone. It was about you. It was always you.”

The atmosphere in the room grew charged with something sacred.

“I love you,” you declared, like the words were stolen from your ribs. Like they were always there between the two of you, waiting for someone to speak them to life.

Kenma was silent for one moment—just one—before… “I love you too,” he kissed you like a man reborn. This time, there was no rush.

He moved over you like he was making a vow—hands smoothing over every curve of your body, lips mapping every inch of your skin, like he was trying to memorise the sound of your breath as it caught in your throat. 

When he lined himself up and pushed inside, it was slow. Intimate. He didn’t look away once. You clung to him, gaping at the fullness, the sheer gravity of him inside you.

“Alright?” he murmured, brows furrowing in concern.

You nodded, breath shaky. “Better than alright.”

He kissed you again, explosively possessive. After what felt like ages, he moved.

Each thrust was deliberate and claiming. His hand tangled with yours above your head. His other gripped your hip, holding you steady as he rocked into you, building a rhythm that made your back arch.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured into your ear. “Dreamed about you under me, begging for more.”

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering. “You have me now.”

“Trust me, I’m never letting go.”

Your bodies danced in a symphony that blurred the line between pleasure and worship. You came first, legs trembling. He followed right after, whining your name against your lips, pulsing with everything he felt and couldn’t say fast enough.

While you both lay there—spent and dizzy—you clung to each other. Because you knew this wasn’t the end.

You woke up to sunlight. Golden, slithering between silk curtains and spilling across the sheets in hazy lines.

Next to you was Kenma, his arm draped over your waist. The slight scrunch of his forehead indicated he was still deep in thought even while asleep. The sheets were rumpled around your legs, your body still sticky with sweat and afterglow, and every inch of you ached deliciously.

Oh my god, you thought with a giddy smile.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You reached out, careful not to disturb Kenma, and blinked at the screen.

8 Messages from loser

1 Missed Call

1 Voice Note

You opened the texts, bracing yourself.

loser: where the hell are you?? kenma’s vanished too tf                  

loser: you better not have left. lev tried to arm wrestle yamamoto and lost. to YAMAMOTO                                                                    

loser: i swear if you ghosted the reunion i’m kicking your ass        

loser: wait                                                                                                    

loser: waitttttttt                                                                                         

loser: OH MY GOD DID YOU AND KENMA LEAVE TOGETHER???!!! 

loser: TELL ME THIS ISN’T HOW I’M FINDING OUT                       

loser: ANSWER ME FUCKER

You choked on your laugh, snorting into your palm. Kenma stirred beside you, yawning.

“Mmm… what time is it?” he mumbled, exhaustion evident in his voice.

“Too early for our best friend to be having a meltdown,” you giggled.

Kenma cracked one eye open. “Kuroo?”

You held your phone up. “He’s in panic mode.”

Kenma blinked. Then closed his eyes again and guided you down into his chest. “Ignore him.”

You laughed, cuddling into his warmth. His hair was mussed, bleached strands falling into his eyes. His fingers rubbed lazy circles into your back, like he couldn’t stop touching you in his tired state either.

“I still can’t believe last night happened,” you remarked dreamily.

Kenma nuzzled your shoulder. “I can. I’ve imagined it a thousand times.”

You flushed. “Okay, damn.”

He smirked against your skin. “You think I didn’t spend high school losing my mind over you?”

You were about to answer when his hand slid lower. Then lower still.

“Kenma—” 

He rolled on top of you before you could finish. You sucked in a breath as his mouth found yours—inviting at first, then insatiable. Your legs parted instinctively as he settled between them, hardening length grinding slowly into your wetness. His body was still warm from sleep, but his touch was awake. Very awake.

“You’re gonna start something you can’t finish,” you warned.

He kissed your jaw. “Wanna bet?”

You fisted his hair, pulling him back to meet your eyes. “We’re seriously doing this again? First thing in the morning?”

“You’re naked in my bed,” he deadpanned. “If anything, this is on you.”

You were mid-laugh, mid-moan, mid-thigh squeeze when… 

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU—”

The bedroom door slammed open. You both stopped, unmoving. 

Kenma’s mouth was on your neck. His hand was on your thigh. Your legs were definitely wrapped around his waist. Kuroo stood in the doorway like a horror movie freeze frame.

One hand still on the doorknob. Jaw hanging open. Eyebrow twitching.

You screeched and dove under the sheets like they could erase the last thirty seconds of reality. Kenma… just sighed. Still completely on top of you, showing no signs of clothing himself.

“Get out,” he said flatly.

Kuroo was pale. In a shocking display, he turned red. If possible, redder.

“I—WHAT—SHE’S NAKED—YOU’RE—WHAT—WHY—"

“By the way, I didn’t give you the code to my penthouse so you could come and go as you please,” Kenma muttered, frustrated.

“I thought you were dead!”

“Kuroo—” you poked your head out, expression absolutely boiling—“I’m begging you to forget this ever happened.”

“Oh no. This is burned into my soul. Wait till the group chat hears about this.”

Kenma finally stood up, arranging the blanket properly to cover you like a true gentleman. Instead of being embarrassed, he looked rather annoyed at being interrupted. Like this was your regular Saturday afternoon in the Kozume household.

Kuroo glanced between the two of you, hands on hips, processing.

Then he scoffed, “I watched you two lunatics dawdle around each other for YEARS. Years. You think I didn’t know?”

“Then, why are you surprised?” Kenma asked.

“Because I thought you’d tell me through a well-structured text, not with your fucking nipples out!”

You screamed in humiliation and retreated into the covers again.

Kenma shrugged. “We were busy.”

“Oh, no need to tell me.” Kuroo turned, still muttering to himself, “I'm gonna need bleach. For my eyes. For my brain. For my…”

The bedroom door slammed shut and it was peaceful for all of three seconds. At the same time, you and Kenma burst out laughing. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck as you wheezed into the pillow, your body shaking.

“Never living that down,” you gasped.

“Worth it,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you again—slow and soft—like he had nowhere else to be.